A Bit Sad Today

Dear Readers,
I'm a grown man (a groan man, too)....but I'm an unashamed "Daddy's Boy." My pa was a WWII vet, in the ETO (some will understand), a survivor of the Bulge; a gunner in a half track nicknamed "Climax", assigned to the 2nd Armored, "Hell on Wheels" Division.
After the war, he often worked from dawn to far beyond dark to feed and clothe his small family. I always wanted to be like my dad. I am not. Not even a little. But my dad is my hero. I have one of his dog tags dangling from the mirror of my big, red Ram. My little brother has the other.
This is my dad's 94th birthday, though I lost him in his 80th. His absence pains me even now. I dream of him regularly, though he never talks...just like real life.
So, as the rain weeps beyond my window, I weep beyond his touch. I guess I just needed to release this to the universe today.

Thanks for reading....james

What I Pen

Words are living
And never sleep
They work my heart
And make me weep.

Oh, precious Lord
Look to my soul
Help me write
To let it go.

Be still, my heart
Take a deep breath
That words may live
Long after death.

I cannot know
Nor do I see
How what I pen
Follows me.

Mercy Flows

Burning
Sharp pain
Stabs my body
In morning’s pale light
And I whimper
Into my pillow
Unwilling to set my feet
To the floor.

But I do.

Pressure
Against my sternum
Sucks the breath
From my lungs
And
For a moment
The world tears loose
Spinning and somersaulting.

Pouring a cocktail
Of little pills
Into a palm
I choke them down
Without water
Unwilling
To take time
To travel to the faucet.

I am intimate with pain.
I know I am not alone.
But it is for myself I groan.

I have stopped begging God
For commutation
From this life sentence.
Instead
I acknowledge
The wretched thief, liar
And hypocrite
I am
Struggling toward Golgotha
Knowing mercy flows there.

I Remember

I am dizzy with memory
Of old Arkansas
Its tumble-down dwellings
Where share croppers
Scratched an existence
Beside wives with bursting bellies
And necks scalded
By unrelenting suns.

The St. Francis
Bursts it banks every year
‘Bout this time
Carving its record of loss
In ledgers of vanished cotton
And lives hauled and thrown
Upon the mercy of land owners
And loan officers
Who drank from silver flasks
And grinned at what they would prize
From those who had nothing to pay.

I remember.

Tributaries of water snaked white fields
Bridged by coarse planking
With no rails.
Rattley old sedans
With bald tires
Raised red dust
To stain the blue sky
The way grey cavalry did
A generation ago.

I remember.

Wide front porches
Gave air
To old women
Whose hands split
Snap beans
For supper
With corn bread
And slabs of pork
Gathered from the smoke house.

Yes, I remember.

The preacher is coming to table
Next Sabbath.
The wash is waving in the
Hot wind
The way red battle flags
Slapped the air
With their blue cross
Inset by white stars
And didn’t every home
Set an empty plate
Even now?

I remember.

Concrete walks
Cracked and raised
By the roots of trees
More’n a century old
Line dirt streets.
Four blocks down
The business district lacks
Traffic
In its pull-in parking places
Where the barber
Leans against his stripped pole
His east wall
Featuring a ghost sign
Urging readers
To try Dr. Pepper
At 10, 2 and 4.

Yes, I remember.

I remember the grave yard
With sun-bleached stones dim and tilting
And dad’s stern lecture
To not bury him in a grave
Down where the water pooled
In spring rains.

I remember corner street lights
Charming thousands
Of buzzing and clacking insects
In glaring brilliance.
I remember mosquitoes and june bugs
Splayed across split windscreens
Headlamps and pitted chrome grills
Of dusty cars.
I remember screeching springs
Of front screen doors
And warped floor boards
Of wide porches
Where men whittled
Smoked and lied
While the women did the dishes
Quietly groaning about their men.

I remember I am torn
From this canvas
And part of the joy and pain
Of families riveted
By the blood of generations
Of pride born
From suffering
And weary labor
Of amazing grace
Linked by the desire
To be free
And to drop one’s head
Each night
On clean pillow cases
And suck in the balmy night air
Of old Arkansas.

Yes.
I remember.

