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.

Tell Me

How strange it seems
You should be where we last sat
In the dappled sun
Of late afternoon.

Cars moved slowly down the boulevard
Headed to suburban homes
While we leaned against the Parthenon
Home to Athena, and memories
Of whispers and glances.
We were like school children
Bashful and hesitant.

You wrote
You had returned
You were leaning against our wall
You missed me
You said.

Tell me
Was my shadow
Lingering in golden light?

I was wondering.
I have not cast one since

The Call of the Scavenger

Time has carved my face
Softened my eyes
Saddened my smile.
I watch myself
Like a farmer his field.

My land is changing
Soil eroding.
In coming days
I will scarcely remember
Who I was.
I will fade
Like summer grass.

This face
Once caressed, kissed
Now weathered and creased
Like an old saddle
Slung over a ranch rail
Remembers better seasons.

This body
Once companion
To your passion
Is becoming the frame
Of an old man.

But life persists.
There is unfinished work
Unfurrowed acres
Seed unplanted
Harvests ungathered.

The sun is waning
And the call of the scavenger
Is in the trees.

Let the ravens find me planting.

Storm Arkansas

There is nothing between me
And sky violence
But this tin roof.

Only water damaged ceiling tiles
With coffee-colored stains
Separate me from climatic danger.

Even the cicadas hush.
Silent too the night birds
Temporarily voiceless, all creatures.

Large water drops pelt
This red soil, and
Gush head-high geysers.

Eight miles east
The St. Francis River
Threatens her banks.

Thunder shouts
With a vehemence other-worldly
Shaking my bones and walls of my home.

Those who understand
Their tether to the soil
Hold their breath and pray.

Ozone and earth
Mingle freshness
In a land long stale.

I drink the cooling night air
Filling my lungs
With vitality.

Air this dusty soul
Freshen the winds I drink
And usher me through this perilous dark.

My Fossil

You will find my fossil
One morning.
Opening a book on native lore
An old note spills to the floor
Words gentle, and warming.

Yellowed and creased
You will urge it to reveal
Sentiments remaining
Indelible, but fading
Scribed below a golden seal.

A quiet day will come
Zenithed in bright noon
Framed in mourning dove’s song
And you will grieve me gone so long
Seized by the sad bird’s tune.

You will find my fossil
My hankie in your drawer
A verse or two I wrote
My kiss upon your throat
As I held you at your door.

You will find my fossil
By happenstance or fate
Curiosity, or divine will
And, you will love me still
Though it is far, far too late.

A Haunting

My windows are filled with night.
Car tires hiss from wet pavement.
From the bedroom radio:
If it makes you happy
It can’t be that bad.
If it makes you happy
Then why the hell am I so sad?

You are present in absence.
I experience you
Like a hovering ghost
Haunting this space
Between my ears
My belly
Fingertips
Soles of my feet
Empty arms.

I search from dark windows
Twist in rumpled bedding
Step across creaking floorboards.
Because I hear you
Feel you under my palms
See your shadow chasing mine
Taste you on my tongue
Smell your warm body.

I hurt
In every corner of this house
Sigh
From every doorway…

Until my eyes get used to
Not seeing you.

Along the Tall Grass

Dragonflies helicopter
Above the green pond.
The air moist
Heavy with the tang and musk
Of what is returning to earth.
Years collect here
Each like the other.
Nothing to mark peculiarities.

Tomorrows ribbon ahead
Like highways
Bordered by tattered signs and
Communities of crows.

Yesterday is wrapped in paper
Stored in the soul’s cedar chest
Its lid fastened and sealed
Where treasures repose
Unmolested by time.

This moment is the only presence
I have
This lungful of warm
Midwestern air.

My chest expands until I ache.

But the moment tumbles
Falling
Turning like a leaf
In a gale
Blown into a wire fence
Along the tall grass…
And all that remains is
Yearning.

Poet’s Dread

What will I do when words stop?
When they turn to dust
Corpses in the tomb of my heart?

What will I do when words grow silent?
Mute, stony things
Unreadable hieroglyphs
Without phonics
Without vibration?

