Ready for the Lacquer 

The veins in my hands

Are blue-line highways.

The timepiece on my wrist

Will endure

Long after the bones beneath

Lie in gloom and dust.

 

The flag I now salute

Will add stars to its constellation

Long after those I know by heart

Are lost to memory.

 

Those who find my marker

Cannot know my love

For cherry pie

Baseball

Bright red pickup trucks

And dark silken hair cascading

Like waterfalls

Around soft shoulders.

Even if they did

What profit is there to the sleeper

Or the waked?

 

Even now the tree

From which they make my

Future container

May have been cut, planed and sanded

Ready for the lacquer.

 

That is as it should be.

One more trip around the sun

May exact more toll

Than I am prepared to pay.

 

My body has served me well

In its course of years.

It is good to not step a moment

Beyond that which will

Gather me to my fathers.

 

For everything there is a season

And a time to every purpose

Under Heaven.

 

The Plow and the Reaper

Moonlight on the wide prairie

Lightly kissed the perfectly still wheat land.

Preternatural powder

Had fallen as snow.

In the distance farm houses glowed

From within.

Brilliant security lights blazed

Illuminating barns and outbuildings

Like sanctuaries of humanity

In starlit seas.

 

Silent in the midnight sky

A New Corn Moon

Settled in the palms of the Milky Way

Promising the eagerly hoped-for harvest.

 

A chill climbed my back

Spreading into the ladder

Of my ribs and chest

Settling below my sternum.

 

Who am I that this sacred mystery

Should embrace me here?

Neither friend nor lover

Has touched me as did this moment.

 

In the gasp of a spinning atom

I felt, all at once, the wink

Of the Divine.

 

In my body is the promise of generations.

The blend of my planting

With the seed of my sowing

Future eyes will open to this amazing mystery.

 

Other New Corn Moons will illumine children

Grandchildren, and their children

Warming their now un-birthed bodies

Whispering into their yet un-opened ears

The holy secret.

The secret that knows no words

Lives beyond nouns and verbs

Without structure

Yet strong with hope

Widely smiling at both

The coming of the plow

And the gathering of the reaper.

A Note for my faithful few...

I have been resting in  the silence of summer heat, listening to the universe and the cadence of my own heart. Something will bud soon (a belated spring time) and I will return to more purposeful writing. Please wait for me. I believe it will be worth your patience. 

~ James

I'm On This Road*

This road doesn't bend often.

Mostly, it runs straight and true.

Therein lies the problem...

Consistency can be as bad

As it may be good.

Constancy lulls me to sleep

Thinking there are no surprises ahead.

No challenges or dangers.

This is, of course, a lie.

Breakdowns happen on straight roads

As much as on curves.

They occur as certain on level terrain

As mountainous inclines.

Perhaps the help lies in that 

Old Scout adage...

Be Prepared.

But a road that pretends

360 degrees visibility is likely 

More dangerous than any other.

We fall asleep at the wheel.

But I can promise you

With full assurance

That trouble awaits 

Each of us.

Before you damn me

As a negative spirit

Or false prophet

I offer this single truth

In my defense

And I pose it as a question...

Who do you want on your side

The liar who steadily grins 😁

Or the one who prods you

Into wakefulness? 👀

Maybe all is well.

But maybe the bridge is out ahead. 💥

Which friend will help you to

Safely arrive at home? 👌

Heads up, my friend.

(Jesus) ☝

Make wise choices.

(Jesus) 👆

Well considered actions.

(Jesus) 👼

Be careful out there. 💀

Sometimes, the choice you make

Is the last choice you will ever make. 👻

* I do not offer this as a poem, but as a heartfelt caution. These are perilous times. Too many guns. Too many drugs. Too many distractions. Too many lies and false promises. Only the very alert will overcome these tremulous days. I hope you are one of those. But the "herd" is being culled. Stay awake, stay aware, and for God's sake, stay ALIVE! 

 Dear Readers,

I am compiling around 50-60 of my favorite love poems to be assembled in a book of poetry I hope to publish. As I comb through 11 years of entries (and 40 years of writing!) I find I love far fewer than I had hoped. If you find one or two, or so, you like, please tell me which they are by leaving  a comment following this post. I'm "all ears" to discover your selection(s).  I hope somebody...anybody...has some favorites!

~~ James  (My Favorite? RED BALLOON ======>🎈)

Names

Limestone Names

Walking cemetery rows
I read aloud names etched
In limestone.
So many silent sentinels
Standing a century
As a stubborn footnote
To local history.

Names left unsaid for ten decades

Or longer

Unpronounced and forgotten.
So, I speak their names
Into the air.
The syllables and phonics rise
Like prayer
Heard only by God.

I imagine their spirits

Smile in thanks
Happy for so little.

Of course, I am imagining this.
Imagining they hear
That they care
That it was important to them
That the universe missed them
That it feels good to be remembered
Even to the dead.

Some leave flowers.

Some leave flags.
Most just leave.

I leave the vibration of names.

Hush...Be Still

There is a voice

in the wind

so low and distant

it may never be

heard.

most do not listen

being distracted 

by the

drum and scrape of

cities

by the 

lure of 

highways

by the 
distraction of cell phones

and the

seductions and enticements
of life.

the voice does not
address the ear
but the heart.
it is an acquired voice
that is not shy with time
or reluctant to speak
in simple ways
those pompous
lofty hearts
surely miss.

but hush...

be still...

and you will hear the voice...

the small and gentle

voice...

calling... 

calling...

inviting you to join your heart

to the horizon.

to the endless

shimmering 

horizon. 

Master of the Obvious...#85 

The footprints you follow trend upwards and converge at a distant point on the horizon. And therein lies the danger.

 The Thinnest Membrane *

Midnight swallowed time

as I drove through New Mexico.

The vented window hissed 

streaming air

and I imagined

all the sleeping serpents

beneath that cold, full, desert moon.

The radio was nothing but white noise.

Was that my imagination

or was I hearing the muffled thunder

of hundreds 

of pony hooves

just out of sight

wending through caprocks and arroyos? 

Did I just hear the piercing scream

of a cavalry bugle 

and the rattle of breech loaders

sounding like ripping fabric?

Were those ghost riders flashing

in western sheet lightening

a hundred miles distant

among towering thunderheads?

Walden wrote

"Time is the river I go fishing in."

Perhaps the single difference

between the painted war ponies

between the yellow kerchiefed blue jackets and me

is our means of conveyance.

All things being equal

I prefer this empty highway 

and the rumble of my engine.

A thermos of stout

black coffee rests in the floorboard

in front of my passenger seat.

It's time for a roadside pit stop 

some blended bean

and a shake or two of my weary head.

That's when I heard the clear wail

of a wolf

just beyond the headlights 

of my pony car.

Be cautious as you venture

between the panorama of your imagination

and mystic veil of time.

There is the thinnest membrane between yesterday and you.

*From a memorable night trip in April, 1990

 Master of the Obvious...#84

The chief benefit of age is the joy of reviewing memories in the full light of day.