The Gift

She came to me laughing
Her hair gleaming
In the ambient light
Of the lengthening day.

She gave herself to me tenderly
Opening her heart
Before her body.

I received her
As sacrament
As bread and wine
Renewal for my soul.

She was my teacher
Showing me the worth
Of my being.

I was a spirit
In dry places
Homeless in my heart.

She changed that.

Looking back
From where I now stand
I view the gift
I was given.

At the time I thought it was her love.

But now I know
It was my life.

Declaration ‘11

In an hour
The numbers advance.
Up to now I’ve seen them
As mile markers
Of territory past.
Hereon the numbers will represent
Distance remaining.

I am lightening my load
Releasing old ties
Taking the measure of the man.

It’s time to sweep my soul.
Take out the trash.

Refit.

I have drawn a line in the sand.
To step beyond it
Is to enter a new dimension
A new relationship
With myself.

I have determined
To express my soul
To issue orders to
My own heart.

I have lived long enough to know
I cannot change anything
Or anyone
But myself.

My soul is open for business
During remodeling.

Pardon my dust.

Tell Me, Please

I wonder
Does anyone celebrate your breath
Rising like steam
Into January nights?

Is there another
To joy
At the rise and fall
Of your breasts, as you lay sleeping?

Does anyone stop
What they’re doing
To watch you
Towel dry?

Is there a mind
That drifts
Like timber in a stream
Toward imaginations of you?

Is there a throat
To sing of your glory
Before the admiring stars
In crisp, midnight skies?

Is there a lover
Straining to hear your
Faintest whisper
Your most heartfelt prayer?

Love is rare
And holy
And given only to those
With quivering hearts.

Is there one?
Tell me, please.
Because love like this
Comes but once.

Spanish is the Lovin' Tongue

Sometimes the lyrics of songs stir me so much there is nothing to do but post them. I wish it were possible to include the melody. All I can do is encourage you to listen to Michael Martin Murphy's rendition on his Cowboy Songs cd, from 1990. A little Tequila might help set the mood.
I wish I'd penned this song. Regardless of it's author, and despite the locale in which it is set, I've lived its theme.
Every man likely has, in memory, the face of one who couldn't "cross the border" with him. You'll meet her again in:
Spanish is the Lovin' Tongue

Spanish is the loving tongue,
Soft as music, light as spray:
'Twas a girl I learned it from,
Living down Sonora way.
I don't look much like a lover,
Yet I say her love words over,
Often when I'm all alone --
"Mi amor, mi corazón."
Nights when she knew where I'd ride
She would listen for my spurs,
Fling the big door open wide,
Raise them laughin' eyes of hers;
And my heart would nigh stop beating
When I heard her tender greeting,
Whispered soft for me alone --
"Mi amor, mi corazón."

Moonlight in the patio,
Old Senora nodding near,
Me and Juana talking low
So the Madre couldn't hear;
How those hours would go a-flyin'!
And too soon I'd hear her sighin'
In her little sorry tone --
"Adios, mi corazón!"

But one time I had to fly
For a foolish gamblin' fight,
And we said a swift goodbye
In that black unlucky night.
When I'd loosed her arms from clingin'
With her words the hoofs kept ringin'
As I galloped north alone --
"Adios, mi corazón!"

Never seen her since that night --
I can't cross the Line, you know.
She was "Mex" and I was white;
Like as not it's better so.
Yet I've always sort of missed her
Since that last wild night I kissed her;
Left her heart and lost my own --
"Adios, mi corazón!"

Reasoning With Shadows

I have waited many years
Hoping for word
From you.

Every day and every night
Empty skies
Starred at me.

And still I waited.

I consulted with myself:
You were angry
Hurt
You despaired.

I tried to imagine
You happy.
I wanted to think
You were well and whole.

Why reason with shadows?

I pushed down the memories
Shoving them into
Dark corners.

But they returned
Like a swelling tide.

Images of you haunted me
Chased me from room
To room
You were there
On the roadside
There
In the shops
Everywhere I was
You were, too.

But you were always mute.

Uncommunicative in word
And cold in action.
I waited for a bottle to wash ashore
With a note enclosed
A star to streak the night sky
A yellowed letter
Arriving impossibly late
Something to tell me
You remembered.

Until word comes
I wear sorrow
Like a coat
Eat sadness
Like bread
My drink is bitter
And my skies are bronze
All for the want of you.

The Day is Done

In my humble opinion, the following classic from Longfellow
is the best poem ever written. Many thousands will disagree
with me, and all with well-founded arguments. But this poem
speaks to me. It has for many years. It is the only poem I
have ever troubled myself to memorize. Perhaps the reason I
love it so is because Henry Wadsworth was actually writing
about me. I may be the "humbler poet" whom he referenced.
I am, at least, one of the many he had in mind.

I hope The Day is Done speaks to you as it does me.

THE DAY is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me
That my soul cannot resist:

A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.

Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time.

For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life's endless toil and endeavor;
And to-night I long for rest.

Read from some humbler poet,
Whose songs gushed from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start;

Who, through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume
The poem of thy choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares, that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.

Beneath The Guns

Lion's roar and flame of hell,
Smoke from a dozen suns,
Volcanic tremors, belching death,
All meet beneath the guns.

Launching shells and trails of fire
Fill the summer sky.
Far downrange, embracing earth,
The sons of mothers die.

Cannon blast and hell on wheels
Export a murderous fate.
Lifting fields with demon breath,
Salvation comes too late.

A soldier, young and soon to die,
Forgets his mother's face.
Steel splinters, sharp and heated red,
Cover him as lace.

No man was born, or raised for this,
As fodder for the maw;
Gentle little baby boys,
Now bleeding meat, and raw.

O! My sweet Lord Jesus!
Is it possible to forgive the ones
Who brought us to this place,
'Neath the shadow of the guns?

Simplicity

It’s the light touch
That communicates.

The brush of a fingertip
Along an arm
Back of the hand
Stroked gently across a cheek
An arm loosely around the waist.

Without tender
All else is biology.

Let words be few
And all under two syllables.
Love’s language
Is best expressed
In quiet breath
The exhalation
Of abated passion.

Love is simplicity.

It’s the power of the pulse
Flitter of the lashes
Sparkle of the iris
Urgency deferred
Giving love’s flavor
Time to steep.

Love is balanced
By friendship
And passion tempered
By grace
When gentleness is strength.

No One Hears

There is a silence
Unimaginable.
Wind gusts
Across endless prairie
Grasses
Howling above frothing seas
Belching volcanic gasses
Bloom into cold atmosphere
And no one hears

The distant lunarscape
Is host to cosmic
Symphonies
Acting as anvil
To the hammer
Of shattering orbs
Singing its wild opus
In eternal journey
And no one hears.

Deep in ocean trenches
Magnificent beasts
Roll and pump
Mighty muscles
In feeding frenzies
Breaching the surface
To pound explosively
Back into the sea
And no one hears.

In the early hours
As eastern skies blush
With the rose of morning
I tumble in the sheets
Displaced by pain
That holds me hostage
Choking back the howl
Bursting my lungs…

…and no one hears.

Your Song

I will write you a song
Bright as your summer eyes
As airy as your wind-swept hair
Streaming like castle banners
Down your sloping shoulders.

Your voice is the melody
Dreamy and sleepy
Blending tones of urgency and desire
With plaintive, casual conversations
Punctuated by notes of laughter.

Beneath the air
Your heartbeat thrums
The bass line
Hot and wet
And deep as an August noon.

Your song will be crystal
Ringing high notes
Lofty as starry skies
Clear as mountain streams
Fragrant as garden mint.

I will write you a song
Penned in the indelible ink
Of passion
Waning and waxing
Like midnight seas.

The anthem of our union
Your song
Is the opus
Of your breath
Exhaled as the composition
Of pure need.

But for a moment, darling
Hush.

Let stillness
Be our audience.

In a moment
We will fill the air
With music
And song will rain down
As manna and quail

When I write your song.

Song of Contentment

Give me
A mound of wheat
Boardered by lilies
As
All the botany
I require.

Border this beauty
Between
Ivory towers

Fragrance it
With the musk
Of earth.

Flavor it
With sweetest
Honey
Dripping from
The honeycomb.

Sate me
With a goblet
Perfectly formed
Filled with
Mixed wine.

Grant me the vision
Of twin fawns
And sparkling pools
Which hold me
Enraptured
Evermore

And I shall sing contentment.

Unspoken

Things unspoken
Are often deeper
Than the ability
To express.

Phonics are no match
For the rumblings
Of a true heart.

These messages
Communicate
In twin flames:

The eyes
Are the transmitters
Along which
Real emotions course.
When connected
Between sender
And receiver
There is a surge
Pure and mighty.

When lovers eyes
Are seperated by distance
Or dimmed beyond reception
The cosmic atmosphere
Charges
With the truth
Broadcast
Clear channel
By memory alone.

