Master of the Obvious #73.....

Be careful with the man who does not smooth his soft cap, back to front, nor his hard hat, front to back.

 There is a voice in the wind...

...so low and distant

it may never be

heard.

Most do not listen

being distracted 

by the

drum and scrape of

cities

by the 

lure of 

highways

by the 
distraction of cell phones

and the

seductions and enticements
of life.

The voice does not
address the ear
but the heart.

It is an acquired voice
that is not shy with time
or reluctant to speak
in simple ways
pompous
lofty hearts
surely miss.

But hush...

be still

and you will hear the voice

the small and gentle

whisper

calling 

calling

inviting you to join your heart

to the horizon.

To the endless

shimmering 

horizon.

The Destroyer 

The early morning seemed

unusually dark

like India ink.

You slept a few feet

from my eyes

of fatherly concern.

I had been awakened

by the stirring of angels

and hurried 

to your door.

There was

near you

the Destroyer

who seeks only to

kill

steal

and destroy.

The paternal sword I bore

was unchallenged by his

and within several 

chilled moments

he vanished.

All this occurred 

long ago.

Indeed

I had forgotten about it

until, once more

the Destroyer

visited me.

He comes now

with sword sheathed.

His rattling laughter is his

blade of cruelty.

He reminds me

it is he

that divides us.

You have never told me

my crimes

that stand between father and daughter

ceasing all conversation

all familial affection. 

This night is darker than the former.

Like you

the Destroyer

does not talk.

Conversation has no merit.

He simply sits and laughs.

I forbid him

and he leaves.

Just like that long-ago night.

But every day

the Destroyer finds a seat

smiling with derision

and I bid him leave.

But he returns each day

and has for years.

My crime must be dreadful.

It comes with a death sentence.

The Gauntlet

Watching the police line move into barriers

they had established 

I smelled familiar scents known to me

for better than two decades...

gun oil, leather, smoke drifting across their line

from fires lit by "the bad guys"

fifteen yards down field.

I heard suppressed laughter emitting 

from both sides.

Loud cursing coming from down field

the crackling of newly lit fires

breaking glass

sergeants adjusting their line

I felt the familiar chill begin

between my shoulder blades

fanning to my toes.

Of course, I was not there.

The flickering images on my TV screen

carried me back to my position

just behind my officers

standing erect and confident.

They in riot gear.

I in my soft uniform

with military-styled "cover" (hat).

I wanted to be there with my officers

and I was pleased to be no where near

the pending clash would ignite.

I thought it dangerous 23 years ago.

It is more so today.

Today the tumult is joined

by the growl and vapors

of military vehicles

painted black

like ancient dragons.

They would be friendly to me

but they were built to frighten

as much as to discharge their purpose.

Police began to beat their shields

with batons

sending down the avenue 

a threat...

they were coming.

There were no "friendlies"

east of that line.

Drifting clouds hung above the asphalt

toward clumps of protesters.

Miserable, drifting gas clouds were used

with precision by law enforcement.

The occasional rebel would grasp a 

deployed canister

and lob it short of police lines

but was cheered by disorderly 

foolish young people

thinking themselves in confederation

with some twisted idea of flaming democracy

and prevailing anarchy.

They cannot

they will not prevail.

Once the gauntlet is thrown

by either side

there will be

blood.  

Bounty Hunter

 

Deep into the wood line

the mighty pines

completely obstruct the sun.
No matter the bright
it is always twilight
on the forest floor.
 
Frosted with layers of snows
the branches
like beckoning arms
fill with thick blankets
of hush and silence.
 
It is impossible to pass
and not be heard by predators
animal and human.
 
I step cautiously
supremely aware of myself
my breath exhales in a white veil
my lungs rattling with cold
bitter and revelatory.
 
My gloved fingers burn
with cold
and I grip my thirty ought six
as though it alone
is my solitary link
to the land of the living.
 
The winter wildwood is charming.
 
I hear small birds, squirrels and others
chirp and chatter softly around me.
 
Until they cease
like an unseen conductor waved
his wand
and on que everything swallowed
their songs and chippers.
 
That’s when that mortal sound stopped, chilled me
and I knew, I too
would sleep in the snowy blanket
with all the woodland creatures of the pines.
 
The doubled-click of a shotgun hit my ears
a moment before the buckshot blasted a gaping hole
in my chest.
 
It’s true.
Even looking directly into the sky......

.....all you see are Colorado pine.

The Persistent Little Sparrow

Beyond the window of my truck

On a frosty winter's morning

a small brown sparrow
kept pace with me.

I watched him struggle
against the winter wind
his head tucked low
almost into his breast.

