The Night Smell

What is that sweet
Night smell?
That midnight perfume
That rises from both lakes
And lanes?
That filters through
Window panes
And concrete walls?

It streams from farmland
And metropolis.
It rises to the stratosphere
And hovers at street level.

I drank this aroma
As an infant
At my mother’s breast.

This sweet scent issues
From shuttered depots
And all night eateries
From the back seats
Of taxies
And lingers beneath
Street lamps.

This sweet night smell
Wafts from dark fields
And breeze-rippled seas.
It moves on bird wing
And sleeps upon the dewy blade.

What is this night smell
That seems a blend
Of peace and hope?

This sweet night smell
Must be the aroma
Of life.
I cannot fix its origin
But this I know…
It rises from everything.

So Much to Fear

I was five years old
And clung to my mother’s hand
Like a wounded soldier
Clutches his crucifix.

My world was massive
And frightening.

In kindergarten
They taught me
When I saw the atomic flash
I must
Drop and Cover.

At the crossing I was to
Stop, Look and Listen.

At the street corner
I must
Look Both Ways.

Smokey said
Only I Can Prevent
Forest Fires.

Were I to catch fire
I was to
Stop, Drop and Roll.

I was warned to
Never take candy from a stranger.

From the pulpit
The preacher shouted I was
Going to hell.

President Roosevelt was wrong
In saying
All I have to fear is fear itself.

President Kennedy warned
I lived beneath a
Nuclear Sword of Damocles.

So much for a five year old to fear!
Surely the world would become more friendly
As I aged.

Not so.

All the old fears remained
And I was to learn new ones.

Just because she says
She loves me
Does not mean she does.

Just because I have a job
Does not mean
I may keep it.

Just because I do not smoke
Does not mean
I do not have cancer.

Just because I seem safe
Does not mean
I am.

Just because the dog wags its tail
Does not mean
It does not bite.

Just because I obey the traffic laws
Does not mean
A drunk driver will not kill me.

So why do they laugh when I say
I want my mommy?

Wild Horse

My heart is a wild horse
With its mane a flame
Its hoofs smoke
And its pathway ashes
Scattering trails in the wind.

I am a riderless pony
Green-broke
Near wild
And enemy to the bridle.

Do not speak to me
Of peace and safety.
These are the delusions
Of children
And old women.

Life is fury-filled
And bitter.
Life is bent
And cruel.

Try and throw
Your blanket over me
And I will stomp you.

Try and harness me
And smoke will issue
From my nostrils
And consume you.

My heart is a wild horse
With neither name
Nor paddock.
My heart is a wild horse.

Klaxons

I told her she would leave.
She looked at me
As though what I’d said
Didn’t register.

I repeated myself.

It was clear
Her failure to respond
Indicated leaving was either
A foregone conclusion
Or of no importance.

Or both.

That should have been a warning
But I wanted her so much
I was beyond weighing
The risk against the need.

Need trumps risk.
It shouldn’t.
But it does.

For a season
I drank deeply from her supply.
She seemed to move into my body
Mind
And heart.
All I saw was her.
All I craved was more of her.
I dismissed my own prophecy.

When she left
I became a miserable
Wounded
Heart-sick creature.
I squirmed like a living thing
On a spit
Roasting slowly
Unable to die.

This pain will fade
I assured myself.
Nothing can make a man
This miserable
For that long.

Foolish.

Pain does not diminish.
Pain continues.
There are no medications
That assuage heart flames.

I am growing old
In the same pain I began
When she walked away.

It’s not her fault.
I knew the truth.
Every man knows the truth.
There is only one solution…
…Be the first to walk away.

Do so the moment
Your inner alarm klaxons blare.

Alone in the World

I am alone in the world
And find this state
To be preferred.

I owe no man explanation
As to my contrary nature.

I may spit into the wind
Without discomfort
Other than my own chagrin.

I may sleep through the day
And need offer no reason
For my tardy spirit.

I may scowl without correction
Be knowingly wrong without reprimand
And grumble without cause.

I may feint to the right
And hasten left
With no pedestrian care.

I may eat considerably
Or not at all (my predilection)
With no patronizing remark.

I may cast a shadow
(Preferably into a lake)
Without notice or apology.

There is no political urgency
No familial kickstand
No gratuitous kindness
No premeditated rudeness
No romantic urgency
And no yearning for approval.

I may mix tuna in my ice cream
If I choose (which I do not).
If I desire I may wax my rental car
As ridiculous that may be.

I may curse the dark
While sitting in the light.

I may lounge the day away
In a tub of yogurt
And no one know nor care.

I may babble incomprehensibly
Snort when I laugh
And take my tea with squirrel milk
And nobody mind.

I may be thoroughly mad
(And indeed could be!)

Though not an exhaustive list
My point is made.

Being alone in the world
Offers many perks
Chief of which is being wrong.
Wrong.
Wrong.
Wrong.

And even I don't care.

Thank You.....

I had a rough few days last week, and noted that in this blog, on Wednesday. I'm still having trouble, but I'm back in the saddle. Many of you have been reading this blog since 2010.

Naturally, I don't know most of you, but it's enough to know you read my work. I don't post every comment. Those most personal I tuck in my heart, and think of you thinking of me. Thank you. Your prayers and well-wishes are very important to me.