Love is the power
Of creation
The order of the universe
And profoundly understood
In the most simple of ways…

And wordless all.

In the Gazebo

We sat in the gazebo
On the city square
Rain falling
In an all-day
Soaker
But we were oblivious
Each charmed by the company
Of the other.

Passersby hurried
With umbrellas
Or newspapers
Lifted above their heads.

The pooling rain
Erupted into tiny geysers.

We spoke of family
Dreams of the future
Hopes for the present
All falling between us
Pooling and erupting
Like rain
Time passing
Like pedestrians
Fleeing the mizzle.

Sequestered by the weather
Nobody willing or wanting
To share the space we occupied
The hours passed
Until the day’s color
Faded to monochrome
With the early setting
Of the autumn sun
Beyond the thickening clouds.

Nothing came of the dreams
Like the rain
Running down gutters
Into streams
Toward rivers
To the sea.

Rains fall
Days fade
Rivers run
And dreams flee.

But memories pool.

First Fruits

The summer before my first car
Thinking myself grown
I walked Lori
Under the fingernail moon
Talking the generalities of life
Trying out my new-found language
Experimenting with its power

Contemplating how to get her
Into the deepest shades of night.

I never was successful.
Not with Lori.

But every rocket
Needs a launching pad
And she was mine.

I gave Lori my heart
Mistaking it for another
Organ.

While vacationing
With my family
I bought her a
Heart-shaped necklace
As testament to my affection
(And adolescent horniness).

Running to her house
As soon as we made it home
I was shocked
Stunned
(Castrated)
To discover
Lori had
Moved.

Without a word of
Farewell
Or forwarding address.

Throwing the necklace in my drawer
It lay beneath my socks
The way her memory
Lay beneath my heart.

I finally threw the necklace away...
A kind of
First fruits
Of things
Lost
When I learned
Love
Is less about what is gained
Than it is
About things
Bundled
In the tangle
Of sock drawers.

Staring at Ghosts

I am never completely detached
From those who have left.

I think I’ve made peace
Closed the chapter
Moved on
Consigned the relationship
To the tomb
Removed it as far as east is from west
Buried it in the deepest of seas
To be remembered no more.

Such is not the case.

Names...
(Unuttered by my lips
Yellowed with the paper
Upon which they are printed)
Linger.

Feelings long thought numb
Lie just under the surface
And with little provocation
Emerge into bright daylight
Leaving me without a clue
On how to handle them.

But I have learned one thing…
It is not necessary to stand around
Staring at ghosts.
They won’t communicate anyway
So there is no margin trying.

Take up smoking.
Have sex.
Read the obituaries.
Rotate your tires.
Mow the lawn.
Do anything, except look heartache in the eye.

Trust me on this.

A Flat Rock

I don’t want a rocker
A lounge chair
Or sofa.

I don’t need
A soft place to sit
Or lay my body down.

I need a good
Flat rock.

A place to sit
Think
Watch the clouds drift
As shadows creep
From blade to blade.

I need a rock
Near a creek
To watch the fish jump
And dragonflies flit.

I want a rock
Born from the womb of deep cauldrons
When mastodons patrolled.

I want to anchor my thoughts
To things earthy
Terrestrial
Formed by the whisper
Of God.

I need connection
To what came before
And will remain.
A rock that seated
A French explorer
A Native American
A frontiersman
A little boy with a cane pole.

I want to sit in the front row
Near the stage
Where everything happened
And is happening still.

If I can find that rock
I bet I can also discover
The most important thing happening
Is within myself.

Eye To the Keyhole

I miss the stars.

Above Chicago
The night sky is a milky wash.

High overhead, landing lights
Of airliners
Form a bright staircase.
But they are no substitute
For the Hunter
The Bear
The Pleiades
Or Seven Sisters.

As a boy In the country
I scanned the skies
With a Sears telescope
Growing familiar with
The Milky Way.

An occasional satellite tracked a path
Across the deep black of space
And I marveled
At the glory above me.

Omega Centauri
Pulsars, Quasars and Black Holes
Tantalized my imagination
And I gave my wonder freedom to roam
My eye to the keyhole of God’s house.

The unclouded moon
Was my pale companion
A source of inspiration
The collecter of wishes.

I memorized creation
The way others charted
Earned Run Averages
And the developing body
Of the girl next door.
I communed with the cosmos
Until mom called me in.

Now, the sweetness
And charm of the celestial
Is dismissed
In the muck of city lights
And little boys are abandoned
To the lights of video games.

I miss the stars.

Mostly

I am hungry
For laughter
The lightness of bearing
Induced not by the comic
But the incredulous.

I need a transplant
A swap
Of that which
Weighs upon me
For that which transcends.

I want to float along the ceiling
Drift with clouds
And clap with the lifting seas.

I have to turn from the tragic
Toward hope
That lilts, sighs and laughs
Like distant pipes
Across green hills.

I want to breech my spirit
With whales, along the California coast
Loop like a bi-plane
Slide into home plate
Spike the ball in the end zone
I want to kiss the homecoming queen
Breathe deeply the rain-washed air
Be the Grand Master of the 4th of July parade
Take a bow at Radio City Music Hall
Feel the awe of the colors of Monet
But mostly….

Mostly, I want to laugh.

The Image

Your bleary eyes shine
From 1941
Your smile a blend
Of booze
And the camaraderie
Of soldiers.

You had yet to hear
The thunder of artillery
The tattoo of gunfire
Or the scream of dying friends.

You would see nights
Strobbed with
Concussive shocks
And fear, bitter
In the back of your throat.

That smile
So freely worn
In your browning image
Would be little used
Until your boots
Again touched Arkansas soil.

You are a decade gone
Yet I still see
Your fatherly grin
Feel your calloused hands
On my boyish shoulders.

But I see in your image
The youthful spirit
Of a man who believed
In the possibility of hope
And the triumph of the spirit.

Booze and camaraderie
Notwithstanding.

Phantom

I thought I’d buried you
Interred you in the clay
Of years
The residue of things
Best left undisturbed.

But you live.

Your image shimmers
Before me
In remembrances
Of seasons
Of warm suns
And falling leaves
In November winds.

I have carried you
Across labyrinthine years
To this lonely place
Where I lay you down
Beside me
To remember
The sacred times.

How amazed I am
You still live
Breath matching breath
Your rosy cheeks alive
With the luster of love.

But I know you are a phantom
Of that which was
And will never again be.

This is a good place
And this a rich soil
That could hold you
In its firm embrace.

Follow me no longer.
Stay on this hill.

But I know I will see you
Beyond the road’s curve
At the far horizon.

You live still.

Desperation

She smoothed the rumpled sheet
And fluffed the pillow
Restoring the bed
To its
Never been loved-in
Condition.

It was so easy.
Nothing to it.
No traces remained
Of her infidelity
Nothing to indicate
The activities of the afternoon.

She would make dinner
And listen
While her husband complained
Of his stupid boss
And the litany
Of unfair corporate policies.

The baby would stir her hands
Through the pudding
While her husband droned on
With cheese sauce on his chin
Clumsily re-telling the dirty joke
His cube mate told at lunch.

She would sit in the wing back
In the corner
And watch him watch basketball
Groaning and moaning
Sometimes cheering
At the figures on the flat screen.

The baby would need a bath
The bed-time ritual would repeat
While her husband leaned toward
His fifty two inch flat screen
Spilling beer and profanity
Onto her Berber carpet.

She would turn back the covers
Sliding between the sheets
His scent on the pillow
She could inhale him
And weep as she considered
The depth of her despair.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way.
She had it all planned out.
She once loved her husband
Or the man he used to be
But desperation changes things
Changes everything.

All she knows is
When he walks into the house
Takes her in his arms
Rumples the sheets
Her body and her heart
She feels happy and desirable again.

Her husband would stumble to bed
Ask in a throaty whisper
“So do ya wanna?”
She would pretend sleep
Knowing he wants her
The way he wants a beer.

She would stare into the dark
Thinking how good he made her feel
The way his eyes flashed
When he drank in her body.
He made her feel special
Made her feel good again.

But there was no way out
And she knew it.
So tomorrow she would say farewell
To the man she loved
In favor of the husband she did not.

And when her husband returned home
She would make broccoli
For him to stick between his teeth.

Not That Simple

I can’t tell you
How I got here.
My life is not a story
With plot and design.

It’s not that simple.

It began before
My beginning
And will continue
After my ending.

I am the product
Of other’s desire
Choices made
Without my consultation.

All I wanted
Is little more than gravel
Along the roadside
Of what came before.

I am the forward progression
Of wishes
Voiced in darkness
Through lips I never kissed.

But I am not benign.

Those coming behind me
Are following pathways
I cleared
Across rivers I forged.

I know the names of some
But not all.

