Thoughts While Walking Away *

I’ve packed my gear
It sits by the door.
My dog’s on his rug.
I can hear him snore.

The kids are in bed
My wife’s still asleep.
There’s nothing preventing
Me making this leap.

My nerves are steeled
It’s time that I go.
But the plan from here
God only knows.

So, pray for me.
Better yet, pray for them.
I don’t want’em thinking
I left on a whim.

If I stick around here
I’m likely to snap.
I see the pattern in me
Like roads on a map.

The violence done me
In a far away land
Will eventually come home
The way wind blows the sand.

Better it find me
When I’m all alone.
I’ll explain it to her later
When I call on the phone.

Maybe this’ll blow over
And I’ll find me some peace.
If not, I’ll have spared my family
At least.

* Again, not autobiographical, but
I deal with those for whom this is
very real, and sometimes tragic.
Freedom, as is said, is never free.
This 4th of July, thank a soldier.

PTSD or “Alphabet Soup” *

I have seen blood enough
Syrup thick
Warm
Stinking like copper.

I have seen brains exposed
Pale
The consistency of pasta
Splattered and smashed.
I have seen a beating heart
Cupped within a split chest
Ribs, like fingers
Stretching toward me.

Life is in the blood
Knowledge in the brain
The memory of times
Making love
Flying
Running
Every past breath
And the whole of a man
Friend or foe
Stripped and lain
Across place and time.

What is man
O, Lord
That thou art mindful
Of him?

Long after the removal
Tagged
Bagged
And dragged
In the snarl of cops
Death remains my partner.

I sleep with grisly dreams
Freely roaming my unconscious self.
I limp with memories
No man should share.
I breathe death
And am acquainted with its coarse ways.

How, then, am I to live
And what may become
Of him
Who has borne the wounded
And buried the dead?

Time
Inexorable
Will tell.

*Recently I was diagnosed with Complex PTSD.
I promise you, there is more encapsulated in
four letters of the alphabet than poetry can
possibly detail. I hope you, who know those
who suffer with this “alphabet soup” will
show them the kindness their own souls
cannot.

I Felt Nothing*

When I shot him
I felt nothing.
He fell in a lifeless heap
And did not move.

I remember everything
About that night.

I remember
The street light sparking
Off the cheap gun in his hand
The tang of gunpowder in the air
The loud pipes on a motorcycle
A block away
And my partner running past me
As I holstered my weapon.

But I felt nothing.

Squads with flaring strobes
Closed on the scene.
The EMT’s arrived.
Investigators placed numbered signs
To detail the spread of spent shells.

But I felt nothing.

I was interviewed by Internal Affairs
By detectives
By my sergeant
And I answered the same
Every time.

But I felt nothing.

I did not discuss it with my wife
But the recurring nightmare
Was a continual loop
Every damn night.
So I slept less and less.

When I returned to duty
I was easily angered
Jittery
Prone to check
And recheck my weapon.

My home life imploded.
My wife left
Taking the kids
And when the bottle became my solace
I felt nothing.

I was placed on administrative leave.
My friends stopped coming around
My anger consumed me
But I insisted I felt nothing.

Then came the night
I went to the park by the river walk
And in the dark
Outside and inside
I placed a 9mm to my head
And pulled the trigger.

After that
I felt nothing.

*Obviously, this is not autobiographical.
But this does reflect my experience after
22 years in law enforcement, and the loss
of more than one friend and officer.
Police Suicide is not widely discussed
But within the “Thin Blue Line"
it is deeply felt. But the duty
continues its demand every shift.

Reply to Comment on "After Goodbye"

Dear Reader,
Thank you for your comment. You are very insightful. Maybe I can provide a glimpse into the Monarch matter. I have had loves since she left. All love, of any variety (pets, kids and grandkids, etc.) bring a variety of joys and heartbreaks. I don't know why, but when there's a full moon, or a particularly rainy day, my heart looks to its aches before its joys. Most days are laden with all the pleasures of life. But there are those seasons when the heart looks back, and that's when my Monarch flies. I will never get past her, because her memory centers me, mellows me, and causes me to better appreciate the good that remains. A Monarch butterfly flew past the windshield of my truck yesterday, and I nearly missed the light turning green...my mind went to my Monarch. Crazy? Yes. Absolutely. Maybe I'm like the fisherman, who always laments the "one that got away." On the other hand, isn't that one of the virtues of poetry? To give readers a boxcar to hobo on as we look to our past pain? But pity me? Please don't do that. I was given the rarity of her love, even though briefly. I suggest that anyone who was loved like that be envied. At least, that's my story, and I'm stickin' to it!
I sincerely appreciate your comment, and hope you'll keep on reading.
Thanks.....James

After Goodbye

I did not touch her
After goodbye.

The door had closed.

No matter my desire
No matter our history
The door had closed
And I walked away.

These years later
I rethink my choice.
Perhaps I should have fought
To hold her
To keep her
But we both walked away.

I wonder
If she wonders.
Does she regret the goodbye?
Does she feel the pain I feel?
Is she as full of conflict as I?

My ears miss her voice.
My lips miss her kiss.
My eyes miss her presence.
My fingers miss her skin.

