Fresh Water Ports

Fresh Water Ports 

Leaning upon a rail

At the harbor

I gazed intently

Along the waterline

Of the old wooded-hulled

Sloop

Imagining all the ports she'd visited

The gales she'd weathered

And the salty surfs she'd plied.

Yet

For all her miles and years

Here she sat

Swaying softly

At her fresh water pier

No more to wander the seas

With cargoes of spices and tea.

Her ancient hull creaked

Like the bones

Of an old woman

Complaining at the most mild task.

Her furled canvas

No more to catch the seas' breeze

Was lashed to her rigging

Like the pales tresses

Of an old woman

Bound and bunned

No longer the mystery

Twinned in the eager hands

Of lovers.

Along the stern

Her name flourished

In gilt
Proudly etched
Given in majesty
And burned into the brains
Of every crew who served her
Like the Victorian name
Of an old woman
No longer bestowed to new daughters
Registered in yellowed
And fragile pages
Of maritime memory.

Old women

And aged sloops
Brittle bones
And teak decks
Wrinkled faces
And wrapped sails
Gather in mystery and memory
In a wonder
Both singular and sensuous
Swaying softly together
In fresh water ports.

Predator

The quail lay quietly
In the tall grasses
Knowing death patiently waited.

I intended to flush them out

Before the muzzle
Of my gun.

But, in the reeds

Stalked a more patient predator
Meaning to roust me.

And, I wonder

If I spare the quail
Will the predator spare me?

My Dreams

My dreams
Have bones
Muscle and sinew.
They cover in flesh
Yet are pale
Bloodless
Lifeless.

My dreams

Haunt the minutes

And hours

Of my days

Begging life.

My dreams

Gasp for breath
And choke
Knowing
They must remain
In the dark
Silently sleeping.

 

Night Hooves

My eyes gaze
Into utter gloom
Fixed upon midnight.

My senses condense

Into the singularity
Of sound.

Distant

Yet approaching

Thunder night hooves.

What steed must thrust

From withers such as these!

A pale horse comes

Treading thermals
Pounding stone
Flashing rivers
Vexed neither
By mountain nor prairie
Closing miles as inches.

Coming as fever.

Coming as storms.
Coming as dissolution.

Coming for me.

Blade

Slowly
She brought my palm
To her lips.

Her thin breath

Warmed my skin.

Her warm exhalation

Coursed chills down my spine
Pooling molten in my loins

Slowly

Deliberately
She traced the tip of her tongue
Along what she said
Was my
Lifeline.

There

She said.
Now, you will live forever.

I had no answer.

My breath caught in my throat.

No words formed in my mouth.
My vision narrowed and dulled.
No manly response effused my body.

For all her assurance of long life

She slew me
With no blade nearly as edged
As her maiden tongue.

 

 

Jacket

I shrug on my
Jacket of courage
Which
I know
Is a ragged
Moth-eaten
And shabby garment
Hardly able
To turn the winds.

I wrap in it

Hoping
The elements will not notice
My utter lack
Of preparedness
To endure the gale.

Perhaps

If the lightning does not flash
Too mightily
And I do not move
Too hastily
Mars may not notice my frailty
And fear.

Perhaps

I may come through the squall
Intact enough
To secure a needle and thread
And a patch or two
To mend this old jacket
So I may stand my post
And do this again
Tomorrow.

This Old Town

Dry winds have sanded
This old town
For a century.
It stirs and whips dust and sand
Wearing the bright
Red star
On the Texaco sign
Into faded pink.

Limestone markers

In the church cemetery
Blunt into unreadable inscriptions
Dissolving all memory
Of those who once turned
Their shoulders to that same wind.

Main Streets' store windows

Are marred with remnants of tape
Once posting signs
Advertising pork chops
Wide-track tires
And garden hoes.
They are as opaque
As the cataracts of those
Who, as children

Once gazed through them at Christmas

Dreaming of bicycles and baseballs.