I think it wonderful
That someday
They will tell you
What I now do.

I can’t tell you
How I got here.
My life is not a story
With plot and design.

It’s not that simple.

To My Readers

April has been a month of trouble. I became very ill, for most of the month. I am better now, but it has not been a month of productivity. Let's hope for a better May!

Deeply Sorry

I’m sorry
Deeply sorry
For pain I’ve caused
For hurt I’ve inflicted.

I wish
I could begin again…
But I’d make the same
Mistakes
The same judgments
Given similar circumstances.

I am flawed
Deeply flawed
And unable to effect
The change
I desire.

I’m troubled
Deeply troubled
In my skin.

I have never found
The balance required
Between healing
And hurting.

I wish
I could tell you
I am unfettered
By a past
That follows
Like a shadow.
But I am fastened
To memories and mistakes.

My flesh condemns me.

I’m sorry
Deeply sorry
For pain I’ve caused
For hurt I’ve inflicted.

The Lesson of the Butterfly

She came to me softly
On butterfly wings
Alighting on my soul
Hesitantly.

I pressed her to my heart
Absorbing her delicate
Beauty
Her tender grace.

I was uncertain
Who was more needy
Me, in my hollowness
Or her, in her hope.

When the palm
Finds the butterfly
The amazement of one
Mingles with the trust of the other.

I hoped it would endure
Last forever
But the hard truth is
Lovers leave.

She flew one morning
As I watched
In the glare of fore-noon
My heart fading by the beat.

Years later, with the perspective
Of time and age
I would learn
Love’s benevolence.

The passing of years
Offer the revelation
That mercy lies
Between the gasp and the sighs.

Thoughts for the Soul

Dear Readers,
Lately I have been inspired, moved, and challenged by the thoughts of giants who have gone before. Of those I'm sharing with you, only Rita Dove, an award winning African-American poet, continues to write. I'm sharing some of those words with you, as I recharge my creative batteries. I hope they are as meaningful to you as they are to me. -- james

A poet must leave traces of his passage, not proof. ~ Rene Char

The poet is a liar who always speaks the truth. ~ Jean Cocteau

Poetry is language at its most distilled and most powerful. ~ Rita Dove

Genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood. ~ T.S. Eliot

A poem begins in delight and ends in wisdom. ~ Robert Frost

Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words. ~ Robert Frost

To be a poet is a condition, not a profession. ~ Robert Frost

Poetry is plucking at the heartstrings, and making music with them.
~ Dennis Gabor

Poetry is a deal of joy and pain and wonder, with a dash of the dictionary.
~ Kahlil Gabran

A poet is a bird of unearthly excellence, who escapes from his celestial realm arrives in this world warbling. If we do not cherish him, he spreads his wings and flies back into his homeland. ~ Kahlil Gabran


That's plenty to feed upon for now. Enjoy the feast! ~ james

The Trinity of the Poet

The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, are of imagination all compact.
~~ William Shakespeare

Definition of Poetry

Poetry is the rhythmical creation of beauty in words ~~ Edgar Allen Poe

Time Fire

Darkness mocks me
Stares back into my
Wide open eyes.

The hell with digital clocks
Is they
Flash time precisely
Unlike the grace of
Sweep second hands.

So I dance
With my demons
Wondering endlessly
Wondering
At the whys
And whereofs
Of this too-brief
Life.

Had I stood
A half inch to the left
Those bullets
Would have killed me.

Had I have been a bit more
Kind
She would have stayed.

Had I stopped
For coffee
Or had I not
Taken that call
Pivotal elements of my life
Would not have
Happened.

Life is the construct
Of the choices made
In a single second.

I tease
At my life’s frayed edges
Unraveling the moments
In the dark.

It must be an ordained review.
Even sleeping pills are
Useless.

So I stare into the void
Knowing sleep is paper
Memory fuel
And time fire.

Taking the Exam

I have learned hard things
And come to understand
What I wish I never knew.

I cannot enjoy a meal
Or have a conversation
With my back to the door.

Upon entering a room
I look for anything available
To take as a weapon.

I cannot rest or sleep
Without my sidearm
Close at hand.

I awake to full alert
At the sound
Of a cricket.

Before I enter a store
I check through the glass
To avoid a robbery in progress.

I check the eyes of strangers
And walk with a purpose
Playing poker with fate.

I see the entire world
Through the filter
Of lights and sirens.

This is both
My weakness and strength
The price paid for the path I’ve walked.

Homicide and suicide
Larceny and fraud
Are hard teachers

And I am still taking the exam.

What I hear

Barn swallows
High in the rafters
Of a leaning
Prairie castle.

Puffs of promise
In budding grain
Bending to the will
Of Illinois winds.

A mournful wail
From the Burlington
Laden with coal
Northbound to Chicago.

Clattering cans
And the stuttering horn
Of a limo
Outside a wedding chapel.

Rain steadily splash
Into widening pools
Weeping sorrowfully
Into darkening fields.

Lovers whisper
Promising forever
In exchange
For a moment’s bliss.

My own heart beating
Knee bone crackling
As I move inexorably
Toward the grave.

Sweet life passing
In shouts and sighs
And muttered prayers
Of sinner and saint.

Auditory history
Accoustic life
Sweeping beyond
The moment’s horizon.

I hear all this.

Simple

A sweat-stained cap
A summer day
And a dog to push
The blues away

Keeps life simple
Free and easy
With morning air
Light and breezy.

A cup of coffee
Scrambled eggs
A sturdy back
And able legs

What more could I ask
But these
‘cept a faithful heart
And prayerful knees?

That’s all I need
Or hope to keep
My soul content
Before I sleep.

It Comes Down To Now

Sometime there’s no next time.
The air closes around you
And you know
This is your shot.

It doesn’t matter what you think
About second chances.
“Next Time” is as useless
As a fortune cookie promise.

Sometime your future
Comes down to
Now.
This moment.

Every proverb and platitude
Lesson and lie
Is swallowed
And you act.

Sometime you take a chance.
With your heart in your mouth
And grit in your stomach
You do what must be done.

Then…
Step back and let it happen.
Because sometime
That is all there is to do.

Below Zero

I breathe deeply
These winter mornings
Like I’m at ten thousand feet
Both movement and thinking
Tedious
Slow.

Behind the wheel
I stare out the windshield
Morning sun dancing
From ice cycles
Snow patches on roofs
Smoke drifting
Above suburban chimneys
Truck in park
Heart in neutral.

My breath exhales
As vapor
Swirling before my face
Like clouds forming
At mountain peaks.

Minutes spiral away.

A sales paper
Pushed by February winds
Somersaults the ice.
I shiver involuntarily
Jerking back to reality.

My hands encircle
My cup of one cream
Two sugars
Steaming the frigid air.

A microcosm of my life
Trying hard to stay hot
In a life measured
Below zero.

In this environment
Even tears freeze.

Doppelganger

He is suddenly beside me.
I smell the earth on his body
The musk of fresh sweat
Mud drying on his face
The acrid sting of burned powder
I hear his shallow breaths
Trying to steady his
Rapid pulse.

Never saying a word
I hear the metallic slide
Of the bolt on his rifle.
His desperation rises
Like mist from a swamp

For the briefest moment
I think his thoughts:
Concealment
Target acquisition
Breath control
Exit strategy.

Then the searing pain
The uncomprehending shock.

In a flash I feel his panic
I’m hit!
I’m hit!
Oh God!
Sweet Jesus!

It always ends the same way
Thousands of times over
His mad scramble for life
Dissipates
Into traffic noise
The ten o’clock news
The securing of my door bolt
Sounds exactly like his rifle bolt
And I’ll spend the early hours
Trying not to smell the smells
Or hear the sounds.

But he is right beside me.

Land of Gracious Lumen

Turn my face to the sun
When I die
And my unbeholding eyes
Will see.

My lusterless face
Will glow
In the bright slanting
Of our waning orbit.

I will smell the good earth
Now my bed
And stuff
Of slow return.

My open hands caress
That by which I am caressed.
My earth lover
Embraces me here.

Turn my face to the sun
When I die.
Fall softly across my sleeping form
Shadow and light.

Let me sleep here
Until, in bright day
I awake
In a land of gracious lumen

A Cemetery Visit

Autumn leaves scatter and pile
Around leaning stones
Etched in dimming names
Above their dusty bones.

Secreted in boxes
Remembered as common lives
Covered up in years
And the memory of their prize.

Here lie moldering bodies
From which sprang
Working generations
Whose hammers on anvils rang.

Exploding in brilliant color
See them in wildflowers
Expressions of souls
‘Neath their oaken bowers.

See their warm smiles
In the ache of setting suns
In the blaze of seasons
Where the cool brook runs.

Hear their happy music
Whisper in branches above
In breathless silence comes
The cooing of a dove.

