Night Terror

I saw a deep craggy cave
In a tall rocky wall
In a forgotten canyon
A thousand feet tall.

All manner of evil

Every fevered child’s dream
Clung to the rocks
Like the bile in a scream.

The cavern yawned wide

Like the entrance to hell
Like the entry to perdition
In a molten red well.

Or, was it but a vision

Of all I once craved
All packed in a dank hole
In a bottomless cave?

No matter, dear friend.

I know it was real.
And I will not return
To a grave I did seal.

Patiently Wait

If you patiently wait
Just before the tawny sun
Dawns
You may kneel upon the shore
And listen to the
Surf
Sing his love song to
The waning moon.

If you patiently wait

In the blush of ochre
Light
You may cast your eyes
Upon the bashful
Moon
And behold her pale
Receding gaze.

If you patiently wait

The shameless orb will
Wake
Beyond the eastern sky
And chase the virgin
Moon
Into her dark and
Distant bed.

No Images

No Images

I have no images of her.
They simply record a fragment
Of an instant
But fail to notice
The fierceness of life
Sparking in her eyes.

What can a matrix of print do

To capture
What she expressed
Beyond any artificial recording?

Her life was

Edged
Like the blade of a sword
Was passionate
Like the mother of a cub
Was extreme
Like torrents of rain
But was also
Exceedingly gentle
With a feather touch
A tender tear
And a whispered pledge.

No image can compete

With the memory of a woman
Whose presence lives
Beyond the technology of time.

Never*

The volley of rifles
Over the gravesite
Made me involuntarily
Jump.
I wanted to comport myself
Like the law enforcement professional
I was
And I was embarrassed
At my response.

Then I understood that flinching

Was precisely the proper response.

We must never grow accustomed

To the raw edge
Of unnecessary death
Among the many
Or the one.

Years have passed

And gunfire has become familiar.
It rings down the boulevards
Then above the graves
Echoing forever
In the hearts of the bereaved.

Years have passed

And my badge now rests
Along with all the accoutrements
Of the profession.

But there is no retirement

From the blue fraternity.
My brothers and sisters
Unknown to me by name
Are intimates
By the connection of brotherhood.

Dallas will long be remembered
As will Brooklyn
New York
Chicago
Los Angeles
And every City
Town and Village
Every Federal, State
And County department
Who has inscribed the names
Of their fallen
Upon the memorial wall.

Years have passed

But the sharp pang of loss
Never recedes.

Never.

 

 

 

*This is not an effort to wax poetic. It is, rather, an expression of the dismay that ought to afflict every true heart, at the loss of five Dallas police officers killed in the performance of their duties. In the last 24 hours several other officers have been shot, and at least one (from a small Missouri department) remains in critical condition. Seven other Dallas officers are hospitalized following the horrific event is Texas.

 

The deaths of African American males at the hands of poorly disciplined officers are equally abhorrant, but this must not be understood as one death in answer for another. Every life is precious.

 

As for me, I am not a white man. I am blue.

The Rider and the Writer

I have taken my quill
And blunted
Its sharp point
Shredded its feathers
And drained the ink well.

Words stutter

In my mind.
They blur upon the page
And mastery of structure
Meter and meaning
Evade me.

It is as though

I have been thrown from the saddle.
But I am a rider and a writer.

Restoration requires

I sit the saddle.
Requires
I fashion a new quill.
Requires
I refresh the ink well.

Both the rider and the writer

Need not speed to return.
All of life is a walk
Before it is a run
And a word
Before it is a sentence.