Never before had any bird
conducted flight in this manner.
I thought him brave, determined 
and gallant in his mission.

Suddenly, it seemed the little sparrow
headlonged into a plate of invisible glass.
The small body seemed to crumple
twisting into the roadside rubble.

The sight unnerved me.
Jesus sees even the death of sparrows
scripture assures the believer.
If so, am I to be the sparrow?

We rush and we chase, determined 
to achieve our goals, mindless
of the glass plates awaiting
our spinning bodies.

I pulled into the gravel
to say a little prayer.
I prayed for the amazing little sparrow
and the driven sparrow within us all.

Lizzy & Carroll Hudson 

He had braced against the wind

all day.

It could make a man crazy.

By midday the Devil Wind

materialized

into sleet blowing 

sideways.

Lizzy seemed not to notice.

She plodded on

finding footing on the upward

path through the high notch.

She was a good pony.

Somewhere behind

that damned posse trailed him

and they would not give up.

They had a dead sheriff

to avenge. 

But he had the drop on him

and gave him no choice.

He bent over in the saddle 

to stroke Lizzy's neck.

She understood.

Pulling his coat tighter

around him

he shivered. 

He'd been cold before

but this was becoming 

a blizzard of ice

wind

cutting cold

and numbing hours

on a frozen saddle.

Come on, Liz

old girl.

You get us out of this mess

and I swear

we won't do this again.

We're both getting too old for this.

Damned sheriff.

His side suddenly blazed

with penetrating 

stabbing pain.

Hanging onto Lizzy

with one hand 

tightened on the reins

the other grasping 

the pommel

a second flame

blew away much

of his left shoulder.

That's when Lizzy stumbled

and fell 

in the center of the snowbound

trail

a geyser of blood

spraying from a hole

in her neck.

The snow around them

turned crimson

with blood.

Her powerful legs pumped

pumped

then slowly pulsed

until they forever stopped.

Her big, black eyes

freezing pallid with snow and ice.

Six deputies made their way

down from the high

boulders

moving carefully to the scene.

One knelt to look into

the dying rider's face.

"Carroll Hudson

for a fact."

Another:

"Whatta we do with his

carcass?" 

The leader:

"The hell. We leave it to rot.

But that ain't gonna happen

till spring."

Grab his gear.

We'll divide it later."

Another:

"Hated to shoot the horse though.

What did she ever

do?" 

 The Steel Pot, Lucky Strike and a Ronson...

On the outskirts of Pleiku, July, 1965

     The steel pot was first to come off. It fell, upside down, to the mud at his feet. There was a brief respite in the monsoon rains that inundated the rice lands and the jungle. It was steamy. Not steamy like the river valley of St. Louis. This was fresh hell. Propping his M-16 against a rock, he took a knee in the baby shit mud. The entire world smelled terrible. There would never be a stench as bad as Vietnam mud. It would remain in his nostrils forever, he thought. If he has a "forever." 

            Above, the sun was a glaring, white disk amid the drenching heat waving from this cursed land. The soldier covered his face with his hand. The sweat in his eyes stung. Unscrewing the cap from his canteen, he poured some tepid liquid into his open palm, and splashed it across his face. A second swallow temporarily slaked his burning thirst.

            One cigarette remained in his chest pocket. Placing it between his cracked lips, he fished out his Ronson lighter and inhaled a deep lungful of sweet American tobacco. Running a hand through his hair, he suffered a brief moment, what he called “lightening thoughts,” remembering Suzanne doing that very thing, her breath warm against his neck, her lips kissing his cheek, his ear. Those were dangerous memories, he considered. Memories like that could get you killed. Returned to his wife in a metal case with a draped flag. No... time for memories later. For the present, enjoy the Lucky Strike dangling between his lips. Take a good draw on the smoke. And another, and another. His Ronson, he considered, looked like a tiny metal coffin. He thumbed the top down with its characteristic "ting."

            High above in the slate grey sky, the distant roar of many jet engines penetrated his thoughts. Rolling Thunder on the way to Hanoi. Contrails unzipping the heavens. He wondered if those air crews got tired. Were thirsty. Aching to get home to their Suzannes.

            July, 1965. Short. He’d been in-country over ten months. He was in for thirteen. Another long pull on the Lucky Strike, followed by a fit of coughing. Sgt. Letterman glanced at him, missing nothing from his “chicks.” Sergeant Letterman's company. The soldier gave a quick nod to the man with three up and three down. He was okay. Not going to be a problem. When they arrived at the outskirt of the village they would torch, Letterman did not need someone erupting into a coughing jag and give them away. The sergeant returned the nod, more slowly. A warning.