Their ageless wisdom
Rises like morning mist
Embraced in common memory
Like lovers we have kissed.

We feel their struggles
Joys and bitter sorrow
Slowing our pace here
And allow eternity to roll.

Leave the old gate open
When you turn to go.
Let there be a chance here
For history to stroll.

Jockeying for Position

At the double nickel, my beard came in white.
Not like snow.
More the color of paper burned to cinder
A molecular transformation
With the appearance of frost

It smiles, the beard
With something of the bard
The revolutionary
The prophet
The lover
Within.

We are jockeying for position
The beard and I.
He does not like the way I drive
Saying it’s unfitting the image.
And I reject the way he walks
Stumbling, half-bent
Like an old soldier
Mindless of the combat earning him his stories.

We are unlikely partners.
He, unwilling to smooth my cheeks
Appearing as lunar plaines
Without heat, or charm.
I, unwilling to be the pirate he would like.
I am not Jimmy Buffet, conquering the Caribbean
With a salt-stained guitar
And Capt. Morgan in tow.

This is our Treaty of Pusan.
We will gaze with the apprehension that comes from distrust
Across the chin’s 38th parallel.

The Certainty of Touch

Could we have touched
You and I?
Your fingers, perhaps
Twisting a knob mine had turned
A moment before?

An arch, under which you passed
And I followed
A heartbeat later?

Might our shadows have mingled
Upon a snowy bank
Or across an urban plaza?

Could I have over-flown your emerald quilt?
Or, like Jupiter’s moons
Or a wisp of gossamer cloud
Have we been forever distant?

No…
No.

We have touched
You and I.

Our paths are marked
And we navigate
Every footfall certain.

And I will not content myself
Until we touch again.

Heroes

They fell on Flanders field
As they did at Shiloh Hill
On Normandy’s sand they bled
And they do in Baghdad still.

On the frozen heights of Korea
Or the jungles of Viet Nam
In the arid deserts of Iraq
In peril of bullet, mine and bomb.

On Afghanistan's mountains they fight
They struggle and sometimes die
And never rise to question
Or ask a bloody "why?"

They stream from farms and cities
Leaving behind little brothers
They say farewell to fathers
And tenderly kiss their mothers.

Bidding goodbye to comfort
To embrace lonely sacrifice
They struggle on land or air
In silent seas, below arctic ice.

Heroes, all of them
Whether they bled, or not.
They bore our nation’s colors
When the way grew fierce and hot.

I see them march in perfect order
I hear them pray at night
I know they weep for comrades
After the crimson fight.

Welcome home brave soldier!
God has a place for you
And we embrace sons and daughters
The many and the few.

Before the War

I am full of memory
As evening is full of mist
Gleaming in bright cones
Beneath the corner lamp.

My hollow footsteps
Bound from stone and brick
Pauses and apostrophes
Measures of moments.

Where went the days
The seamless nights
Of childhood
The womb of our hopes?

From the highway, traffic sighs
Golden bright in vapor lights.
Sidewalks of the marketplace
Orbit shops and bistros
Where we shared coffee kisses
In darkened doorways.

We were immortal.
Days endless
Drifting on a sea of innocence.
Our hearts pounded like jackhammers
In our chests
Marking the days
And velvet nights
Of youth.

But that was long ago
Before the war
When we wore our hair long
And laughed at old men
Who sneered at our passing.

Now, I am becoming an old man
Lingering under the same corner lamp
Collar and heart turned against the rain
Through which we once ran, laughing

Euclid and State Route 4

Moths spin like whirling dervishes
In the mercury light’s brilliant wash
On the corner of Euclid and State Route 4.

The light hums with electricity
As thousands of papery wings batter
Assault each other in the hot night.

In the west, sheet lightening charges the sky
Illuminating cloud mountains
Rising eight miles above Arkansas cotton.

Somewhere in town, gear jockeys violate the peace
Engines screaming like mechanical demons
To the squeals of girls in tight jeans.

I sit with my brother on Grandma’s porch swing
Heels digging into flooring, smoothed by a hundred years wear
Thighs working, keeping cadence with our pulse.

Behind us, in the bowels of the old frame house
Our parents talk with mom’s mom of dead relatives and dry crops.
Maybe this lightening means rain.

I knit my fingers across my face
Breathing through my hands
Smelling the leather of my baseball mitt still on my skin.

My brother laughs, mostly at nothing.
I laugh too.
Our laughter builds like lightening, both with nothing in it.

Mom demands to know what we’re up to.
We’re not into mischief, are we?
Are we getting into trouble?

Of course not.
Trouble will come years later
Far from Grandma’s porch.

Long after the moths have fallen
As have the rains
After the gear jockeys have taken to Buicks

After Euclid has been paved
And State Route 4 widened
And bulldozers have leveled Grandma’s house.

Then, we will have trouble
Beyond that which makes brothers laugh together in the dark.

The Inheritance

I remember
Sadness
In my father’s eyes.

It leaked
From his eyebrows
Through downcast lids.
Maybe from the poverty of 1929.
Perhaps from the weariness of ’45
Having burrowed deeply into his heart.

He always had answers
To which he
Had no questions
Which is often worse
Than the other way around.
Everything had reason, he said
There are no mysteries.

A man can’t live that way
Not for long.

Eventually he swallowed
The whole of his pain
Though it was a life’s effort .
He choked it all down…everything.
His father’s vagrancy
Mother’s cancer
The bullets and bombs
The terror of the Panzers.
The fear of too little money
For a growing family.
He was always afraid he would fail
Though I knew he was a Super Hero.

I never asked my father
What he felt
Because I was afraid
He would tell me.

I couldn’t endure that.

My father was not a sad man
But his eyes were haunted
Having endured the hurt
He wore like a coat.

But my father gave me what he could:

He gave me a lump at the back of my throat.

You

You sat
Naked against the wall
Eyes downcast
Arms around your drawn-up knees
Head into your chest.

I notched my belt
Smoothing my shirt
Into my pants.

Perplexed
I asked
Wasn’t it good for you?

Come lay with me
You said
Don’t just leave
You whispered.

Is it enough for you
You asked
To take what I freely give
Then refuse
What I most need?

Heat flowed into my face.
I took off my shirt.
You smiled softly
As I lay with you again.

Then we made love
It having nothing to do
With our bodies.

007

I’d just met her.
She seemed bashful
But pleasant.
I asked whether she needed help.
Looking through her long lashes
She quietly said I have a
A James Bond smile.

How do I respond to that?
With a smile, obviously.
Hers was a pleasant flirtation
Appealing to my avarice.

I considered the image, thinking
Should she get much closer
I could leave her world
Shaken, not stirred.

One Strand

One strand of her hair is all I’ve left.
It was on my sweater
Where she’d lain her head
The head that loved me
Thought of me
And considered me
In ways no other woman could
Or would.

One strand of her hair
Among the tens of thousands
That shimmered in the sun
Gleamed by candle
And through which
My fingers ran
Sifting out a wisp of glory.

But now I have one.

Better one strand of her hair
Than the entire body of another.

I have secreted my single strand of her hair
In the workings of a clock
Where it rests among the processes of time
Marking each second with a tick
As we grow further and further apart.

But the clock also measures that indeterminate
Length of time
Between the present
And the moment I hold her again.

On that day, I will entwine the single strand of her hair
With her many sisters
That they may reacquaint
And share the story of our long separation
And that time we rejoin on the plaines
Of timelessness.

With No Music

All the towers of Chicago
Skied light
And all the stars of the universe
Rained radiance
While we danced
Between the two.

Your body, warm
Left hand in my right
Arms around waists
Your gaze in mine
The music swaying us
Like kelp waving in Caribbean streams.

We moved in seas of bodies
In something as incredulous
As trade winds
In a Midwestern city.
Chicago lights
Entered our fingers, and streamed from our eyes.

How strange we must have appeared
To passersby
Who thought us silly.
But we knew what they did not.

We would have danced with no music.

The Sun of Early Summer

Sliding into the western strand
The sun deepens to bronze
Like helmets of conquistadors
Or shoulders of migrants
Bending to vineyards
Along the coast.

Odd, the images Sol suggests.
No wonder he was thought a god
By searching minds, long gone
Reckoned eternal and wise
By those who wished they were.

My cheeks redden
Eyes sting with salt from sweat
Lips dry and thoughts parched
Sighing at the luxury of a frozen margarita
Or kiss from a pretty girl
Wrapped in a towel.

Days are lengthening
On this spin around our star
On long afternoons
Spent half-asleep
Eyes slit to welcome
The sun of early summer.

This Side of Over There*

These hands have lifted mighty wings
Toward sun, and stars and moon
And this joy my heart has known
Is ending all too soon.
Cirrus clouds and thunderstorms
Ice crystals and vapor forms.

These eyes have watched receding earth
Blend with azure skies.
That I was given this rare gift
Was kingly enterprise.
Starlight teasers play
Where snowy canyons lay.