What will come when words die?
When they no longer breathe
Gathering precious air
Filling, expanding lungs
With sweet life?
What then?

My fingers will play across the keys
Caressing, like a lover teasing
But they will not respond.
The time is coming when they will not kiss me
Will not move
Undulating
Giving and receiving life.

What will become of me
When I’ve nothing to offer
Nothing to give?
Empty spirit in a world begging thought
Demanding expression
Giving form and body
To common emotion.

Words are bread
In a baker’s oven
But I will have no yeast to rise the dough.
Tell me, if you can
What will come of me then?

Enchanted Language

Summer spangled the lake
Fiercely blazing in
Water diamonds.

You spoke
An enchanted language
Melodies
I’d never heard.

An August afternoon
Thermals rising
Building anvil clouds
High above wheat fields
Stretching westward.

I remained
Long after you left.

The weather closed
Around me
Brooding
Menacing.

Saber lightening
Strobed like howitzers
And I sat
Missing your voice.

Spanish Guitar

You play my flesh
Like a Spanish guitar
With notes keening
As though
Until this moment
I were ignorant
Of my purpose.

Bringing me to your body
You hold me
As one who understands
My construction
The build of my form.

Your delicate
Sure fingers
Pluck at my core
Coaxing from each string
A symphony.
Surprised, I marvel
At the opus
I couldn’t know
Was within.

And I yield to your touch.

Vibrating in torrid tones
I soar in Eros song
Your fingers deftly
Pressing then release
Sliding and gliding
Along the scale
Of the music
You call from me.

I await you
In a shadowed corner
Latent, cold
Eager for your touch
Needing you to again
Make melody of me.

Greyhound

I rode Greyhound
Heavy tires slapping broken concrete
Farms and villages sliding away
Fields in brown stubble
Furrowed in rows.

Conversation muted
Cool air seeping from vents
Mixing the faint odor of diesel
And unwashed bodies.

The white-haired old woman beside me
Shows me pictures of her grandkids
Splashing in a hotel pool.
I have no picture of you.

Thoughts, memories are deferred
Replaced by roadside curiosities
Gym shoes tied and slung over high lines
Shot gunned Coca Cola signs
And sad little towns with Pay Day Loan stores
Tattoo Parlors and Laundromats.
Sleep comes as a mercy.

I dream you are with me
Legs across my lap
The way you nap on Sundays.
I smell the shampoo fragrance in your hair
Listen to the rhythm of your breath
Watch your breasts rising and falling
Smile as I reckon myself your tourist
Grateful for every view of your wonders
Like the landscape beyond the tinted windows.

The bus sways gently
Rocking in the cross wind
Stirring reeds near the fence line
Beyond the shoulder of the road
Moving the way we did
Dancing in the dark
To songs from the radio
Pulling in distant signals.

Midnight static.

I awake to see a white barn
With bright, painted roof:
See Merrimac Cavern
And my stomach growls
Reminding me I have not eaten today.

But, I hunger for you
Hundreds of miles gone.

The Cost of Goodbye

This is the day for goodbye
And we shall drain from it
All goodness
All dewy sentiment
All rosy-cheeked health
Leaving it bloodless
And pale
Upon this altar of farewell.

Let us part
With full face
The whole of sorrow
Expressed without blushing sentiment.

Spare neither our hearts
Nor spirits.
Let our pain
Be apparent
Wide-eyed
And thunderstruck.

Let us not be dignified in parting.
We must not conceal our wounds
Or bandage our hearts.
Let pain flow in wide, surging rivers
Overwhelming their banks
Sweeping before it all comfort.

Let the levee break
And the waters of grief
Swell the good land.

Let cyclones take the farms
Despoiling tender fields
Full of golden grain.

Let mighty waves break upon the sandy reaches
Rendering paradise fearsome
And tropic isles a reproach.

Let the earth break asunder
And hurl its treasures into the void
All the art and industry of the ages.

Then goodbye will be the devastation it is.

