In the Lonely Hours

Things long gone return in the lonely hours
to afflict the soul with its tortured powers:

the warming of cold saddle leather
creaking in chill autumnal weather...

the embracing hush of soft, sweet arms
in nights of grace and mystic charms...

the silent fall of Sierra Madre snow
that only men of peace may know...

a child's playful laugh and baby patters
is all that time needs or truly matters...

the rush of wind sifting past my ears
still follows me down the winding years...

the gentle whispers at loving's end
less than a lover but more than a friend...

the heavy cadence and beat of a drum...
laying it down for our company's thrum 

the whine of the wind through the rigging's masts
as our cutter slices the seas as the hours passed...

Arkansas' mourning doves with their plaintive cry
marking the seconds as the hours fly...

a woman's gasp in the night as the candles flicker
she whispers my name, my heart beats quicker...

the metallic slide of the Springfield's bolt
jams my shoulder like lightening's jolt...

the fear I taste; a most bitter pill
removes the thrill I imagined at my first kill...

before the verse is complete, as the dark ink dries
every memory returns and the poet cries...

as fire eases in the hearth and the shadows dim
I'm back in 'Nam, in the paddy with Jim...

all these snapshots of my life, so bitter and sweet
combine to freeze the soul, or to flame its heat.