            The soldier finished the cigarette, field stripped the butt, and buried it in a shallow “tobacco grave” at his feet.

            The steel pot weighed a ton. Come St. Louis he vowed to never again wear so much as a hat. Let the wind sift his hair. Suzanne kiss his lips.

            Only twenty-two, last month. He rose to his feet, placing his steel pot on his head, M-16 cradled in his right arm. The company rose quietly, the column stepping into place, each several feet from the next "chick."

           That was the last of his cigs. There were more in a buddy's pocket. No problem.

The  soldier considered the sun would eventually slide to earth. This day was going to end. So would the war, with or without his help. St. Louis was a real place, and he was going to get off that jet, embrace that Missouri tarmac and lay a kiss on that damned concrete. He vowed he never, never ever was going to leave the good 'ol USA. And he was going to buy an entire carton of Lucky Strikes!      

            The tall Elephant Grass waved in the late afternoon breeze. Nobody could tell that a little bit ago, thirty three American soldiers squatted here, and one lit a smoke, rubbed his eyes, heaved his ribs in a coughing fit, and grabbed his weapon, departing the way he came. Heavily. Weary. Scared. Empty.

           Most returned to their Suzannes. Many fought to forget. Most never did. Some struggled with their demons. Most continued into productive, pleasant lives. They stood to salute the flag when it passed on Memorial Day. They greyed and toyed with grandchildren. Others were reduced to engravings on a shiny black wall. Suzanne would go to find her soldiers name, and do a pencil rub to frame and place above the hearth in her St. Louis home. She cried out all her tears. But there would always be a breath, a sigh she had saved for her soldier's missing neck and ear, the absent lips of her dear, dead soldier. They sent all his effects. A Ronson cigarette lighter sat on the mantle under her rubbing of his name. It would remain there until her grandchildren fondled it, learning it was "grandpops" from Vietnam. It was all they had of him. Not even a memory. Just a little, steel Ronson lighter. Looking much like the steel coffin they returned of all they could find of him.

          On that long-ago afternoon, the soldier, lost in the haze, was ultimately lost to his Suzanne and lost in that damned bloody god forsaken war.     

                                                                    

Her Italian Story

Sitting cross-legged across from me
she was remembering Tuscany
and its sun-drenched vineyards
of which I had only heard.

Her midnight eyes danced
when she told me of her chance
to see the Eternal City
the Apian Way and statuary.

I guess once you've been to Italy
it's infused in all you see.
But I'm just imagining
having never been east of sunrise.

She'd climbed the Spanish Steps

and with the thought, her heart leapt.

I watched her spirit thrill

and poured myself more tea.

No, I've never been to Rome
never strayed that far from home.
I can't wrap my mind
around what is not American. 

She ended her Italian story
with gold and Vatican glory.
I had all day to reconsider life 

but I had no choice to make.

Except this: never pull up a chair
if you've never been over there
and tasted their wine or golden sunshine.

Son, just buckle in and remain home.
 
So, it's life among the corn rows
and as far as that goes
it could be lots worse
but, buddy, seems it might could be better.

 

Gotta Get This Off My Chest….

 

Twenty-two years ago yesterday, at the noon hour, my cranium filled with blood when a vessel in my brain ruptured, like I’d been shot. I was rushed to a hospital, decidedly one of the very best in the Chicago suburbs.

                        I walked in under my own steam, told the triage nurse what was happening, fell back onto a gurney, and blacked out.

                         I was in and out most of the day. I recall begging the E.R. team to not cut away my new black suit. I would need it for my funeral. There were a few rattling trips to get an X-ray, and CAT Scan. The tests all indicated mortal damage.

                         The doctors conferred and agreed to do nothing dramatic. I would be made comfortable, given liquids, placed in the ICU, and allowed to die. They told my family to expect roughly “6 hours.”

                         My now x-wife was found at her job, and notified. She acted the harried soon-to-be grieving widow, but I later learned she was happy this would end her troubled marriage. I will not go into what her boyfriend felt.

                         My brother sped in from St. Louis. My light coma allowed me to hear voices, but not what they said. Nevertheless, his presence was near, and I felt protected as long as he was there.

                         This is a much longer story than I will relate here. But as you can tell, I survived. Medical science did nothing but rule me out, and tuck me in.

                         I awakened the next day, with a “voice” in my ear, saying, “This is not unto death, but unto the glory of God.” I had good and bad days. Faithful moments and moments of sadness and fear. My brother had to return home. My wife signed me up for ballroom dancing, and dropped me off by myself at the Chicago Auto Show, while she and a friend attended the theater. I never made one class. I limped into the auto exhibit area, and found a seat beside the Illinois State Police exhibit. I thought that the best seat in the house.