These fingers charted distant paths
Chasms of quiet space.
I’ve chased the sundown, watched sunrise
And amazing race.
Earth’s expansive girth belies
The depth, the breadth, the dream of skies.

These arms have measured spans of time
Embraced a Grande Design.
But, it has ended all too soon
Like contrails left behind.
I hadn’t watched the moments pass
And time has fled too fast.

These feet are hungry for tall air
For seven-mile heights.
To tread across a path of stars
In calm or stormy flights.
Like priests at evening prayer
The engines’ vesper air.

It’s my heart that yearns the most
For the clawing of the air.
And it will likely never rest
This side of over there.
Red-rimmed sunsets fire the night
With Dipper, Bow, and Northern Lights.

But there’s no need for tears of loss.
Please don’t weep for me.
I’ve heard the beat of angels’ wings
‘Cross diamond-studded seas.
And, oh! The miles I did roam
Over my blessed Terra home!


(* Written for Hank, my retiring United Airline Captain friend)

Rumors

Rumors
Suggestions beyond rational thought
Entertain you
A Hypnotic intrusion.

I knew you once
Understood your inner working
Like a Swiss watch
Fine and precise.

You stepped
Into a new world
A universe out of step
With the one we knew.

A new fire lights your eyes
A blue blaze
Electric
Flickering.

I would have you back
The familiar
The warm you
I once knew.

But you are given to rumors
Suggestions beyond rational thought
And from that place
There is no return.

The Purpose of the Arts:

"Music and art and poetry attune the soul to God because they induce a kind of contact with the Creator and Ruler of the Universe." ~ Thomas Merton

Morning Kiss

Your coffee kiss steams my mouth
Burns my throat
Warms my belly.
I swallow you
Feel you extend to
Arms
Hands
Legs
Feet.

An awakening flow
You slosh my loins
Splash my chest
Sigh from my throat

Content
Satisfied
Alive
Full-bodied
Finely ground
And flavored
To my taste.

Narcotic Release*

My head spins, swirls, jets
Twisting end-over-end
Crossing streets and yards
Flying, soaring
To land in cold puddles
Like a brittle maple leaf
Pirouetting on November’s wind.

The narcotics in my veins
Purposed to kill the constant pain
Removes the burden of fire
Doing nothing to extinguish the blaze.
But, oh! The dizzy trail I thread
Splices me to life
Hell-for-leather and hold on tight.

Sometimes I feel my hand slipping
Slipping
And fear joins the pursuit.
I wonder what it will be like
To catapult the balustrade
Slamming headfirst into the stone wall
The stone wall
With no chance to walk away
From the stone wall
Waiting for me
Just waiting for the next wild ride.


(* Explanation: I survived a massive cerebral hemorrage in '97, resulting in a pathology of severe neural pain, requiring treatment with federally regulated medications. On occasions of "off the chart" pain I have accidently over-dosed. The above is the frightening result.)

Word Smything

I chip at words
As a climber chips at cliff faces
Securing ropes through pitons pounded into rock walls
I pound verbs into nouns
In a determined effort to describe
Wonderful life
Life of wonder
Double knotting words
Like ropes
Dangling over chasms
Trying to hold fast.

Drawing battle lines flanked with language
I want your loins to be Hell on Wheels
In literary combat
To know the Rolling Thunder in your gut
Bleeding vowels and consonants.

I want to Spearhead language
In ways that make you weep
To smell sounds
And taste noise
With senses tuned to cosmic
Sensual frequencies
Your soul’s Armored Cav
Giving sight to touch
And spectral image to solid thought.

I sweat, grind, twist and
Wrestle with incomplete sentences
Making more of them
Than they are in their parts.

Sparks fly at the anvil
Hammering sentences
Into paragraphs
Orange-red heat smelting
Poetry from life
And love
From the iron of passion.
Forging petraglyphs onto paper.

And if you sigh
I am victorious.

Where the Crow Caws

Out there, where the crow caws
And the tree line meets the sky
I will make my winter home
When I come to die.

Blending with astral swirls
In blizzards of white light
I will shed familiar skin
And settle in the night.

Let others takes my possessions
I give them all away
To free me from encumbrance
As I ready for that day.

I leave behind endeavor
And the life-work of my hands
The whole of it unfinished
Abandoned where it stands.

Out there, where the crow caws
And the tree line meets the sky
I will make my winter home
When I come to die.

You Pushed Me*

You pushed me.
I felt it between my shoulder blades
And, Lo…!
I was out there!
Exposed in the harrowed rows
Jagged stone against my raw skin
Virgin to the blistering sun
And scorched earth.

How could you have so casually changed my world?
Reset my parameters
Like a factory default
Returning me to some primal existence?

And now You smile from the throne
Trying my character
Testing my anger.

I am enraged!

Let us remember
Before you reduce my walls to dust
Before you turn my rivers to powder
My seas to blood
Before you cover me in darkness
Choke me in locust
And slay my firstborn…

You pushed me.

(* I learned the hard way that God is able to handle my foolish anger)

Empty Fire

You offered no kindling
Yet I burned for you.

No oxygen
But my flame warmed you.

Nothing combustible
But my glowing illumined you.

Heat and light
You received of me
Though no sustenance was given.

My flamed licked your sighs
Caressed your cries
But without fuel I was only
Empty fire.

Seasons on a Birch Wall

Twilight paints the western sky
With Venus overhead
Bleeds to night the inky dark
Then eastern skies rim red.

On rolling hills, I see a wall
Of birches, white and slender
Reaching high, through chilling air
Delicate and tender.

White birch stands fill these hills
Like brides, adorned for grooms.
They stretch limbs here, rise tall there
In cathedral mountain rooms.

Swaying, singing, waving arms
They dance through storm and breeze.
Hear them sing a soothing song
These graceful, snow-clad trees.

Hear the wren and robin call
From perches near the sun.
Below the bear, and elk patrol
The deer and otter run.

High above, birch branches weave
Their dappled sunlight spreads.
By night a leafy canopy
Will mark their woody beds.

Winter drapes in sheets of white
Like linen on a line.
Springtime wakes in mint green hues
Sweet as garden wine.

Summer sighs in leafy shade
Autumn in burnished golds.
Seasons on a birch wall turns
And wraps me in its folds.

A Smile and a Shiver

Are you going to
Make love to me?
She asked.

Her eyes never moved
Stayed locked on mine
A smile and shiver
In her blue pools.

It’s been so long.
So are you, James?
Will you?

She came to me the way dewy mist
Falls upon the land
When days heat
Fades
And the cool of evening
Lays peaceful and still.

She lay in my arms
For hours
Until cicadas
Buzzed in the trees.

It was not sex.
It was not sensual.
It was compassion
And mercy
For both of us.

In time, her ragged breath gentled.

She died
Three months later
Savaged by the cancer
That was claiming her
Even as she lay with me.

She lays with me still
A memory of a woman
Who touched me where
Lovers cannot reach.

Waiting Outside

One day they shall lay me
In a cherry wood box
Dressed in tie and tweed coat
Glasses over my unseeing eyes.

A small parade of mourners
Will pretend sorrow
Passing by
“My, He looks so natural.
Didn’t they do a good job?”

Does all of life lead to this?
The appraisal of
Funereal arts
Well-placed lighting
And rosy makeup?

But, what about….?
It will not matter.
Nobody remembers
Achievements and accolades
And those who do, won’t care.

Please, close the lid slowly.
Let darkness come
As lover to my flesh.
She has been in long pursuit
This inky mistress.

Soon, you will slowly walk
To your car
Keys dangling from fingers.

I will wait for you
On the lawn
Hands in pockets
Amazed at how natural you appear.

Fire Base Rita

I lost you
In the oily smoke
Of Fire Base Rita
The summer of ’69.

You were my friend.
The limitless horizons of youth
Stretched before us
And though we knew the risks
Could not imagine
They constrained us.

We joked and laughed
Talked of all we would do
Back in the world
Once you were home.

How could I know
You were not coming home?

Had I understood the brevity of time
I would have done less joking
Less time spent discussing girls
And hot cars.
I would have given more attention
To what mattered.
But we were kids.
How could I know what mattered?

Back in the world streets teemed
With students burning flags
Lofting banners
Calling soldiers “baby killers.”
I stood on the curb
Jeering those cursing you.

I never wrote about them
Although I’m certain you knew.
I wanted you to come home
Celebrated for the hero
I knew you were.

But you weren’t coming home.

I lost you on a green mountain top
Bristling with rockets and concertina wire
In a land that never appeared to be at war
Until the jungle belched fire and smoke.

They put what remained of you
In a flag-draped box
And sent you home.
They gave your family a Purple Heart
And the “Appreciation of a grateful nation.”

The bugle is silent now
And the drums are still.

