Ink Stain

Rubbing only smears it.
Dabbing is ineffective.
The more I try to eradicate it
The more obvious it becomes.

There is no soap so powerful
No bleach
No combination of chemicals
Effective in restoration
And I now sorrow
At the damage done.

It has bled into the fabric
And I fear my garment
Is ruined.

How could I have been so
Careless?
So without caution?

If only I could have a
“Do Over”
The way we did
When we were children.
Then I would take more care
Not have behaved so
Recklessly.

But now I must wear this badge
Of rash action.

Had I not let you
Touch me
I would be better
In appearance.

But I let you in
You marred me
Stained me
And I must evermore
Show evidence
Of a blemished heart

Your ink stain.

The Hush

Silence attends me
Walks at my side
A veil of wispy peace
A cove of solitude
In a riotous land.

Extinguish the racket of traffic
Cacophony of conversation
And blare of discordant clamor.

Cut free
The din
Of city sound.
Step into the tranquil.

Silence is not a condition
It is a habitation
A residence
An abode
Of the serene.

Disconnect.
Close your ears.
Let silence lift you.

Like the wind
That sifts grasslands
Like rains
That pepper the surf
Let silence prevail
Cover you in calm
And renew your soul.

Shelter yourself in quiet.

A Wild Garden

She is a wild garden
A blend of the carefully tended
And untamed
A fusion of nature.

In morning’s glow
She will share
Your tea
Discuss poetry and song
A demure creature
A fawn in the glade.

When darkness veils her
She will take your flesh
As a consuming fire
Combusting
And you cannot
Extinguish the blaze.

Her eyes gleam in innocence
And smolder in sensuality.
Her fingers caress in dewy calm
And rake in fiery insistence.
Her body glides in swan-like elegance
And undulates in passion.

She walks in grace
In easy communion with nature
But dances like a gypsy
Throwing shadows
And incantations
The way flint throws sparks.

She is a wild garden
A mixture of holy, gentle charm
And feral want.

She is a wild garden.

A Bitter Truth

Had she dreamed of kingdoms
I would have conquered
Realms.

Nothing would I have withheld.

Diamonds
Pressed from fiery coals
Riches
From the coffer of kings
Luster
From spangling stars.

For her I would rob
Roses
Of their scent
Night
Of its moon glow
Wine
Of its blush.

For her I would separate
The chill from winter
The lush from spring
The sweat from summer
The tint from autumn.

I gave her
The beat of my heart
Gleam of my eyes
Softness of my touch.

But she taught me a bitter truth.

Love is not about
What one might give
As much as it is about
What two might share.

And two cannot share
When one cannot give.

Resistance is Key

The dark liquid
Trickles a shallow thread
Down the back of my throat.
I am a man parched
Long without the cool draught
So now welcomed.

I am tempted to gulp the refreshment
In an effort to satisfy my thirst
To quench the need.

But resistance is key.

Better to
Enjoy the burn
Of slow satisfaction.

Were you here
My flesh would cry
For fulfillment.

How I would battle
Not to take you
In one long pull
Absorbing you into my very skin.

I fear I would drink you to the full
And there would be nothing of you
Remaining.

No, darling.
Resistance is key.

Better to sip your nectar
Take your sweetness
Slowly
Like a brook
Not a river
Like a shower
Not a storm.

But that is easy to say
In this drought.

Were you in my arms
I know what I would do.

I would greedily draw your love
Like a man dying
For the want of you.

But you are not here.

I guess
For you, too
Resistance is key.

On the Leeward Side

I recall how sweetly
You’d tuck your head
Against the hollow of my throat
Push like you wanted inside.
You would retreat into my heart
Lock the door
Against all outside
And there release your pressures.

You’d remain the longest
And return to the world
With reluctance.

My heart is yours still.

I would caress you
Hold you as firmly as
A sailor holds the wheel
Against the surging storm
Your long auburn hair
Spilling over my arms
Like decks awash
In a shimmering crest.

I drank the intoxication
Of your scent
Felt your heartbeat
Against my chest
The thrumming of your engine.

I closed my eyes
And begged God you’d stay.

But you did not.

So I wonder
Who holds you now
Comforts you
Assures you
There will always be a place
A home in the heart
A harbor against the storm.

Storms come.
They blow unexpectedly
And we gallantly battle the inevitable.

But there’s room for you
Protection too
A cove
On the leeward side
Of the storm.

The Long Cold Tumble

At five thousand feet
The pilot cut the engine
And pushed the little Cessna
Onto its starboard wing.

We fell into a sweeping spin.

Farms
Fields and freeways
Rushed steadily
Toward our fragile little cockpit.

As our propeller windmilled
My heart was pounding
With the panic
Of a rabbit at the maw of a wolf.

The pilot laughed.

At the last possible moment
The engine sputtered and caught.
We clutched air
Like a mountain climber
Grabbing shale.