The old dance hall is now a pawn shop.
The Palace Theater is reframed
As a martial arts academy
And Western Auto was razed after the fire
With nothing taking its place
Between the Rexall and Post Office.

This old town

Sanded by wind and time
Breathes slowly
So slowly
Exhaling memory and dust
As life expands around her
While concrete crumbles
Lumber warps
Paint chips
And people leave or die.

 

But doesn’t the wind blow forever.

The Bunny Hop

I was young
And climbed tall ladders
For money.

Some ladders were nearly

V

E
R

T

I
C
A
L
.

The space between the rungs

Was beckoning death.

But the electric lines
Through which I’d threaded
Promised I would never feel the
Pain
Of a crash landing.

Sometimes I fantasized about
Deliberately
Taking that plunge
Pressing the idea into me
The way light
Presses into the tender pulp
Behind the eyelids.

I climbed rung by rung

Like
The Bunny Hop...

I put my right foot in
I’d take my left foot out
I’d put my right foot in
And I’d shake it all about.

My family and friends would come

To the wake
And exclaim how I looked
To just be asleep.
They would remark on how noble I was
To give my life
For the support
Of my young family.

But I would lay there thinking

They’d be amazed

If they knew my last thoughts

Before I fell

Were of

The Bunny Hop.

Lonely

I am not lonely enough.

My heart cries out

Not for intimacy
But isolation.

The Divine always exists

In a state
Of perfect loneliness
Having need of
Nothing.
Not even company.

If I am to taste

The smallest sliver of God
I must let loneliness
Ferment in my heart
Until I am drunk
On the wine

Of separation.

The Lion's Mane

Tonight I will lay my head
Upon the lion’s mane.

There is safety in peril

Where my breath mingles with that
Of the beast.

Massive paws

Bladed like swords

Will encompass me

Though I will not fear.

The tail of the beast

Slashes like a whip
Cracking the air
Like musketry
But I will sleep in peace.

I trust in the Unseen
Who is stronger than the threat
Of lions
Whose paws soothes my flesh
But rends the adversary.

Tonight I will lay my head

Upon the lion’s mane.

Words

Words

I press to my heart

In the manner of sailors
Placing a sextant
To their eye.

Words

I rub into my knees

In the way of runners
Working liniment
Into their joints.

Words

I compel into my loins
In the fashion of lovers
Massaging passion
Into their flanks.

Words

I study in my mind
In the modus of scholars
Worrying instruction
Into their brain.

Words

I extend deep into space
In the fierceness of explorers
Burning tomorrow
Into their eyes.

A Home...

The bread I knead...

Which in my oven
I baked…

Removing it from heat

In time to tinge its
Golden crust…
 
Sliced
With the blade
I sharpened…

Into warm

Buttery slices...

Presenting it
To your open lips…

To lay upon the altar

Of your waiting tongue…

Is infused

By touch
With my own
Divine genes…
 
That I might find a home…

In your belly.

Anticipation of Reunion

My broken eyes
Search the skies
For traces
Of blazing contrails
Hoping for
Just one more

Glimpse of glory.

My yearning arms stretch
For that which draws me.

Far beyond roosting sparrows

Beyond the circling hawk
On the frontier of heaven
Waits the passionate One
Who
With pursed lips
Against my neck
Calls for the fatted calf
To be slaughtered
In anticipation
Of reunion.

 

Laughing For No Reason

We lay in the tall grass
Laughing for no reason
Celebrating something
Intangible
Beating just inches
Beneath our breastbones.
We were intoxicated
With the sweet summer wine
That sometimes
Though rarely
Courses human veins
Beyond reasoning
Past understanding

And

I stopped.

And

I held my breath
When I saw
God
In her eyes.

Friendly Fire

It still hurts
Because the round remains
Near the heart.

It cannot be removed.

I tried things both radical

And simple.
Yet, it remains.

The best thing about it
Is that there is no pain…
Unless I think about it
Or move.

What does it matter

Whether the infliction
Was made by hands hostile
Or loving?

Friendly fire

Is still fire
By any definition.