Today there is no Fire Base Rita
On the jungle mountain where you died.
Its scar has healed
In a place where death was so swift
There was no time to scream.
Decades have drained away
But somehow
I’m still waiting for you to come home.

Even Jesus Cried

I picked up the receiver
Knowing it was you on the phone.
Before you could speak
I cracked a silly comment.

But all I heard was sobbing.
When you finally spoke
You told me
Your dad had died.
You just got the call.
You had no details.

I struggled for something
To say
That would make things right.
Of course, that’s impossible.

Your heart was breaking
And you sobbed.
You were always a daddy’s girl
And now your world had turned over.

I asked if I could pray for you
And you eagerly agreed.
I spoke the unspeakable
Asked the unsearchable.

When we said goodbye
And the receiver clicked in its place
The ensuing silence was deafening.

Death finds all of us
But when it comes by telephone
It’s remarkably impersonal.

How do I commend my friend
To such pain and shock?

Even Jesus cried outside the tomb.

Mr. Smith and Mr. Wesson

The metallic click
Of the magazine
Slams in the receiver.
I jack the slide
Ramming the first round
Into the chamber.
The procedure gives me
Peculiar satisfaction.

Turning the lethal machine
In my hand
I admire the well-balanced heft.
The soft return of ambient light
Gleams along its sleek form.

Thirteen copper jacketed
Hollow points
With one behind the trigger
Give assurance
Any threat will be instantly
Dispatched
With the twitch of my finger.

Like the Finger of God.

I have power
Fourteen times over
To remove the wicked
At eighteen hundred feet per second.

Mr. Smith and Mr. Wesson assure me
I am a mighty man.

Oiled leather
Smelling sweet and ancient
Seats death at my hip
For instant use.

Mr. Smith and Mr. Wesson smile.
I am a mighty man.

But they lie
Of course.

Gypsy

She dances ‘round
An imaginary fire
And listens to
An unearthly choir
Thinking about
The way life could be
If she could bring out
Her spirit gypsy.

No one man
Could ever contain
Her white-hot passion
And the lover’s refrain
Her song of desire
And the wild mystery
The continual pull
Of her spirit gypsy.

What burns also chars
So she’s wary in the dance
But the way of love means
She may take a chance.
She looks deep in the eyes
Of those whom she sees
If they look back they may know
Her spirit gypsy.

If you’ve loved her you know
The warmth of her arms
If you’ve been there you’ve felt
The allure of her charms.
But you surely must know
It never can be
You’ll be much long with
Her spirit gypsy.

She brightens the night
Alone in her bed
In visions of craving
That spin in her head
And at the core of her being
Down on her knees
She opens her heart to
Her spirit gypsy.

Bread For Tomorrow

Cathedral skies
Vault above swaying
Heads of wheat and rye
Oats and corn
Sighing into August winds.

Boys on bikes
Race along cracked asphalt
While toads and cicadas
Add bass and tenor
To the hymn of hours.

Fields cool
As the western fire falls.
High in purple towers
Night descends
Like royalty on a staircase.

Hush, ye grains.
Be still, ye stalks.
Bow your heads and sleep.
Scythes and mill stones are coming.
Ovens are warming
That ye might be bread for tomorrow.

The Letter

In my mind
I’ve written the letter
Ten thousand times
Each one slightly varied
None of which
Said all I meant to say.

I’ve envisioned
The many ways
You might receive the letter.

Perhaps you would be angry
Enraged I would presume upon you.

Maybe you would cry
Recalling fond days.

But the most unnerving response
Would be no response at all
The complete disregard for what
We esteemed precious.

None of these responses
Are what I desire
So I have written no letter.

I have, however, appealed
To the universe
Speaking my heart to the wind.

I turn to the
Compass points
Proclaiming to
Corners of creation
My undying love
Tender devotion
And sacred honor.

I hope the wind finds you
I hope the compass directs you
To the lover you never lost.

Between the Minutes

When I go to slumber
In the evening’s first stillness
You are there
Waiting
Your smile an inquiry
And I assure you
I am now with you.

All is as it should be.

Tell me please
How is it
I still smell the sweetness
Of your perfume
Take in the fragrance
I have never known
From any other’s body
But yours?

Your are only seen
With eyes wide shut
Perceived as a ghost
An ethereal image
Haunting my silent world
A memory of time’s ago
The life left me
After goodbye.

So I hurry to sleep
Hoping to find you
Between the minutes
As one might hide
In gangways
Waiting.

Waiting.

And so you linger
Secreted between the minutes
Of darkness and dawn.

Far From Genesis

She took the mandolin
Fingering the strings
Like one familiar
With the neighborhood
Eyes flittered
Then closed
As though she were reading
The music
Behind her eyelids.

I closed my eyes too
Involuntarily
Needing to travel
In my mind
To places called home
Generations ago
Way back in my DNA
Before I had eyes to close.

And suddenly I was there
Deep in the pine
Down the creek
In the holler
With barking dogs
And wide-eyed kids
Growing up out doors
Amid the smell of
Hogs and corn liquor
All filtered through layers
Of Gospel hymns
And brush arbor revivals.
I swear I was there
With the Mississippi heat
On my shoulders.

But when she stopped
Replacing the caramel-colored mandolin
In its cover
I opened my eyes in Chicago
My Pontiac in the Grant Park Garage
Waiting for me to adjust the air conditioning
And Heads Up Display.

The snake has slithered far from Genesis.

Crazy Sometime*

All’s a tumble
On a rag-tag dime
Don’t nobody know no how
An’ ain’ life sublime!

But don’ we all get crazy sometime.

Went down to ‘ol Charleston
Ate some shrimp by de bay
Took a lock de lou
At da bottom ‘a da day.

But don’ we all get crazy sometime.

On down de coast
Still see da ghosts ‘a da south
Ramble on in de shade
An’ dey tremble in my mouth.

An’ don’ we all get crazy sometime!

Sweet Lucy let me
An’ sure don’ she shine
Like a brown lady do
On dat ramblin’ vine.

Lor’ don’ we all get crazy sometime.

Lights goin’ off
Crazy, crazy, make my ‘ol head spin
An’ ‘splosions all ‘round
Like creation begin.

An’ don’ we all get crazy sometime!

Come by here, my baby
Come ‘round here my girl
Take me by de’ han’
An’ give me a whirl

Saw Charlie in de bamboo
Hear his rat-a-tat sound
Felt his hot breath on my neck
As I was huggin’ de ground.

Don’ we though, oh don’ we…

O’ lord, don’ it shatter
Don’ it truly blow-up my mind
An’ all I ever wants
Is to get crazy sometime.

Lor’ but don’ we all get crazy sometime!

Crazy sometime.

Crazy.

*Written in the voice of a black Viet vet that suffered one too many bangs a bit too close, but he's smart enough to know that all of us, in our own ways, get crazy sometime. Note, he never asks it as a question, but states it as unaltering fact. "We all get crazy sometime."

Smoke From My Pipe

Smoke from my pipe
Moves along the ceiling
Stirred by the blades of a slow fan.

Soft, watercolor shadows
Adorn plaster walls
Undulating like memories
Of lovers who joined here.

Silky saxophone from the radio returns me
To warm Carolina nights
Spent on the coast
Lights winking out to sea
Ships softly swaying
Almost still.

Slow dancing…
Like smoke from my pipe.

This Feeling

I kept a pillow
Over my face
As long as possible
Before joining the rat race.

Stumbling into the kitchen
I turned on the brew
Made a mental list
Of the things I have to do.

Staring out the window
Into the early morning fog
I open the back door
And then let out my dog.

I sit at the table
With my cup in my hand
Take a look at my finger
At my missing wedding band.

These days begin the same
With the things we used to do
But the change has been enormous
Things old seem always new.

I try to keep her off my mind
Off what we used to be
But twenty years of being “us”
Has come down to only “me.”

In an hour I’ll walk out that door
And tell myself I’m okay
But the cold, hard truth is
I may not make it through the day.

Now the sun’s burning off the fog
But my mind’s still in a cloud
I keep my feelings to myself
But sometimes I talk right out loud.

God, maybe I’m going crazy
Maybe this is more than I can do
But I have this feeling deep inside
That I better cling to You.

At the Breast of Eden

Verdant hills hide me
Wrapped in leafy arms
Covered in arbors
Dogwood and hickory
Oak and ash
Kin to my soul.

Woody melodies lull
The mourning dove’s coo
Percussion of woodpeckers
Cicadas hum high tenor
Toads grunt the bass line
Sharp trill of the thrush, high above.

I breathe Earth’s morning wonder.
Dewey soil
Sweetens the air
Fragrance
Blended with the tang of bitter root
Wafts on the wing-stirred breeze.

Brushing creation’s brow
I pleasure in wildflowers
Indian paintbrush
I lay
Quilted in clover
Patched purple and white.