The Rider

Something happens to a man
In the shadows.
The hoof beats of generations
Announce themselves
And the leaded quirt
Of taskmasters
Beat the heart and passion
From the breast.

Even darkness cannot cover
The tears of centuries.
Moral breeding
Calls a man to arise
And see beyond the neon truths
The ad mans’ lies
And smiling bait.

Halting in the shadowed road
Is the rider
Demanding answer.

For whom do ye ride?
Upon what business are ye?
He calls for reply.
Time for reflection is done.
Answer must be timely and true.

I ride for honesty
And my business is posterity.

The rider emerges
From the shadows
Eyes burning
His boots anchored
In brass stirrups
The mane of his horse
Flashing lightening
Whose nostrils snort thunder.

Ye best be, boy
Says he.
Ye best be.

I tremble in my shoes.
Even night shade cannot hide
The issues of the heart.

The Air Tonight

Tonight the air is fragile
As though I might shatter
All the tiny floating ice crystals
With a whispered word
The fragments falling as shards
At my feet
Small bits of vocabulary.

There is a bright sheen
In the air tonight.
It feels clean and brilliant
Like there were never curses uttered
To soil this atmosphere
And I wonder
Was the air of Eden
This sweet?

Tonight my breath
Joins the exhalation of the earth
And I feel bonded
To that which continues
Extends beyond the moment
Past this beat of my heart.

There is peace in the air tonight
As though every human hope
And expectation
Has already been met
And there is nothing remaining
But joy
Nothing left but hope.

I want to drink this air
As the breath of life
Sip this air
Like the sweetest wine
And let it work its glow in me.

Affliction

The stars tonight
Are impossibly distant
Like pin pricks of alarm.

Even the moon appears
Bleached and sterile.
The universe is lifeless tonight.

But this is affliction.

Jags of apprehension
Weigh upon me.
Through these lenses
Life is not warm
Attractive and seductive.

I have learned measures
Of survival.
I tuck my head
Not looking to the stars
That on other occasions
Charm me
With kind pleasure.

Tonight I bridle my horizons
And bundle
In the familiar.

I quiet myself
Restrain discourse and company.
I content myself
With rudimentary pleasures.
Tender breath
Delights
On nights of burden.

The stars must keep their counsel
And I will keep mine.

There will be better nights
Once I loose my horizons
To gather the light
I now lock tight.

Chalky

The moon rose
Last night
A pale orange
Above fields
Corduroyed
By harvest
The barren
Earth
Then turned under
By plow.

I watched the blemished orb rise
Seemingly smaller
And chalky
As it slowly climbed
For altitude.

Leaning against cold brick
I thought how I’d become
More distant
Chalky
In her memory.

I swallowed a pain pill
Waiting for its warmth
And artificial sense
Of well-being
To settle me
Center me
In the moment I was in
Giving my pain
To the night.

Before long
All the time
I was with her
Grew increasingly remote
Chalky
And I began to see my life
As fields, harvested
Turned by the plow
Waiting for a season
Of planting
When winter is done.

There Comes a Time

There comes a time
When the memory of a love
Is no longer as strong
Or alluring.

A time
When the color
Of a lover’s eyes
Fade in their gleam.

A time
When a lover’s hair
Is neither as fragrant
Or shimmering.

A time
When a lover’s kiss
Is no longer remembered
For its fire and sizzle.

A time
When a lover’s body
Is no longer remembered
For its mysteries and pleasures.

But when that may happen
My dear, I cannot know.
Because time has failed to dilute
The memory of you.

A Bright Dawn

Were the past something
I could sever
Or remove
As a threadbare coat
I would.

But the past is never past.
Indeed
The past is ever present.

I remain attached
To the most painful
The most toxic part
Of my inner being.

So I war with myself
Trying always
And fervently
To not be known
For my most ignoble
Moment.

I bear my guilt
Like a corpse
Lashed to my back.

I speak grandly
Of fidelity
Integrity
Loyalty
But my old man within
Bears testimony
Against me.

Oh, were I able
To distance myself
From myself
I would think this life
Gracious and kind.
But I stand a prisoner
In a universe of prisoners
All talking nobly of freedom
No one
Ever
Having been
Free.

Yet
There may be hope
For the leery and the weary
On a bright dawn
Of a new day
When the truth
Shall set us free.