The Pressure From Within

Trying to remember the curve
Of your lips
The graceful shell of your ears
Blush of sun on your cheeks
All I could envision was
An invention of my imagination:
The ascent of a red balloon
Rising against the china blue
Of an April morning.

Eyes shut hard
I persisted
Firm in the belief
That I could recall every detail of your body
Freckles and moles
The hollow at the base of your throat
Grace of your breasts
Swell of your thighs
Flat plain of your stomach
Abundance of auburn hair
Cascading around your gentle shoulders.

But, all I could see
On the screen of my mind
Was the red balloon
Darting, diving
Regaining altitude in persistent departure
Moment by moment further from me.

On it climbed
Until, as brilliant punctuation
In the sky of that beautiful spring morning
The pressure from within exceeded that from without
And it was gone.

What I needed of you was falling
In bits of twisting
Red pieces.

And I came to understand that some things
Are past retrieving.

I try to gather you with words
Structuring nouns and daubing verbs
But it is futile.

The more of you I gather
The less of you I have.

The pressure from within
Exceeded that from without
And you were gone.

A Lamentation

Shall I tell the trees you’ve gone?
They commune with the night sky
Singing mournfully.
Stars and comets serve as choir
Bringing forests to weep.

Maple, poplar, pine and ash
Sway like bodies grieving
Oak, walnut and hickory
Lift their arms
Sorrowing
Clouds canopy; tents of solace.

I shall tell the trees.
Sister willow will shake
Her long hair.
Father birch
Presides over my sorrow
Priestly, robed in white.

Without you
I wander as a child
Of storms
Suckled by wind
Brother to lonely woodlands.

Until you return to this valley
All nature laments.

I must tell the trees you’ve gone.

Selfish

I watched your tongue slide between your lips
And thought of clouds drifting.

Of all I remember
Why is it that I recall?
It ferments in the wine cellar of memory.

You speak to my heart
Though you have been silent many years
And generations shall molder
Before I hear you again.

I remember whispered promises
Breaths of longing
Gasps of desire
Inscribed by indelible quill of spirit.

You would wait
Arms open
To receive me
Like a silver maple
Opens to November winds
Though those winds strip its last leaf.

I took more than I gave.

I have little to comfort me
These empty nights.
What most moves me is
Remembering open arms.

And your tongue slipping between your lips
Like clouds over wheat fields.

Star Gazing

I have moments of clarity
In which I see more
Than is possible to retain.

I perceive life
Twisting away
Like smoke from embers
Fires, banked
Glowing in memory.

My thoughts spin away
As sparks flee upward
Far into nights
Turned on their end
Ebbing into space
Merging with planets and stars
Twinkling and shining
Like celestial exclamations
Poetry of light and grace.

I wonder what returns
From tidal pools of cosmic light.
What splashes us
Whetting imagination and appetite?
So much more, I suspect
Than the meager bread
I have cast upon these waters.

The Iris of God

Midnight glistens.
I gaze deep stars
Pulsing white and red
Starring into
The iris of God.

Some say He speaks
In thunders
The sound of many waters.
I say He is silent.

As silent as my father
Smoking in the kitchen
In the early hours
Smoke wafting in the dark
His cigarette tip glowing.

I watch the ash burn
Red and magnificent.
The iris of God.

Blue Line Highways

I fly above
Like a barnstormer
Marking blue line highways
Of veins
Across your shoulders
Twin peaks of your breasts
To your belly’s table land
Disappearing into shadows
Of secret places
Untying satin laces.

High above
Wind jetting my hair
I rise on thermals
Dive for kisses
Then soar above your sighs
My shadow on your thighs.

Standing on my wing
I mark a ribbon
Of robin egg blue
At the surface of your throat
And follow it
Tracing a highway
Dotted with freckles
Like towns
On a glove box map
Down the valley of your lap.

You lie still, unprotesting
Allowing me this foolish pleasure.
Enjoying you
I memorize every feature
Of your skin
Pleased to go where I’ve already been.

I will grow old with you
Our bodies sagging
Like century-old barns
Neglected
Returning to dust
Remembered in lust.