                         It was a very hard few years. My wife left for another city, and moved in with the man who is now her husband. She took all my money from my account, and nearly every stick of furniture, save a bed and a china hutch she couldn’t stuff into her rental truck.

                         She took my dog. She took Abigail, a little black and tan dauschund I adopted from a shelter. I made no outcry concerning anything she took. Except for Abigail. I got word to my son to convey to his mother, that I could find her, and I was coming for Abigail. I told her that nothing mattered, least of all her…but I was coming for Abigail. The following night my door bell rang. When I answered, Abigail was sitting there, all by herself. No matter the conveyance, she was in my arms again.

                         The next day, in the early afternoon, the police came to conduct a well-being check. They were from another agency, so we did not know one another. An anonymous caller indicated that I had a gun, and was suicidal. Serving a department in the next town, I had a sidearm. That call, I determined, was not that of a caring friend, but a diabolical wife, laying the framework to cast me as dangerous and out of control.

                         It was a two year drudge through the courts, both in Illinois and Missouri, where she defamed me as having waved my side arm in her face and threatening her with death. Completely false. I learned, however, that judges have favor for weeping wives, and look upon cops as bad.

                         But all things must end. She is gone. We have no contact, not even through our children. The after effects of the stroke will always be with me. Even a careful observer could not tell I suffered such a disabling cerebral accident. I limp upon my right leg, and wear a glove on my right hand to lessen pain in my hand. Significant damage remains in my spirit. I work at confronting my personal demons. I win some, I lose some. I cut off any friendship from those times. Most went to my ex anyway.

                         I am peacefully, and happily remarried. I write to express both the turmoil and the peace in my heart. I never expected to share this here. But if God cradled and supported me in all I endured, he will for you as well.

                         If you would like a word of encouragement (stroke related, or otherwise) all you need do is supply an email address and I will return contact. A word to any cop…you are a good person, worthy of help. Male or female, sworn, or non-sworn. If you are a medic, a firefighter, I am your friend. I will help.

                         Enough of this. Back to what I’m here for…my poetry; good, bad, or otherwise.      

~~ James ~~

 

Mordechai!     

Oh Mordechai, Mordechai,
It’s too little of the truth
Too much of a lie.
 
Oh Mordechai, Mordechai,
Run for your life
Don’t look back or you will die.
 
You must listen today!
Heed my word
My esteemed Mordechai.
 
Better you should fly.
Make haste, make haste
My dearest Mordechai!
 
Listen, Mordechai
I place myself 'tween them
And you, my loving Mordechai.
 
No more messages Mordechai.
For now is come the time
I die, dear Mordechai.

 

In the Rigging

Some say there is a song

In the rigging
Others call it a wail
A screech.
 

I have heard little of the first
And too much of the latter.
 
The song entices me
Drawing me into
Its female breast
Of joy and comfort.
 
I fairly faint to think
I may either be driven
From its consolation.
 
But the wail
The screech
My friend
Is the very breath of hell
Raked across the rigging.
 
The wail
The screech
Will foul your soul
Deep into
The dark dregs of Abaddon.
 
It will fix your feet to the deck
Forbidding your race for life.
It will make you to forget
The face of your mother
The arms of your lover
The promises of your savior.
 

The wail
The screech
Is the most bitter of auditory bleeding.
 
It is a knife between the ribs
A noose tightening the neck.
 
I urge you
By the tears of the Almighty
To consign your soul
To the briny depths
Before the horrid yowl
Attain its crescendo
In hopes you not lose your soul
To the wind in the rigging.

Voice in the Wind

 

There is a voice
in the wind
so low and distant
it may never be
heard.
 
Most do not listen
being distracted 
by the
drum and scrape of
cities
by the 
lure of 
highways
by the 
distraction of cell phones
and the
seductions and enticements
of life.

The voice does not
address the ear
but the heart.
It is an acquired voice
that is not shy with time
or reluctant to speak
in simple ways
those pompous
lofty hearts
surely miss.

 

But hush.
Be still.
You will hear the voice.
The small and gentle
voice
calling 
calling
inviting you to join your heart
to the horizon
to the endless
shimmering 
horizon. 

Fathers and Sons

Every single day
since I was a kid
dad would saddle up
to go out and do what he did.

Somehow I knew
in my little kid brain
that everything he did
was a daily strain.

Dad grew old
like all of us do
and then it came my turn
to do my part, too.

We buried dad
in twenty, double ought zero
and we put him in the ground.
To me, a natural-born hero. 