I've had a difficult life. Who hasn't? Sometimes I hear your stories, and am amazed at your resiliency. Champions are not those who don't get knocked down. A champion is one who gets up one time more than he falls. That's the man I strive to be. I'm not being upset by a human enemy. Were that so, I could defend myself. My problem is my body has some stout mileage on it. Like you, I have scars on the outside, and the inside. Some of those scars are deep and painful. But, until the time comes I can no longer be patched up, I intend to battle on. We can do that together.

This is a good time to remind you that you can write me at Coldrainandwind@aol.com. You don't even have to tell me your name. You can remain completely anonymous. I won't pry, I promise. I'd love to hear from you. I won't turn you into a poem, or tell anybody else about you. But this can be a forum (I've said before that I imagine this a "front porch" where friends meet). If you write me, I'll respond. When you read my poetry I view it as a kindness. I think if I weren't being read I'd dry up and blow east with the "Cold Rain and Wind."

Once again...thank you for stopping by. If this is your first visit, I hope you'll come again. There's always a rocker and glass of Arkansas sweet tea ready for you. Every so often a Monarch butterfly flutters past. Maybe someday she'll stay. Never can tell, can you?

~~ James

The Arch of Years

I once measured time
In miles per hour
In the hurry and gone days
Of youth.

Those days are spent.

Now I measure time
Not by device
Whether the needle
On a dashboard
Or the hands of a clock.

How without understanding
Are numbers.

These days
Time is reckoned
By who is with me
In the cooling atmosphere
Of years.

Even the world measures time
By BC and AD
In the Presence of the One
Who created time.

I account for my days
By the hands that cover mine
By the warmth of the body beside me.

I know time
By those
Who speak kindly to me
Who know the me beneath my skin.

I value time
In the oneness of friends
The giving of lovers
The hopes of shared lives.

Even the word "watch"
Suggests a kind of tyranny
A thing that supervises
And commands us.

I have retired my time piece.
I know where I am in each day
By the transitory light
By the rhythm within my body.

When I must consult a clock
I do so reluctantly
With a sideways glance
Taking it more as an opinion
Than a declaration of fact.

I need not urge you to do the same.
You will.
When you pass ‘neath the arch of years
You will esteem time differently.
You will.

I’ll be waiting down the road.
I’m not going anywhere.
When you find me…
And you will…
Let’s let time spend us
Instead of us spending time.

It’s far better that way.

The Ice Queen

Forgive me.
I thought I knew you.
From behind
You looked just like
Someone I loved once
But that was long ago.

Forgive me.
Your hair is just like hers
Falling soft upon your shoulders
Catching the mornings rays
And casting its golden light
Back to my eyes
Exactly as does yours.

Forgive me.
You wear the same scent
And nothing is as powerful
As alluring
As that bouquet you use.
It really is jolting
I know it so well.

Forgive me.
Your lips are exactly as hers
Perfectly shaped as a small bow.
You even use the same color.
I thought I’d know them anywhere
I was so familiar with hers.

Forgive me.
You carry yourself
Just as she.
Dignity and grace mark your way
With just the touch of mystery and allure.
How could I be so mistaken?

Forgive me.
Your voice is nearly like hers
With the exception that hers
Is much warmer and inviting
Seasoned with love and passion.
In hers’ was no echo of the stranger.

Forgive me.
I must not keep you.
I truly believed I would know her
When we met again.
I believed she would be as pleased
As I
To reconnect
After all these years of trouble and dismay.

But you are not her.
I knew the moment you spoke
You could not be her.
Her countenance would not be that
Of the Ice Queen
Nor would her eyes be cold
And her face chiseled.

You could never be her.

For a Moment

There is pleasure
So intense
It stops the mind
From thinking.
A surge
So mighty
It swells the length
Of the body
In convulsive waves
Of warmth and delight.

For a moment
The heart pauses
Suspending the soul
Between the polarities
Of death and life

For a moment
The lungs
Forget breath
Holding within their flesh
The air most recently
Acquired
Eschewing exhalation.

For a moment
The whole of the body
Becomes as one nerve
One in feeling
One in delight
One in brilliance of being.

For a moment
The soul sings choruses
It will forget in seconds.

For a moment
The body
Joins with body
And the two become greater
Than their parts.
Yes!
The two...
Become!

And all we desire
Is that sparkling oneness
That arrives in burning passion
In exciting exploration
In mystical union
In profound intensity
In deep knowing
That is the very root
Of our being
Only
For a moment.

The Good Bottom Land

Great Grandfather
I was there.

The site of your homestead
In the good bottom land
Is vacant.

Remaining are the support stones
Upon which your cabin rested.
Grasses are tall
And wave in the Arkansas wind
As if to say farewell
To the sweet life once present
Near the river’s bend.

Not far are the leanings
Of your old pole barn
The last trace of the farm
You labored over
Until your last day.

Great Grandfather
The bulbs planted along
The wide front porch
Still bloom
A testament to the care
And love
You showed the land.

Great Grandfather
I will not return.
It was enough to stand
Upon the seed land
Of my genesis.

One day soon
I will see you
And the embrace we will share
Will be the fullness
Of what I went to your home site
To discover.

Great Grandfather
You are in me
As much as are those old corner stones
Those bulbs
That bottom land
The ramshackle pole barn.

Great Grandfather
I hope to make you proud.