Be still.
Heaven has come to ground.
I am at peace
Suckled
At the breast of Eden.

Not So Very Far Away

My body molds to white sand
Elephant grass jutting
Like steeple spires.
Under a blue denim canopy
Gulls screech in protest
Of my presence
An intruder in their gulf home.

The world ends at the horizon
Beyond maritime journey.
At the turquoise edge
One question fades
Another begins
Demanding, stubborn
The eternal “why?”
The answer waits
Not so very far away.

It is best to close your eyes
Pulse with the surf
Inhale the briny breeze
Fill your lungs deeply
Breathe
Until it pains you
Makes you ache
For what you will never be.

They say pirates rode these waters
Plundered cargo
Sent graceful schooners
To the forlorn bottom.
I say pirates work their thieving yet.
I lost treasure here
All my presumption, decaying
Not so very far away.
Stepping into the rhythmic tides
I am connected to old bones
Long dead
Fastened to rotting hulks
Crumbling history
Masts torn of proud banners
Cannon rolled, unfired, to gun ports
Not so very far away.

Tourists slather oil
Onto their pasty skin
They smile and play their music
An unholy intrusion.
This is a cemetery
I want to shout
Be still here
Very still here.

I lie on the beach
Propped on one arm
Eyes shielded
Straining to hear ancient things
The pulling of oars
Laughter of wild men
Bronzed and wicked
Not so very far away.

There is something primal here
The beach a parable of life
Steady coming, going of the tide
Marine life, alien yet magnificent.

I am only a guest here
Though I stay a lifetime
I can never go away
Not so very far away.

Plow the Stars

Is it possible to plow the stars
Furrow the universe
Seed its depths
Immense and cold?

We are its planter
Pockets of promise
Tools of physics
And solid fuel boosters
Burning holes of fire
Into Florida nights.

Children of hope
Light a candle to Orion
Tighten the belt of the Hunter
Pluck the bowstring
With fingers of fire
And harvest
With inky harrows
The budding novas.

Plow the stars
First in dream
Then adventure
And tomorrow
In harvest.

Let us see what becomes
Of plow blades
Strapped to rockets.

Too Little Remains

I have
Nothing but the memory
Of you
In your striped
Overalls
Smelling of summer
And cigarettes.

All gone
The sounds of
Boots on gravel
Early evening, tired sighs
Country music twanging
On the AM radio.

Forever missing
My young-boy efforts
To draw you into conversation
“What did you do, in the war
Dad?”

I wanted to know you better than
The man others knew
The ones who said
You were a good man
Calling me
“A chip off the old block.”

I don’t know what that means.

You cracked the door
But you never showed me
Who you were
And now I’ll never know.

We are both the less for it, dad.

You, because you left so little
Of yourself.

Me, because I cannot continue
What I never understood.

Too little remains.

City Psalm

Tears have been my meat
And suffering my bed.
I place no confidence
In my flesh
Though I cry aloud
For gladness of heart
I fall back
Into darkness.

Come to my rescue
I plead
But there are none
To answer.

This ever-widening city
Pulses
With commerce.
Night and day.
Men and women
Search
For satisfaction
But she is a swift bird
That eludes the fowler
Every time.

How I long to seizer her!
To track her down
Discover her place
Make her mine.
But she eludes me
And I must occupy myself
With healing
And make contentment
My lover.

Come to me
I say.
I have spread my bed
With a quiet
And gentle spirit.
But she seeks a dark
Other
And I am alone
With no comfort
But silence
As brother to the night.

A Forest on the Waves

Beneath my feet
Her timbers creaked.
Above me
Canvas billowed
Lines stretched
As pencil etchings.

Her decks were awash
In white spray.
Banners popped in the wind
Like cannon blasts
And the briny air
Stung my eyes.
Like ghosts
Of gone sailors
The lines sang
Keening songs
The exhalation of
Lungs long silent.

To what trackless paths
Is this bow fixed?
What star guides the hand
Grasping her wheel?
What vast depths
Skirts her rudder!

She is a forest on the waves
Masts spiking the swells
Oaks form her planking.
Stout hearts serve her
And the golden wake
Fired by the sun
Marks her way
Evermore.

The Thinnest Membrane

There’s the thinnest membrane
Between passion and pornography
One nude
The other naked
One moist
The other wet
One sacred
The other shameful
But both offer the same woman.

We have made love
And had sex
The biology identical
And the gyration familiar.
There have been nights
We needed sweat and grind
There have been nights
We needed soft whispers in the dark.

It’s more a condition of the heart
Than genitals.

A Reasonable Death

I did not know him
A stranger to me
Yet a brother.
Now he lies
An empty vessel
Poured out
Upon the cave floor
Of Abdullam.

The scent of gunfire
And blood
Come to me
Stinging the air
More with sorrow
Than acrid powder.

We are beyond
Searching reason.
We know the reason.
The question rather
Is how we go gently
Into the silence
Of the earth
Happy to die
For so powerful
A compulsion.

Tomorrow
Or the day after that
The muzzle may point toward me.
I hope to
Smile at eternity
In a way
That brings skeptics
To puzzle
Over such
A reasonable death.

Like Chaff

There is wind at my back
I have not seen
Though I have felt
Its irresistible blow.

I cling to places
And people
But the force is stronger
Than my desire to stay.

Sometimes it keens
Other times it moans
But is always consistent
In its purpose to push me on.

Were it a sentient being
I would try reason
Anything to create dialogue
But it is a powerful, controlling force.

It moved me beyond you
Out of range of your arms
Your kiss
Your sweet voice.

It blows through the craggy places
In my soul
And the howling you hear is not the wind
But the sorrow that sifts me like chaff.

The Wheel of Time

I created you.

The color of your hair
Has its origin
In the flavor of every kiss
The nectar of every lover.

The brightness of your eyes
I have taken
From the last lunar eclipse
And the sparkle at their core
From the Belt of the Hunter.

The melody of your voice
I have distilled
From the scent of mornings
On the river
And fish frying in the skillet.

Your touch
I have painted from
Solar winds
Insistently plucking the planets
Like fingers on strings.

You are the blending
Of all I love
And the experience of every pleasure
I have enjoyed
And hope to have.

I created you.
And what is left to me now
Is to find you
Along the wheel of time

Dog Tags

My brother and I
Divided our dad’s two
Dog tags
Small bits of
Burnished metal
He wore against his heart
From North Africa
To VE Day.

These tags
Imprinted with
The reduction of who he was
Felt the pulse
Of every heartbeat
The acrid smell
Of German 88’s
Exchange of fire
In untold combats.

These tags
Heard every prayer
Every curse word
Felt the shiver of his fear
And knew his
Hope of home.

They sweat with him
Froze with him
Would identify him
Were he to fall
But now are his son’s.

I do not deserve to wear
The tag he bore.
But I wear it
Because he was my father
And he gave me the
Honor of his name.

His time-burnished tag
Now clings to my chest
And knows the secret of my prayers
That have never known the fever
Of his.

Auto Response

You were polite.
Your smile correct
Like I’d triggered
An auto-response.

Were we not lovers, once?

There was no remembrance
In your eyes.
You spoke of graduations
And vacations.
No hint you recalled the passion
We swore we would never forget.

Where went
Our breathlessness?
The urgent insistence?
Do you not remember
The rain that fell
The nightlong?
The sweetened air
Filling our room
Our lungs?

I wanted to stop your talking.
Wanted to scream
“Shut the hell up!”
To ask how
Mexico
Had supplanted the burning
Of desire.

But I did not.

I said
“I have four grandchildren now.”
You smiled
Nodded
And said
“So good to see you again.”

“Yes,” I said.
But not really.

Terminal Velocity

I stand on a bridge
Crossing canyon depths
With home
On neither side.

I am a wayfarer
A stranger and straggler
With no hurry-up
In my gitty-up.

Below, winds swirl
Rising thermals
Carry river and carrion scents
Colliding with cool air, higher.

It rains on me
Clinging my shirt to my chest
And hope to my heart
That I too, may fall clean.

Arms to my sides
I accept the plummet
Wind rushing
Past my ears.

And I fly.
I soar past ancient walls
Petra glyphs flash by
Telling of long-ago flyers.

My lungs gather air
Forcing it from my lips
Finding melody
In terminal velocity.

And finally
Beyond the end
There is sky higher
Than imagined.

Further than the rocky ledge
Deeper than the stony floor
There is a new sky
Unending and blue.

One Paul Seven

I lost my friend
An officer I loved
And trusted.
We rode together
Spent hours
Years
Talking about families
Laughing
Joking
Thinking we were invincible
Bullet proof.

We shared tragedy.
We responded to pleas
Of strangers
Who needed a cop.

He stood beside me
When I told a young wife
Her husband was never coming home again.

Now my friend will never come home again.

