Some October

Wandering the ancient graveyard

I was a soul seeking flesh
albeit moldering.
Names faint as spirits
pled for mortal tongue 
to voice the forgotten syllables
without which they perish.

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF ALISON 
WIFE TO SEBASTIAN KOCH
AGED 27 YEARS 3 MONTHS 2 WEEKS 4 DAYS
DIED SEPTEMBER 6 1864
'
I feel Alison's grateful smile.
Limestone markers tilt at odd angles
many hopelessly illegible.
Others are broken off
leaving the impression of broken teeth.
No cheer in this half acre
only the suggestion of unremembered lives
tangled among the roots of
wildwood and sour apple trees.
I whisper names into the bracing autumn wind
hoping to offer temporary balm
to ethereal want.
Some October, years hence
perhaps a kind pilgrim will step
within my half acre home
and gift to my bones
the gentle voicing of my name
and within the soil of  my sleep
I will smile, too.

Master of the Obvious...#72

Never turn your back on a who always smiles.

Master of the Obvious...#71

Writing is the process of opening a vein and bleeding ink.

Through much bramble

Through much bramble

With these hands 
I have caressed you. 
With these ears
I have heard you.
With this body
I have joined you.

With all I have
I offer you...

...the breath
from my lungs
and the swift
from my feet

...the speech
from my tongue
and the kiss
from my lips.

...the strength
from my loins
and the knowledge
from my mind.

Our souls have we twined
and we are, this day
and forever one.

Our path winds 
through much bramble
through leaden skies
and wind swept days.
But our fires burn
in the veil of night
yellow orange 
and hot.

Tonight, lay with me
and tomorrow lace your boots
and walk with me
on the blade between
night and day
between the seen and unseen
between have and have not
between peace and conflict
between molten and ice.

Here we stand.
Take my hand. 
Wear my band
and accompany me
into this good land.

Master of the Obvious ....#70

If you can write without pain in your chest, you ain't writing.

Master of the Obvious...#69

When a dog growls at you, he's probably telling you all the truth you require.

Master of the Obvious....#68

Never chase a mad dog down a blind ally.

Fire in the Sky

Through the Burn

I was a kid.

What did I know?

It was the 4th of July.
My brother and I wanted to go
to that night's fireworks
in town.

I pestered dad all day
but never got any reply.
The closer it came to dark
the more quiet
the more sullen
dad became.

This was wholly unlike him.

But I persisted
notching up my plea 
by the minute.

The standoff ended in the kitchen.

He was strangely bent and bowed
and had his fill of my persistence.
Dad lit an entire book of matches.
They flared with alarming menace.

There's your damn fireworks! he said
throwing the flame into the sink.
Sulfur hung in the air.
That moment chars my memory yet.
 
He did a quick about face
disappearing down the hall
into his room
slamming the door.

I was hurt.
Stunned.
Confused.
I'd never seen dad like this
and it was because
I'd pushed him over some invisible chasm
I could not understand.

That unspoken guilt festered in me
a very long time.

Two decades passed before it came to me
what he was experiencing.

I demanded bright fire in the sky.
Fierce, deafening bursts
burning rainbows, sparking explosions.
It was simple.

But dad was seeing German 88's.
Flashing powder.
The stench of burnt cordite. 
The shattered bodies of his friends
sliced and diced.
Some screaming 
begging God
for their next heart beat.

Crying for their mothers.
Explosions in the treetops 
jetting metal shards and lethal splinters
into the huddled boys below. 
An effusion of blood
as vivid as the blossoming 
independence day celebration I craved.

Dad and I never discussed it
until four decades passed.
All the heartache poured out 
in the dim light of one particular dusk.
Once more it was just dad and I
accompanied by the haunting of
young friends 
who never returned
whose bodies moldered 
in French, Belgium and German soil.

Fireworks are sometimes distant from
the splash of a summer night.

Sometimes they are the gateway
into the belly of hell
and the furnace of swift death.  

The naivety of youth dissolves
into the warm blood of terror.

His body clung to mine

and together we wept 

for the past and the present

through the burn of the setting sun.

Master of the Obvious ...#67

The sun is truly setting when small men cast large shadows. 
 (Not original to me, but it's worth sharing. Not that I'm always worth sharing, either!)

Please Pardon my Dust During Renovation!

Nineteen years installed behind a cheap, artificial laminate top, WestCo office desk does not a career make. That's something the potential employee is expected to tote along with him, like overstuffed tarps of cotton. And I've been hauling that tote sack full of years for nearly two decades. If you add on all the sundry careers I balanced, one atop the other, I'd be looking down the barrel of 91 years of service. I do not believe in part time pastors, only in part time pay. 

I have stood between monsters and their intended victims. I have stood in the blade sites of three handguns and one 12 gauge packed with solid shot. I have talked three back from the ledge. I have spoken to as few as three, and as many as 3,000. I have followed and I have led. I have destroyed one home, and nearly two, believing devotion required a servant to tread the days on the thin edge of perpetual sacrifice. I can make you laugh, and I can make you cry. I have more friends in heaven than earth.  

This year is my magic number: 66. I may now collect my monthly  Social Security check. That, with my church check, and a small Army pension, will allow me just enough to pay my rent, utilities, gas for my Ram, and an occasional Rosati's Pizza. 

I am content. The Bible encourages this, with; Godliness with contentment is great gain. I have no need that God has not already provided, or has laid up for me in Heaven. 

So...19 and one third years, sitting behind this raggedy old desk, doing all I can to fill common, or extraordinary needs. I've helped families of refugees settle in, and provided one man a way out of Dodge before his future became his past.

Monday, June 15, 2020 is my last day behind this old desk. It's been a good run. I was blessed to do this work. But now I must hurry to create another model of myself. We constantly evolve into the next good version of ourselves. For me, it'll be James 2.0, in 2020. I have no clue what I'll be. But I will be something. Stick around. I'll figure this out, but I have already purchased all I need for a podcast! One more thing...I intend to finish my book I've slaved over for 20 plus years. I've written it countless times.  The first, trial edition did not even have a sub-plot. What did I know? Every time I write this story the characters become more real. By this time, Albert Todd and I will meet downriver at  a nice, small Diner. Then he can tell me all he did and how he escaped every fiends dirty hands!  Hornet's Nest....coming soon to a bookstore near you.