Someday, I will close my eyes in age
To see you once more
Stretched upon the earth
While I fly above
Like a hungry hawk
Searching prey along your blue line highways
'Neath my constant gaze.

My Competitor

Morningside along the wisteria
Enveloped you in a Renoir wash
Rose hues blending yellow-orange
Blue in the shade
Riming your dimples
And for the first time
I grew jealous of light.

The grape arbor held your hand
All the way to the street
You moved in rhythm to
The call of delicate things
The hum of creation
And as your footfall counted time
I despised melody.

A tear coursed your cheek
Turning at the flair of your nostril
Tripping across your lips
Pausing at your chin
To fall on the soft curve
Of your breast
And I became angry with salt.

Night wind lifted your hair
Fluttering it into banners
Of a proud army
Or a jubilant people along castle walls
Each strand not unlike shimmering stars
Drifting down dark rivers
And I hated sight.

All that touches you is my competitor
Every breath of spring
Rustle of petals
The movement of air cooling your temples
Of which I am jealous.

How I long to be the one to
Plant a smile upon your bow-like lips
To make your joy complete.

Everything that pleases you
And brings your heart to sing
I must be.

Isaac’s Kindling

I’ve carried them many years
Bundled on my back
Like Isaac’s kindling
But not for sacrifice
No, not for burning.

Over arduous miles
I’ve carried them
Bent beneath their weight
Thinking myself strong
For refusing to lay them down.

Laced upon my heart
I’ve borne them
Dedicated to the struggle
A warrior-poet
Trusting for a worthy cross.

I’ve carried them all my life
Believing God saw
Approved of my strength
Hoping for mercy
Equal to their weight.

Isaac’s kindling
Seeking an altar
A sweet-smelling savor
But not for sacrifice
No, not for burning.

Little Feet

You said you couldn’t do this any more
And the phone went dead
Exactly what I knew you’d say
At your last call.

You worried I would chase you
Persistent in my quest.
Did I surprise you?
I made no effort.

Once that pattern is begun
I would have chased you forever
Out the door, down the highway
Seeking your arms and charms.

Not being Atlas
I cannot hold your world.
You are free.
Run fast, little feet, run.

He who does not love you
Awaits you.
The honorless
Honors you.

Run fast, little feet, run.

Sweet Relief

Narcotics flood my body
Tributaries and streams of blood
Moving sweet relief to extremities
And I feel my pulse slow.

The angel sits beside me
On the quilt my mother made
Beyond sight
Far away, but so close.

The pain that burned
Throbbed and slashed remains
But I am gone, looking down
My body tangled in the sheets.

I cannot think
Past comprehension
But I am aware
I have lost this fight.

Little capsules
Yellow and orange
I hold death in my palm
Wondering how long it will take.

The Sudden Tumble

I guess I’ll forever be looking
Over my shoulder
Into the yawning cavity
Of yesterdays
Wondering if the pursuer is closing.

Such is the ransom of loss.

No one over thirty sleeps well.
They will tell you they do
But the crows feet
At the corners of their eyes
Betray them.
That comes from staring into the sun
Reading the fateful inscription
Scribed in fiery ink.

Keep walking
I tell myself.
Don’t stop here
I say
As if constancy
And determination
Will cheat the hangman.

But truth is certain
And vengeance sure.
It isn’t the distance of the pursuit
That’s troubling.
It’s the sudden tumble into the void
That’s hard.

Lazy Eights

Isn’t it strange
This turning of the wheel
Drawn on the sky?
Like lazy eights
And the breathless way I feel
As I watch the biplane fly.

What a turning we have been
Twisting in the air
End falling over end
Coming back to earth
Devil may care
Without wingman or friend.

Would that daring flamed you
As it did my soul
Weightless tossing of the heart
Horizons lost
Craft falling in a long, slow roll
Nearly tearing me apart.

You flew one way
I another.
In time, our time had passed.
Any heat I feel, I vent
The breath I have, I smother
Knowing nothing ever lasts.

So, pardon this sense of awe
And how I seem to reel.
It’s bent within my frame
And the nature of my flaw
To act on what I feel
And play my token in this game.

