An Uncomfortable Preponderance

I remember my past
Through lense of the present
Attempting to solve the puzzle
Of whom I’ve become.
But too many pieces are missing
And I struggle to view the whole
On the basis of the part.

My mind fills in the blanks
Substituting what was
For what I wanted it to be.

What emerges is
A fanciful rendition
A romantic facsimile
Of the truth.
It’s been varnished
With enough lacquer
To make it gleam
So that anyone interested
May have a favorable opinion
Of the character
I represent.

It is an uncomfortable preponderance.
My past has made me into the man I am
And I, to return the favor
Have done the same to my past.

Monarch in Flight

I asked you once
Do you remember?
My question was
What creature are you
If you could choose one
Among all creation?

Your answer haunts me
After all these years.

You quickly answered.
I am a monarch butterfly, in flight
You said.

In the fog of enchantment
I thought your reply lovely.
I saw the magnificent color
The regal bearing
The flitting wings searching my garden.

I saw the fragility
The tender being
The tenacious freedom
In its wings of beauty and charm.

I saw it all
I thought.

But I missed one thing.

Butterflies fly away.

The Space Between the Words

We talked life’s problems
And matters of the heart
And we talked about everything
In between.

We talked about places
We’ve each been
And the beauty of the world.

But it isn’t conversation I remember.
I recall our silence best.

In the space between the words
I saw your pupils widen.
Your eyes were orbs of black
With hazel spheres.

I saw the tip of your tongue
Slipping between your strawberry lips
Like a hummingbird
Sipping nectar.

I watched your cheeks blush
Like the first glow of dawn
On a placid lake.

I watched your brow soothe
The way a cool breeze gentles fevered temples.

The warm air stirred your soft hair
The way it moves across fields of wheat.

Then we talked again.

But it is the silence I remember.

The Dollar

You don’t get all you pay for.
You never get much at all.
What little you buy goes in the kitchen
Or the bathroom, down the hall.

Your paycheck is a whisper
In a canyon of empty space
It’s a hobble down the highway
In an Indy 500 Race.

All this squabble about the dollar
And the security of Wall Street
Means little to the working man
Just trying to make ends meet.

You work one full time job
And maybe another part time gig
Hoping it’ll make a difference
But it never seems all that big.

Who knows where this is going?
Most say it’s never been this hard.
As for me, my whole retirement
Is buried in a coffee can in my backyard.

Dawgs

I love dem dawgs
Da way they howl
Love how they hunt
Run, point an’ prowl.

Ain’ nuttin’ like a dawg
To lick yur face
Slobber yur chin
Lackin’ social grace.

They wag their tails
And smell like fish
They’ll hump yur leg
And slurp yur dish.

A dawg’ll take over
Yur entire home
But’ll follow you anywhere
You ever roam.

Gimme a dawg
Any ‘ol time
Over anything else
Even my last dime.

But I gotta be honest
Though they'll win our hearts
Ain’ nuttin’ worse
Than a hound with the farts!

The River Dragon*

The locals called them
Phaya Naga
Or “River Dragons”
Balls of light
Rising gasses
Glowing above the river.
We imagined them
As images of
Approaching doom.

Fireflies above my lawn
Return me to muzzle flashes
Along the banks of the Mekong.
It was a beautiful place to die.

We were young.
Too young to take death seriously.
Dying was a slight of hand
A shell game
Played by the Reaper.

But we were sly.
Too sly to die.

Until we saw
The River Dragon.

The fireflies in my yard appear
With the same peculiar pattern
As muzzle flashes along the Mekong.
I flinch
Expecting the sear of incoming rounds
Tearing and mangling the flesh
Of my friends
Separating body from soul.

My grandchildren chase fireflies in the night
Laughing
Nets in hand
With jars to trap the flashing lights.

But I stand at a distance
Fearing
The River Dragon.



* This poem is not autobiographical
but a Memorial Day tribute to our service men and women
who gave their full measure of devotion to our country
so our children, and children's children
might chase fireflies in the night.

Yesterday’s Cry

Wind sifting prairie grasses
Sound like ocean waves lifting.

Red Wing Blackbirds
Perched atop saw grass
Have the simple regality
Of Plaines warriors.

In sun glinting
Off marsh reeds
I see the lances
Of bronzed braves.

In thunder rolling
Across endless grasslands
I hear war drums.

In millions of raised blades
The hands of the pleading
Yet call for justice
To roll like rivers.

In the emptiness of the yawning land
Time is inconsequent.

We are never far
From yesterday’s cry.

A Door That Never Opens

There should be a word
For the hollow feeling
That ferments from waiting before
A door that never opens.

There must be a way
To define
The inner ache
That grows from
A love forever gone.

It can be seen
In the vacant eyes
Of a motherless child
Or even a lost puppy.

It must be the most common
Of earthly afflictions.
It is as the flower that springs
From spilled blood
On hallowed ground.

There are no medications to prescribe
No bevy of counselors
To dull the need
The endless want.

Sunrise to sunset
Present a host of distractions…
…But an empty soul
Echoes with silence.

The Flinch and the Clench

Radio signals
TV broadcasts
And myriads of electronic fizz
Penetrate my body
Like lances, arrows and bullets
But like a corpse
I live beyond the flinch and the clench.

Billboards and advertisements
Assault my brain
Encouraging
Threatening
That minus their product
And service
My life is pointless
But I live beyond the flinch and the clench.

I am the prairie dog
Dug into the dirt
Away from predators
Secure from the shock and awe
Of life on the surface.

I question authority.
I suspect the preacher and the teacher
Insist they prove their point
Demonstrate their text by their lives.
I do not accept bumper sticker philosophy
Fortune cookie prosperity
Or text book practicality.

I blend into the background
Drawing no attention to my presence
Creating no pattern
That may signal a circling hawk, owl
Or fangs of a prowling wolf.

Words are dangerous weapons.
They can be sharply honed
To flay and sheer spirit from soul.
My scars prove the postulate.

Hide your heart.
Secret your soul.
Protect your person.
Live beyond the flinch and the clench.

Long Grass

Easing back in the long grass
She propped on an elbow
Her eyes flecked with summer
And light flashing off the pond
Like dazzling diamonds.

I handed her a sandwich.
Peeling back the wrapper
She smiled
Savoring the flavor
Of turkey on white bread.

Need flamed my blood
Just watching her.
Everything she does draws me
Like a black hole
Relentlessly
Inhaling stars.

A summer afternoon
With her
Has its own soundtrack.
I listened to the inner concert
My eyes playing over her body.
Aware of my visual foreplay
She smiled
Tongue licking a bit of mayonnaise
From the corner of her lip.

She laughed.
Her eyes now dark slits.

“Are you going to be okay?” she asked.
It was my turn to smile.
“That all depends on you.”

She lay the sandwich down.

“Come here,” she said.
“Let me show you why God made long grass.”