Now I know what tired is.
I'm older than dad when he quit 
and it's my son's turn
to take the hit.

But things are backward
than when I was a kid
'cuz sons no longer honor
what their fathers did. 

I'll rise and greet the dawn 
and I'll pay for my meal.
I'll do so without complaint
no matter how I feel.

But if I'm gonna rest well
I gotta figure out a way.
So I'll sit here on my front porch
and keep the wolves at bay.

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.

Some October

Wandering the ancient graveyard

I was a soul seeking flesh
albeit moldering.
Names faint as spirits
pled for mortal tongue 
to voice the forgotten syllables
without which they perish.

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF ALISON 
WIFE TO SEBASTIAN KOCH
AGED 27 YEARS 3 MONTHS 2 WEEKS 4 DAYS
DIED SEPTEMBER 6 1864
'
I feel Alison's grateful smile.
Limestone markers tilt at odd angles
many hopelessly illegible.
Others are broken off
leaving the impression of broken teeth.
No cheer in this half acre
only the suggestion of unremembered lives
tangled among the roots of
wildwood and sour apple trees.
I whisper names into the bracing autumn wind
hoping to offer temporary balm
to ethereal want.
Some October, years hence
perhaps a kind pilgrim will step
within my half acre home
and gift to my bones
the gentle voicing of my name
and within the soil of  my sleep
I will smile, too.

Master of the Obvious...#72

Never turn your back on a who always smiles.

Master of the Obvious...#71

Writing is the process of opening a vein and bleeding ink.

Through much bramble

Through much bramble

With these hands 
I have caressed you. 
With these ears
I have heard you.
With this body
I have joined you.

With all I have
I offer you...

...the breath
from my lungs
and the swift
from my feet

...the speech
from my tongue
and the kiss
from my lips.

...the strength
from my loins
and the knowledge
from my mind.

Our souls have we twined
and we are, this day
and forever one.

Our path winds 
through much bramble
through leaden skies
and wind swept days.
But our fires burn
in the veil of night
yellow orange 
and hot.

Tonight, lay with me
and tomorrow lace your boots
and walk with me
on the blade between
night and day
between the seen and unseen
between have and have not
between peace and conflict
between molten and ice.

Here we stand.
Take my hand. 
Wear my band
and accompany me
into this good land.

Master of the Obvious ....#70

If you can write without pain in your chest, you ain't writing.

Master of the Obvious...#69

When a dog growls at you, he's probably telling you all the truth you require.

Master of the Obvious....#68

Never chase a mad dog down a blind ally.

Fire in the Sky

Through the Burn

I was a kid.

What did I know?

It was the 4th of July.
My brother and I wanted to go
to that night's fireworks
in town.

I pestered dad all day
but never got any reply.
The closer it came to dark
the more quiet
the more sullen
dad became.

This was wholly unlike him.

But I persisted
notching up my plea 
by the minute.

The standoff ended in the kitchen.

He was strangely bent and bowed
and had his fill of my persistence.
Dad lit an entire book of matches.
They flared with alarming menace.

There's your damn fireworks! he said
throwing the flame into the sink.
Sulfur hung in the air.
That moment chars my memory yet.
 
He did a quick about face
disappearing down the hall
into his room
slamming the door.

I was hurt.
Stunned.
Confused.
I'd never seen dad like this
and it was because
I'd pushed him over some invisible chasm
I could not understand.

That unspoken guilt festered in me
a very long time.

Two decades passed before it came to me
what he was experiencing.

I demanded bright fire in the sky.
Fierce, deafening bursts
burning rainbows, sparking explosions.
It was simple.

But dad was seeing German 88's.
Flashing powder.
The stench of burnt cordite. 
The shattered bodies of his friends
sliced and diced.
Some screaming 
begging God
for their next heart beat.

Crying for their mothers.
Explosions in the treetops 
jetting metal shards and lethal splinters
into the huddled boys below. 
An effusion of blood
as vivid as the blossoming 
independence day celebration I craved.

Dad and I never discussed it
until four decades passed.
All the heartache poured out 
in the dim light of one particular dusk.
Once more it was just dad and I
accompanied by the haunting of
young friends 
who never returned
whose bodies moldered 
in French, Belgium and German soil.

Fireworks are sometimes distant from
the splash of a summer night.

Sometimes they are the gateway
into the belly of hell
and the furnace of swift death.  

The naivety of youth dissolves
into the warm blood of terror.

His body clung to mine

and together we wept 

for the past and the present

through the burn of the setting sun.

Master of the Obvious ...#67

The sun is truly setting when small men cast large shadows. 
 (Not original to me, but it's worth sharing. Not that I'm always worth sharing, either!)