I could not wait to land
Anticipating the joy
Of shoving my fist
Through the pilot’s teeth.

But I did not.

I thanked him for the thrill
And waited until
I was alone
Before throwing up.

I’ve learned to defer fear
Shoving the acidic panic
Into my gut
Buying time
Acting on the moment
Before me.

There'll be time later to shiver
Plenty of time to quiver.

Feel the long
Cold tumble from the sky.

Learn that death is easy.
Dying is hard.

Mama!*

Mama made me eat liver
And mama made me eat fish
And mama made me eat green beans
And eat everything on my dish.

Mama made me take baths
And mama made me clean my room.
Mama made me make my bed
And do my floor with a broom.

Mama made me say my prayers
Mama made me cut the grass
And mama made me wash my ears
Or mama would spank my…bottom.

Mama told me about bad girls
Mama said I should not kiss ‘em
And mama told me to stay away
But I just wouldn’t listen.

So here I sit still eatin’ liver
And here I sit eatin’ fish
And I'm still eatin’ green beans
And all the slop on my dish.

I didn’t do one thing ma told me
And I did everything she said don’t.
Now everything I wanna do I can’t
And things I should do I won’t.

Oh, can’t you come back, sweet mama?
I won’t gripe about liver or fish
And I promise to eat all my green beans
And clean everything on my dish!

I’ll stay away from those bad girls.
They just make a guy shell out and pay
Then when they get their claws in you
They’ll make you wish you’d run away.

I’ve been a very bad boy, ma
And I don’t know what to do.
But if’n you’ll help me sweet mama
I’ll do all you say to.

I’ll give up runnin’ and chasin’
Kissin’ bad girls, and such.
On the other hand, sweet mama...
I guess it ain’t cost me that much!

(* Sometimes poetry is just for fun. Lighten up!)

Corporal Burwell

You were
Some mother’s boy
Some lover’s man.

It’s lost
How tall you stood
Even the color of your eyes
Is no longer known.

All that is known
Is you died
September 20, 1863
Near a creek
Called Chickamauga
In far-away Tennessee
One among thousands
That gave up the ghost
That dreadful Sunday.

You perished
In a sheet of flame
And a buzz saw of musketry
As much a victim of incompetent leadership
As enemy action.
But that's just my opinion, Corporal.

You must have been well loved
To have been wrapped
In a sheet
And shipped to your home
Hundreds of miles north.

Most were buried where they fell.
But not you
Corporal Burwell.

How your poor mother wept
Your lost lover sobbed
And your town clicked their tongues
Saying
Isn’t it a shame about the Burwell boy?

Now you lay beneath
The slab your father set
Upon which your mother cried
Embraced by your broken lover
Before which I stand
Remembering a soldier
I never knew.

I come to see you
Once a year
To stand at your feet
Wondering about you.
If the truth can’t be known
It’s my duty
To make it up.
You deserve that much.
And I’ve done a fine job, I think.

You were young
Proud and noble.
But not too proud
Nor too noble.
You were enthusiastic and brave.
But not too enthusiastic
Nor too brave.
You did what you came to do.
But you did not want to die.
You wanted to kiss your mama
Marry your girlfriend
Have babies
And watch them grow
To honorable adulthood
Around you.
And you wanted grandbabies
on your knee.

You wanted to
Learn piano
Find a trade
Make love
Fish with a buddy
Tell tall tales
Watch the sunset
Worship at your church
See a bit of the world
You wanted this and more.

But you early stopped a bullet.

Now I stand before you
Corporal Burwell
Once again
And place another small flag
Before your stone.
You’d be surprised
At the number of stars
In its blue field.

My beard has gone white
Since I began
Visiting you.
As white as the harvest
Through which you marched
The morning you died.
As white as muzzle flame.
As white as the sheet
In which they bound your body.
As white as the shoulders
Of the lass you would never marry.
As white as your bloodless body
And white as your bones.

Thank you, Corporal Burwell
Although that seems a small thing to offer
Before such a sacrifice.
Sleep on, Corporal.
Rest.

If my own death
Prevents my return
I am confident another will remember.
That's the way it is
In the land for which you died.

Note to Self

I rode a horse named Fantasy
Into a vast
High desert
Snow to the west
Sage behind me
Littered with ancient campfires
And faces of the lost within.

Days stream together
Riding Fantasy.
You lose track of time.
What does it matter
That Sunday feels like
Wednesday?

Fantasy is a good horse
Broke to the saddle
And takes her head
Keeping south of the storms.

But Fantasy never looks back
Wondering if I’m well
Or there at all.
Nothing matters to Fantasy
Except she has food
At day’s end.
If you fail to feed Fantasy
She gets testy.

She will kick you to death
And leave your carcass to the
Ever-present vultures
Circling overhead
Waiting for carrion.

Note to self:
Never ride a horse that never looks back.