It’s like lazy eights
Etched upon the blue
Stark white, and strong
A testament to fates
The old becoming new
No matter right or wrong.

Write this on the sky
Let the Ariel song be sung
In verse bright and bold:
Let us live before we die
And be young
Before we’re old!

Static

So much time
So many things
Between us.
You are background noise
And the static of
Things lost.

Pain seems to come from
My fingertips
Like electricity
Sparking and lighting
This unfamiliar path
And all I know
Is the keening ache
Of realizing you
Are past knowing
Are irretrievable
And I will not see you
Cannot take you into my arms
Again.

We are citizens of different times.

Long Yesterdays Ago

She will walk into a bookstore
Scanning titles in the cooking section
Selecting Caribbean Grilling.
Checking her watch
She turns toward the cashier.

Near the register
My book of poetry leans
Like a drunken sailor
On shore leave.

What poor conversationalists are books
Incapable of dialogue.
But oh, they flirt!
Demanding attention
Chattering endlessly
Pleading to be chosen
Taken home…
Like she did me
Long yesterdays ago.

Her heart flutters
Body warms
Trembles.
She smells the pages
Wanting me in the scent
Papery pure.

Remembering.

Lifting my book
She reads the dedication
To One Whose I Am
Whispers my name
Phonics unspoken for years.
In her sweet voice.

Her fingers trace the curves
Of my written name
The way they smoothed my skin
Caressed my face
Lying in her lap
Long yesterdays ago.

She cannot take my book home
Cannot have it on the night stand
Hidden under linens
Behind the shoes.

Dangerous.
The dead must remain dead.

My book of poetry
Inspired by her
My muse
Is rejected
Shunned
Title reversed on the shelf.
She cannot allow it to watch her exit
The way she did me
Long yesterdays ago.

But she remembers.

On a Better Night

My fingertips map your face
Brows
Bridge of your nose
Cheeks
Bow-like lips above
A chin
Mounded like a wind-smoothed slope.

I brush a sweep of hair from your eyes
Curling fingers behind your left ear
Cupping it like a small conch shell
Your breath comes
As a midnight sea
Vapory, lifting toward stars.

Lying on your belly
Your graceful back
Rises and falls
Shoulders like sand dunes
Brown and unmarred
To the sloping oasis
The small of your back
Swell of your buttocks
Stretch of muscled legs
Feet cantered like exclamation points.

The essential you
Body of earth and salt
Hair like willow branches
Breath expelled as benediction.

How I would press you to my soul.
Like a potter his clay
A baker his bread
A farmer his seed.

Or make of you heat and light
Drawing you like an ember from the brand
Blasting orange
Sparking in the dark of my forge.

But I content myself in your sleep
As you await my touch
In deeper dream
On a better night.

Midnight Crossing

I count the cars
At the midnight crossing
Feel the wind stir
Unzipping the dark cornfield.

I listen to thunder
Laden with coal
Hewn from rich veins
In Southern Illinois.

Graffiti, like words afire
Scrawl across each surface
Bright orange and red
Green and black
Blaze in the wash of headlights
And pulsing warning flashers.

Windows down, radio off
The hypnotic rhythm of the train
Crescendos in the night
I, the sole audience.

Certain scents ride a strong memory
Diesel and corn
Broken clods and mown hay
The musk of sweat
And an mysterious something
I thought was lost
Returns to me here.

Was it that night at the carnival, in ‘73
Suspended over the park
Rocking together
In The Spinner?
I was so sure then.

Maybe the gulf, in ‘86
Lying on the rocks
Faces skyward
The ballast of a thousand ships
At our feet?

The autumn of ‘95
At the Café de Monde
Bursting with life?

Listen.
Listen.
Because suddenly, it is silent.
The red light on the last car
Blinks
Blinks
Disappearing
Into the night.

I am alone with memories
Awkward in their company.
I am a poor host
And a poorer steward.
But I must recover the source of
That prodigal scent.

And suddenly it returns to me.
Restored by a coal train
At a midnight crossing.