But I did not touch her
After goodbye.

Come To Me Again

Her hands were small
Almost tiny in mine.
When they moved on me
I was a man transfixed
In that moment.

Her eyes were flame
But not in a searing way.
They burned as does the sun
In a September sky
Generous and filled with promise.

Her lips were soft and gentle
Warm
Open
When I leaned into her.
Her mouth nourished me
With the passions of life.

Her long, auburn hair was a banner
And would shine
In the morning sun
Would luster by moonlight.
Her tresses
Would mantle me in each embrace.

To touch her was to know
The firmament of heaven
The tides of seas
The lofty climes of rare air
The purity of snows
And the musk of earth.

A man may no more keep her
As he might catch the breath of butterflies
Or the majesty of lions.

She is singular.
There is no other.
And like the amazement that comes
With undulating Auroras
I may only dream
She might come to me
Again.

The Sister of My Son*

You are my first born.
You taught me thrill
Adoration
Responsibility
And love.

Nothing on earth could touch you.
I was your protection.

I cleaned and bandaged your cuts.
I cheered your grade school performances
Your high school events
Took you on your first “date”
To teach you how boys must treat you.

I bargained for your first car
A little yellow Mustang.
I drove through a winter storm
To rescue you when it stalled
And pushed it a block
To safety
While you warmed under my heater.

I lectured you
When you selected an unworthy dating partner.
I carefully schooled the man
Who would become your husband
Before granting my blessing.

But I failed you, too.
I was absent when I should have been present.
I was harsh when I should have been gentle.
I was silent when I should have spoken
And spoke when I should have been silent.

Without discussion
You dismissed me
Withholding my precious grand daughters.
You knew precisely where to insert the blade
For maximum effect.

We have circled the sun
Time times time
Since I have seen you.
I may nevermore see you.

You were my most fond joy
But have become my greatest sorrow.

Like the Prayer of St. Francis
I learned to accept what I cannot change.
Nothing remains of you in my life.

You were once my daughter.
But by the volition of your will
You are now the sister of my son.

* Sadly, this poem is truth. I suppose I was a terrible father, being too chained to
my career. There is a price for such foolishness. Why is life most clear, viewed from
the perspective of age? My daughter is a lovely, good woman. But, like myself, will
one day see more sharply through the lens of advanced age. As for me...I seek
redemption through grace, undeserved. I held too lightly that which deserved a firm
grasp, and too tightly to that which held far less merit. Perhaps this confession
will serve as encouragement to a parent for whom the clock still ticks.

Sky Terrors*

Blood smells like copper
Death smells like wine
But there’s no smell like sorrow
Growing on vines.

It pierces my heart
Squeezes my breath
Stifles my cry
And shrouds me in death.

Gone are the children
That played on this street
Gone are the families
Gone, head, heart and feet.

Swept are their hopes
Banished their dreams
Cast off all the plans
Ripped bolts, nails and seams.

The homes are all gone
Churches gone too.
The wounded stumble about
Not knowing what to do.

Tuscaloosa,Joplin and Moore
They’re so far away.
What does it mean
At the end of the day?

The death of anyone
Diminishes me.
Our poor, ruined cities
Become a mortuary.

* This poem was originally published in May, 2011, as
Tuscaloosa and Joplin. I now update that work under this title,
following the horror that occurred in and around Moore, OK.
Having survived two relatively minor tornadoes, I cannot imagine
the fright and loss after an EF 4, or 5 tornado. My heart and
prayers go out to the people in our heartland. May a merciful,
loving God wrap them in His compassionate arms. This fallen
world subjects us all to such disasters.

Personal Note----It Hurts Sometimes

Yesterday I attended the funeral of a dear friend. Ken was 66 years young. Friday evening, while at his desk he suffered a massive heart attack and stepped into eternity. I have stared into the face of death many times. I was often present when life winked out, like the dying of an ember. When I saw Ken, the mortician had already applied his handiwork. But I gotta tell you...this death got to me. Ken and I served side by side at the police department, and together we had been through some pretty terrible things. Yesterday, looking at Ken lying in his box, I felt very alone. There is one fewer voice I loved to hear. One fewer shoulder I knew was always available to me. One less ear to listen to my confessions. One less heart to love me. Writing this, I realize how selfish this all sounds. I know I will see Ken again. I know he is okay, right now, in the arms of his Savior.

But I feel the loss of a brother right now, in this moment. And it hurts. I hate death, and look with eager anticipation to the time Death itself will die.

~~James

Post Script....Tell someone you love you love them. Tell them what they mean to you. How indispensible they are to you. How greatly you rely upon them. Do it now.

The Dream

I had a dream
Or the dream had me.
I was in shadows
Or shadows were in me.

I saw forever
Or forever saw me.
I was filled with sadness
Or sadness filled with me.

I saw my lover
Or my lover saw me.
I moved to embrace her
Or she to embrace me.

I wept when I held her
Or she wept over me.
I knew I must leave her
Or she knew she must leave me.

The dream finally ended
Or the dream ended me.
I knew the dream had gone forever
Or forever knew the dream had gone from me.