I spoke at his funeral
Tried to comfort his widow
His children
Friends
Fellow officers.

We covered his coffin in a flag.
We stood at rigid attention.
We fired a volley at his grave.
We went home.

But One Paul Seven is not going home.

We tortured ourselves outside the chapel
Calling his response code
Into the radio
We waited
And waited
Tears coursing our brave cheeks
Chins quivering
At the damned static.

One Paul Seven did not answer.

Scared

I’m letting you go.
There is freedom in the choice
But reluctance as well.

What if you are not prepared
To make the decisions
Facing you?

In our house
I champion those choices
Being sure they filter
Through me.

But now
I will be advised of your actions
Like anyone else
In the food chain.

You haven’t the wisdom of fear.
You aren’t slowed by apprehension.
You aren’t judiciously skeptical.
You don’t know what this means.
You can’t see what I see.

In your view
Life is all exclamation points
With no question marks.

I have been where you are
But you have never been where I am.

You scare me.

Sanded Teak

Your legs curl beneath you
And I imagine roots
Anchored in the banks of the Nile
Firm
Luxurious.

My hands glide your thigh
Smooth
Like teak
Planed, sanded
Oiled with touch
An anointing
Sanctified
Redemptive.

You smell of earth.
The tangy scent of growing things
Of the Africa I will never know
The Serengeti’s wild heat
Growling in hunger and pleasure.

Reclining, I map your face
In rays dappled, through palm fronds
I see the glory of the lioness
Proud
Untamed.

I cannot stay.
I am not equal to your heart
No match for your fire
Though I want to be.

You lay in my lap
Full of promise
And legs of sanded teak.

Smelling Copper

The body sprawled on the tile
His neck sliced by the blade
Like a great, grinning second mouth.

Blood splattered the walls.
In his death dance
The slick, thick syrup
Smeared everywhere his hands groped
For safety
Security
Something to lie to him
To tell him he would live and not die.

But die he did, and grandly.
We squatted on the frontier of the gore
Reconstructing the scene.

The coppery stink of blood was in the air
Sliding down the back of our throats
Mixing our stomach acids
Into homicide chowder.

We all knew the brew.

Investigate.
Wait for the Medical Examiner
To render his opinion.
Go home to wash the copper down
With bottles of beer.

But that body will never move again.

Cops come and go
And no matter how much you drink
You go to bed for fifty years still smelling copper.

Angels in the Hills

There are angels in the hills.
You can sometime see them
With the sun
Glancing from their wings
Drawn swords
The accoutrements
Of warfare
Beyond our power
Of sight.

But they are there.

The wisdom of kings
Proverbs of Patriarchs
Wait for us.

So many voices
Call from the hills.

This valley is a dreadful place
Full of betrayal
Pain
And weakness.

But there are angels in the hills.
Be still and hear them.
They speak
Between the flutter of hummingbird wings.

Listen

They say.

What has passed has passed
But will come again.

An Unfinished Line

We leaned against tall buildings
In the financial district
Absorbing the city
On a cool autumn night
Wondering at passersby.
When we grew bored
We settled into an easy silence.
Good friends feel no compulsion
To talk.
So we warmed ourselves
In quiet.

Then you spoke an unfinished
Line of poetry.
Though I did not turn toward you
I felt your eyes on me.
“Finish that,” was your
Unspoken dare.

So I did.

Not as eloquently as you
But I completed your thought.
We played poetry ping pong
For a long time
Our words swallowed
By the hungry night air
Gone and lost.

I wish I had back those lines of verse.
Not because they were good
But because they were a reflection of us
When we were together
And I will not know that again.

I don’t lean against buildings any longer.
Nor do I go alone into the city
At night
And never into the financial district.
The city smells lonely
And the notion of poetry
Is absurd.

But sometimes I hear an unfinished line.

Oh, Ain’t Life a Charm?

She sat on the porch in her calico gown
As the heat of the day cooled to night.
There were dozens of things I wanted to say
But knew wouldn’t come out right.

I wanted to tell her how perfect she was
The one I’d been waiting for.
But all I could do was swallow my words
And stare at the boards of the floor.

I should have brought flowers, or candy and such.
I should have given a card.
But I spoke of the weather, the rain that would come
And the good it would do for her yard.

She asked of my work, and I said it was fine.
She mentioned she’d seen me in town…
Somethin’ about smiling at somethin’ I’d said
And me always acting the clown.

I felt a lump rise at the back of my throat.
I didn’t want her thinkin’ that way.
She asked me to dinner if I’d make her laugh
And I told her that I couldn’t stay.

She said that was too bad, because she’d baked ham
Some cornbread and Dutch chocolate cake.
I grinned as I told her that sounded good
As the sun slowly slipped toward the lake.

So, I changed my mind, and followed her in
Where she motioned me into a chair.
She brought out the food, steaming and hot
While I gazed at the shine of her hair.

In an hour the dinner, so well prepared
Was finished, so we chattered and joked.
Something I’d said about something she did
Was funny, and she laughed till she choked.

I asked if she was okay, would she be all right?
She smiled and said she’d be fine.
She said I was funny, that it’d been so long
Since she’d laughed, and I said it was time.

Then something happened, I don’t know what it was
But I got up and walked to her side.
She took my hand, and rose from her place
And it washed over me like a tide.,

I started to hum The Tennessee Waltz
And right there we started to dance.
It was so crazy, we were out of our minds
And I knew I was taking a chance.

That’s when it happened. She started to laugh
And I asked if she thought I was dumb.
Through a look of surprise I saw her react
And from my head to my feet I went numb.

“Dumb?” she repeated, and assured me she didn’t.
“I find you quite charming, and more!”
So, I kept on humming, as we continued our dance
And whirled her all over that floor.

Then the dance ended. There was nothing to say
But I still held that girl in my arms.
In her eyes I saw Venus, Saturn, and Mars
And the good, fertile fields of Earth’s farms.

I wish I could tell you I kissed her right then.
I wish I could tell you it’s so.
But the truth is I didn’t, I just gazed in her eyes
And told her she stood on my toe.

She said that she knew it, she meant to do that
And gripped me by both of my sleeves.
“You’re going no where. You’re staying right here.
And what’s more, I’m not letting you leave.”

And that’s when I kissed her, and she kissed me back.
I guess we both tasted like cake.
And all these years later, I tell you it’s true
I still taste it, in the love that we make.

She calls me her clown, and I call her lady
And sometimes we still dance ‘round the place.
Though our steps may be slower, and my humming more soft
I still see the stars in her face.

Oh, now ain’t life a charm, and isn’t it grand
The way things can turn out to be?
And if you don’t think so, I promise it’s true.
I know, ‘cause it happened to me.

Waiting for a River

Across Lincoln Highway
Threading traffic
Passing through yards
Bursting with roses
And violet wisteria arbors
Flows the Fox River
Flashing emerald fire
Musk, water and earth
A heady fragrance
Like joining a lover’s
Moist embrace.

She flows in rhythm to time
Stroking her liquid thighs
Adorned with falling leaves
Slivers of driftwood
Like a woman
Well beyond the blush of prime
Wearing mismatched jewelry
Large and small
All glitter and bangle
Yet erotic and seductive.

I listen to river language
Her gentle murmur
Nodding me to sleep
Stretching myself
Beneath her leafy canopy
Dreaming of
Distant journeys
Beyond her immortal soul
Where time is not reckoned
By calendars and digits
But in ripples and skipping stones.

Half a mile south
She bubbles and rolls
Laughing down the falls
Then breathing a long sigh
The stretch after love’s violence
She ignores those she didn’t beckon
In deference to fishers
In hip boots and waders
Hoping for trophies
Something to show
She touched them
Made them men.

I do not want mementos
Trinkets and souvenirs.
Give me her soul
River thoughts
Long passages
Adrift on liquid fire
The confluence
Of yesterday and tomorrow
Blending mysteries and magic
On her muddy banks.

Make a fire, she offers.
Stay with me
Sit your body down
There is room for you
Here beside me
Room enough.
I will reveal my secrets
Open my heart
Give myself
If you will stay.
I will display my charms.

But give me this night
And I will tease you
With night hawks and owls
The silver leap of trout
In evening’s waning light
If you will rest beside
My river fire.
Stay
She pleads.

Step into my stream.
Mingle with cool waters
From deep cisterns
Gurgling from northern rock
Gushing subterranean wells
Unfathomable and cold.

Wade out.
I will caress you with my current
Pressing toward southern deltas
Bracketed with cotton and wheat
Factories and farms.

Tonight stars will burn
Reflected in her deep eyes.
Perhaps then I will speak
Make myself known
Naked and unashamed
Before the bend
Where willows brush her hair

I will tell her
How lonely I’ve been
Show my empty heart
The callus of my soul
With her I will find words
To match the echo
Between my ribs.

And will tell her
I am waiting for a river
To carry me home.