Putting the car into gear
I bump across the steel ribbon
Still hearing the squeal of steel on steel
Remembering that distant time and place
Knowing I will spend the rest of the night
Trying to forget.

Time Wolf

I never considered time
A process
A natural sequencing
Of events
That either ties
Or separates us
One from another.

From this perspective
My lack of understanding is
Catastrophic
A failure of massive proportion.

When I was with her
Time was nothing
But a theory
Better left in textbooks
And dry addresses
By preachers and professors.

Lying with her
There
Was
No
Time.

There was nothing but
The sweetness of her breath
Softness of her body
The intoxication
Of her arms.

Ask me now and I will tell you
Time is a wolf
Relentlessly pursuing
The prey of memory
Wrestling it to the hard
Cold soil
Savagely reducing it to
White bone and cartilage
Stripped of warm flesh
And drained of blood
That once was love.

Her Fingers

Her fingers
Play in my hair
And I think of evening rain
Lovers racing the coming storm
And ice cream
Churned on a wide front porch.

Her fingers are long
Slender
Soft
Like early winter snow on blades of grass.

Her fingers
Styled for dancing across my body
Brings me to attention
The way a farmer coaxes life from loam.

Her fingers
Play in my hair
Like children chasing fireflies
Laughter ringing in the dark.

Her fingers
Play in my hair
The way she dips her toes in a stream
Traces the bridge of my nose with her finger
Or absently brushes a ladybug from her arm.

Her fingers
Comb my hair
Raking patterns in my soul
Like a Zen priest toils
To bring order and calm
To his garden of sand.

Her fingers
Play in my hair
While I imagine how to repay
Her affection
In ways that might draw butterflies
With no fear of capture.

Coughing Up the Universe

I coughed up the universe last night.
It tumbled from my lips
In a violent spasm
Bouncing from the walls of my room
Alarming my dog
With its sheer size
Annoying star clusters
And pesky black holes.

It left me tired
Sore and perplexed.
Coughing up the universe
Is hard work.
I feel guilty for the interruption
Of all those disturbed lives.

What would my old physics professor say?
The one that insisted on verifiable data.
My philosophy prof?
So much for existentialism.

I dusted the universe off
Carefully placing it in a mayo jar
With holes punched in the lid
(Lessons learned from dead fireflies
In the summer of my tenth year.)

I shook it up a bit
Checking for life.
But it wasn’t in good condition when I got it.

Einstein and the Pope agree:
It’s all about mass.

Deep Calls to Deep

I will never see you again.

The moment I cleared the hill
Losing sight of you
I knew.

Years will blur.
I will pass through cities
Leave my track in snows and sand
Remain young in your memory
But I will age
Like leather and wine.

Faces will gaze into mine.
My arms will hold others
As wrapper to souls.

But I will never see you again.

Yet, my soul speaks.
You will feel
In your belly
A vibration
Deeper than language.
You will understand
And you will know.
Deep calls to deep.

I will wait
Beyond the next rise
Around the bend in the road
Where the mirage shimmers
On summer highways
Above the timberline
In cold mountain air
Where light is lost in ocean trenches
In laughter of children
Midnight wind whispering at your gables.
You will hear me
When you can’t sleep.

Listen, please
Listen.

Deep calls to deep.

Sweet Wood

Chips and bits of lumber
Tumbled through the afternoon sun
Gold and gleaming pine dust
Fragrance the air
As dad ripped lumber
For the next day’s work
The saw blade spinning and screaming
The tortured complaint
Painful to my ears.

Strange that memory falls upon me
As I watch you spin away
The bits and chips of what
I knew as love
Flying and falling
Through the morning air
My soul screaming
Screeching
Words slashing
And sore.

I carry
The marriage
Of those memories
Like pictures in a wallet
The union of dad at his saw
And you turning like the blade
Shredding and tearing
The sweet woody pulp
At my core.

Bleeding Light

Long on the vine
As promise
For tomorrow’s glass
Blood red
Or mint-clear
Chilled or warm
It holds its pledge.

Grapes will burst
Ripe, sweet
Rich with life.
Bruised
Crushed
Fermenting
Wine for tomorrow
Will fill oaken barrels
With spangled slanting suns.

