Marvelous

You were a dancer.
Graceful
Marvelous
And classic.

Swan Lake
Giselle
Petrushka
Your repertoire.

My eyes never saw your craft
Though I felt it in you.

When one is gifted
It is as obvious in the body
As it would be in the performance.

I knew it in you
Never having received it
From you.

A face might contain
Lines made from a thousand smiles
Though the smile not be for me.

You were a dancer.
I knew it when first I saw you.
Your grace and charm
The fluid way you walked
The way you carried yourself
Your deportment with the universe
All communicated
Dance.

It was as obvious
As is
The frailty of a butterfly
Or the tensile strength
Of silk.

In imagination I see you.
And you are marvelous.

The Question

I crawled onto this thin ledge
Understanding the peril
Knowing the scope of risk
And still determined to go.

Had I examined the complexities
I'd have gone anyway.

So, I huddle beneath the rock shelf
Sucking in cold air
Waiting for the floor to crumble.

A friend once said I flirt with danger
The way other men golf.
He was a golfer.

I sit in the fading light
Glancing at my watch
In company with the phantoms of
"Why?"

But, for me
The real question is
“When?”

Special Note

The Dashboard Poet
is in its 2nd year.
There are changes rumbling
In my spirit
That will, of necessity,
Change the fabric
From which these poems are cut.
It may be strange for a time.
I am forcing myself to go deeper
Push harder
Strain
To get to my
Core truth.

I need to get to work.
That's "Job One."
Once I drill to my gritty core
Truth will rise to the surface.
Readers willing
To walk their eyes
Down the boulevard
Of these words
Are welcome to enjoy whatever
Lights their bulbs.
I hope what comes will be
The best writing I've ever done.
Or...it could be the most tame missive
Since Hiawatha.

By this time next year the
Jury will be in.

The Gift

She came to me laughing
Her hair gleaming
In the ambient light
Of the lengthening day.

She gave herself to me tenderly
Opening her heart
Before her body.

I received her
As sacrament
As bread and wine
Renewal for my soul.

She was my teacher
Showing me the worth
Of my being.

I was a spirit
In dry places
Homeless in my heart.

She changed that.

Looking back
From where I now stand
I view the gift
I was given.

At the time I thought it was her love.

But now I know
It was my life.

Declaration ‘11

In an hour
The numbers advance.
Up to now I’ve seen them
As mile markers
Of territory past.
Hereon the numbers will represent
Distance remaining.

I am lightening my load
Releasing old ties
Taking the measure of the man.

It’s time to sweep my soul.
Take out the trash.

Refit.

I have drawn a line in the sand.
To step beyond it
Is to enter a new dimension
A new relationship
With myself.

I have determined
To express my soul
To issue orders to
My own heart.

I have lived long enough to know
I cannot change anything
Or anyone
But myself.

My soul is open for business
During remodeling.

Pardon my dust.

Tell Me, Please

I wonder
Does anyone celebrate your breath
Rising like steam
Into January nights?

Is there another
To joy
At the rise and fall
Of your breasts, as you lay sleeping?

Does anyone stop
What they’re doing
To watch you
Towel dry?

Is there a mind
That drifts
Like timber in a stream
Toward imaginations of you?

Is there a throat
To sing of your glory
Before the admiring stars
In crisp, midnight skies?

Is there a lover
Straining to hear your
Faintest whisper
Your most heartfelt prayer?

Love is rare
And holy
And given only to those
With quivering hearts.

Is there one?
Tell me, please.
Because love like this
Comes but once.

Spanish is the Lovin' Tongue

Sometimes the lyrics of songs stir me so much there is nothing to do but post them. I wish it were possible to include the melody. All I can do is encourage you to listen to Michael Martin Murphy's rendition on his Cowboy Songs cd, from 1990. A little Tequila might help set the mood.
I wish I'd penned this song. Regardless of it's author, and despite the locale in which it is set, I've lived its theme.
Every man likely has, in memory, the face of one who couldn't "cross the border" with him. You'll meet her again in:
Spanish is the Lovin' Tongue

Spanish is the loving tongue,
Soft as music, light as spray:
'Twas a girl I learned it from,
Living down Sonora way.
I don't look much like a lover,
Yet I say her love words over,
Often when I'm all alone --
"Mi amor, mi corazón."
Nights when she knew where I'd ride
She would listen for my spurs,
Fling the big door open wide,
Raise them laughin' eyes of hers;
And my heart would nigh stop beating
When I heard her tender greeting,
Whispered soft for me alone --
"Mi amor, mi corazón."

Moonlight in the patio,
Old Senora nodding near,
Me and Juana talking low
So the Madre couldn't hear;
How those hours would go a-flyin'!
And too soon I'd hear her sighin'
In her little sorry tone --
"Adios, mi corazón!"

But one time I had to fly
For a foolish gamblin' fight,
And we said a swift goodbye
In that black unlucky night.
When I'd loosed her arms from clingin'
With her words the hoofs kept ringin'
As I galloped north alone --
"Adios, mi corazón!"

Never seen her since that night --
I can't cross the Line, you know.
She was "Mex" and I was white;
Like as not it's better so.
Yet I've always sort of missed her
Since that last wild night I kissed her;
Left her heart and lost my own --
"Adios, mi corazón!"

Reasoning With Shadows

I have waited many years
Hoping for word
From you.

Every day and every night
Empty skies
Starred at me.

And still I waited.

I consulted with myself:
You were angry
Hurt
You despaired.

I tried to imagine
You happy.
I wanted to think
You were well and whole.

Why reason with shadows?

I pushed down the memories
Shoving them into
Dark corners.

But they returned
Like a swelling tide.

Images of you haunted me
Chased me from room
To room
You were there
On the roadside
There
In the shops
Everywhere I was
You were, too.

But you were always mute.

Uncommunicative in word
And cold in action.
I waited for a bottle to wash ashore
With a note enclosed
A star to streak the night sky
A yellowed letter
Arriving impossibly late
Something to tell me
You remembered.

Until word comes
I wear sorrow
Like a coat
Eat sadness
Like bread
My drink is bitter
And my skies are bronze
All for the want of you.

The Day is Done

In my humble opinion, the following classic from Longfellow
is the best poem ever written. Many thousands will disagree
with me, and all with well-founded arguments. But this poem
speaks to me. It has for many years. It is the only poem I
have ever troubled myself to memorize. Perhaps the reason I
love it so is because Henry Wadsworth was actually writing
about me. I may be the "humbler poet" whom he referenced.
I am, at least, one of the many he had in mind.

I hope The Day is Done speaks to you as it does me.

THE DAY is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me
That my soul cannot resist:

A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.

Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time.

For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life's endless toil and endeavor;
And to-night I long for rest.

Read from some humbler poet,
Whose songs gushed from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start;

Who, through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume
The poem of thy choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares, that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.

Beneath The Guns

Lion's roar and flame of hell,
Smoke from a dozen suns,
Volcanic tremors, belching death,
All meet beneath the guns.

Launching shells and trails of fire
Fill the summer sky.
Far downrange, embracing earth,
The sons of mothers die.

Cannon blast and hell on wheels
Export a murderous fate.
Lifting fields with demon breath,
Salvation comes too late.

A soldier, young and soon to die,
Forgets his mother's face.
Steel splinters, sharp and heated red,
Cover him as lace.

No man was born, or raised for this,
As fodder for the maw;
Gentle little baby boys,
Now bleeding meat, and raw.

O! My sweet Lord Jesus!
Is it possible to forgive the ones
Who brought us to this place,
'Neath the shadow of the guns?