Press these rays into bleeding light
Sleeping in casks
Hidden in cellars
Dark and deep.

Wait for bleak seasons
When hope sleeps
Then tap the barrel
Fill emerald bottles
And drink.

Let pregnant time give birth
To savored suns
Long waiting for such a thirst as this.

Pompeii

The dusty excavation
Revealed an amazing sadness
A bittersweet testament
To love’s power to bridge
The unspeakable chasm
The eternal abyss
Of pain and death.

There, curled like an apostrophe
One around the other
Were the skeletons
Of two lovers
Each grasping the other
Sharing their last refuge
In the moment of death.

Above where they lay
Into that inglorious sky
Belched fire, smoke, suffocating ash
Strangling all but tender affection
From the throats of two
That knew the other
As an anchor of peace.

One’s finger lifts the chin
Of the other
While the other’s arm
Embraces the one whose eyes
Held the only hope there was
In the hell
Of that moment.

They had no need of flesh or sparkling eyes
To depict their desire for the other
To the archeologists who would find them
Beneath layers of silt and ash.

Even empty eye sockets and vacant rib cages
Are fitting frames
For the majesty of love

Note to Readers

Thank you for reading my poetry. Your comments will be helpful, and appreciated. My intention is not so much to address the human experience, as to record my own experience. There are occassional exceptions to that premise. Your job is to decide which is which (grin).

My poetry is printed bi-monthly in the Chicago, south-side's trade newspaper, The Shopper. Point your browser to myshopper.biz and click on "Columnists" directly beneath the masthead. Scroll to The Dashboard Poet, and click on me. There is an opportunity to leave a comment there as well. It is uncommon for a paper to host a poetry page. You can support my page by favorable comments. Of course, you can as easily torpedo my page. But I hope you won't. Mama always said if you can't something nice about someone....lie.

Dust Motes

Dust Motes

Clad in a white robe 

Standing before me 

Nothing was between us 

But dust motes 

Floating in a shaft of Morning sun. 

Only I Had knowledge of you 

To see the faintest 

Turn of a smile 

Upon your lips 

As you let the robe fall.

 

I might have moved 

Toward you 

Might have taken you 

In my arms 

Except dancing dust motes 

Captured my attention 

Taunting me 

Suggesting it’s 

The faint things I fail to notice 

That divides the hubris in me 

From the passion in you. 

Brilliant sunlight 

Etching the pores of your skin 

In bright relief 

Aroused me 

Though I am a frequent explorer 

Of your terrain. 

But dust motes 

Transfixed me 

Mesmerized me 

Pirouetting in streams of light 

Drawing me through its galaxy 

To establish 

My constant orbit around you.

Spin Cycle

Spin Cycle

It’s easy to fall in love 

In this little piano bar 

Her smoky voice worrying over 

Till There Was You 

Nursing a gin and tonic 

Long, black tresses swept to one side 

Like a tent flap 

Open to her secret places. 

Harder to find love 

At the All-Nite Laundromat 

Drums spinning 

Soap and bleach stinging the moist air 

Coat hangers tangled 

Rattling in wire carts 

Florescent lights pushing back the night. 

At the piano bar I’d freshen her drink 

Put on a crooked smile 

Like a rumpled shirt. 

Look at those long legs 

Stretching like divided highways 

Into the dark tunnel of that red skirt. 

I’d ask her name 

And she’d say 

Call me what you want to, baby. 

Her name’s Roxy 

Her drink’s just fine 

And those long legs have walked on 

Better men than me. 

But there’s no room for piano bars 

At the All-Nite Laundromat 

Where I have a date 

With two weeks of laundry 

And both my shirts and heart 

Are on spin cycle.

The Thundering Dark

The Thundering Dark

Two o’clock in the morning 

Thunder rattles the panes 

Vibrating bottles of perfume and cologne 

Loosely arranged on the dresser. 

My eyes fix on a point 

Deep in the night. 

Her presence flavors the room 

Steady breathing at my side 

Her right leg thrown across my thigh 

Pinning me to the sheets. 

My mind is already at my desk 

Making mental notes 

Of tasks needing completion 

Calls to make 

Files to close. 

But she’s so distracting 

Inviting All the pleasures of the flesh 

The joy of the shaking night. 

 

Just a nudge would wake her 

The trace of a fingertip across her throat 

Kiss upon her chin 

A promise waiting the welcome. 

In the kitchen my cup waits. 

Hot, strong coffee will steam 

In just four hours 

When I will miss the sleep 

That eludes me now 

With her leg 

Thrown over me 

So inviting In the thundering dark.

What a Wonderful Thing

What a wonderful thing are hands
To soothe the inner ache
To communicate by touch.
What a wonderful thing
Are hands.

I have heard the phonics of love
Sound communicated
By vibration of vocal chords
Striking the inner ear
Passing information.

I have seen the activity of love
The spent bodies
Gifts of service
Time offered in duties real
And supposed.

All those things lovers do
I have done
And have received
But none of which mean
I was loving, or being loved.

Then you entered my world.
You did nothing
Others did not do.
The difference was the reason
You had for all you did.

You saw me for who I am
Let me see you for who you are.
And you touched me
In ways no other lover could
For motives as pure as December snow.

What a wonderful thing are arms
To pull me from the wreckage
To hold me like the child I am inside.
What a wonderful thing
Is love.

Journey of the New Wolf Moon

Journey of the New Wolf Moon

A bone moon travels across new snow

Casting light and shadow.
Livestock sleep in scattered hay
Where the cold and lowly go.

Woody fingers probe the night
Stretching toward the new Wolf Moon
Grasping lunar glory
Lighting fields like noon.

Hush, hear fettered wisdom
Lying mute in snow
Past speech and reason
Beyond what we think or know.

Rabbit tracks lead toward brush
And dog tracks point toward home
But human tracks scale mountains
They meander and they roam.

The universe is a snowflake
And heaven hides in those
Who find their lives in shadows
And their destiny in snows.

Rivers of Legacy

Where the sidewalk ends
Past the poplars
Near the pasture with the liquid-eyed Guernsey
Red dust rises
In Arkansas air
To fall like powder
On my sleeping fathers.

Limestone markers
Dimmed by age
Tilt above Scotch-Irish bones.
Bones that worked this poor soil
Coaxing cotton from clay
Bottomland hardly worth the spit that watered it.

Those old lips gunned tobacco juice on June bugs.
Hands, hard and calloused
Fingers, cracked and bent
Harnessed dray mules
Slaughtered hogs
Skinned deer
Thumped the noggins of rowdy boys
In the pews at Mt. Hebron.

Bones of mothers
With wide hips
Strong backs
Bent to hoeing endless rows
To laundry cauldrons
Stretching lines of clothes
Sagging with blue jeans
Overalls and chambray shirts.
Fingers snapped beans
Wiped noses
Tickled ribs
Fingers sliced by cotton bolls
And folded in prayer.

Hard eyes
Sanded by haze and heat
Seared by summer suns
Saw too much of too little
Besought heaven for rain and blessing.
Eyes that said more than tongue allowed.

Broken hearts buried babies on this weedy knob.
Bodies lie here smelling of dirt and hogs
That knew the pleasures of moonshine and sweet tea
Bodies that cursed broken plows
And delighted in brush arbor revivals.

Bodies decay here that labored and loved
That knew night only as prelude to day.
Fathers and mothers moldering here
Whose sepia images burn behind my eyes.

Out where the sidewalk ends
Beyond the poplars and fences
On a hill salted by suns and stars
Lay the seeds of my inheritance
Whose budding I am.

In my veins their blood flows
Rivers of legacy
Refusing to die.

~~~~~

This post has it orgin in a small dusty graveyard in Greene County, Arkansas. My family has been interred here for more than a century. Hard-working share-croppers who lived lean lives with both joy and despair lay in that hard soil. Every time I visit I remember that the degree of separation between myself and them is not that great. They are who I am, and as much as I endeavor to grow, I am who they are.