The Run*

There’s no return
From whence I came
And if there were
It wouldn’t be the same.

If I could go back
And do it all again
I wouldn’t change a thing
Not who, what, or when.

I’d let everything happen
The pleasure and the pain
I’d let it all roll
Let it fall like rain.

All that has happened
Has made me who I am
Every tear and laugh
Times I walked, flew or swam.

I’m thankful for the journey
The straight-aways and the twists
The only regret I have
Are the experiences I’ve missed.

On the day I go meet Jesus
In His home up in the sky
I intend to go exhausted
When I come to die.

Every corpuscle and organ
Every finger and every toe
I want to go all used up
When my time has come to go.

I’m going to finish this 'ol rodeo
No matter if I lost, or if I've won
There won't be a whole lot left of me
From my time beneath the sun.
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*It should go without saying, but maybe it doesn't...by "Not changing a thing," I do not mean 9/11. I would do anything, give anything, pay any price to change that. This poem is strictly about the horses in my own corral.

Note to My Readers

Writing is such a lonely thing. It's like preparing a meal for a diner you'll never meet. I always wonder if there's too much, or too little seasoning. Is my meal too tepid to be appetizing? I simply put it out there and hope somebody has an appetite.

These poems are small slices of my life. They are, in no sense, a chronological disposition of my experiences. They describe all kinds of sorrows and pleasures, of every stripe and color...just like your life! We have all been loved, been hated, cheated, been cheated on, laughed, cried, lived and died. That's the human experience, and it transcends culture and language. All I'm trying to do is capture my experience and project it onto your screen. I'm just never certain it's in focus.

I selected the name Dashboard Poet not because of a computer "dashboard," but because much of my view of life comes across the dashboard of my truck (or sometimes over the dash of a patrol car. You see a lot of life in 20 years in that kind of transport!). My writing seems to ride a crest between free verse and rhyming poetry. I have little to say about that. It is what it is. I guess what comes "out of the tube" is what's "in the tube." Like toothpaste.

When I wrote for the papers, I knew my readership. I understood what they liked and disliked. When I'm asked to submit an article for a journal, I write to a target audience. I've noticed, according to the stats this blog supplies, I have readers from the UK, Germany, China, Russia, India, Slovenia, Canada, Denmark, Japan and the USA (and that humbles me). I do have one Polish reader...my wife! I don't know if readers just stumble in, and rush to leave as quickly as they can press the ejection switch, or enjoy what time they spend in The Dashboard Poet. I wish I knew what effect my work may have. Whatever the case, writing helps me express my spirit. Everybody needs an outlet; a release. This is mine. If you've read this far...Thank You! I truly hope you'll come back. There's always an empty rocker on my front porch, with your name on it. If you'll do me the favor of leaving a comment on what either pleases you, or displeases you, that'd be great. But if you don't, that's okay too. The rocker's still yours. I'm glad you're here.

~~ James

If Ever I Run*

There are moments
The pain may seize you
And fire the heart
As heat evaporates dew.

There are times
Of severe trial
The going all uphill
And every one an arduous mile.

Bow your neck
When the testing comes
Believe in yourself
Against the beating of the drums.

Find a faithful friend
Who has been this way before
Who knows what it’s like to suffer
And what the enemy has in store.

Commit to the fight
Prepare for the day
Of critical struggle
Come what may.

Meet your friend's gaze
Straight in the eye
And give this instruction
When time comes to die:

“Push me on when I falter
Give help, if I fall to my knee
If I stray, give me guidance
But if ever I run...Shoot Me!"

* The message contained in the last stanza is borrowed from the motto of the French Foreign Legion.

Oh, Mother

I can’t say I miss my mother
Because if I do
I think I’ll cry.
I can’t say I miss my mother
When I didn’t see her die.

That thing I saw in the box
Wasn’t her.
It was just a waxy little thing
And bore only the resemblance
A peasant may bear to a Queen.

I only hope she knew
I loved her
And what she meant to me.
I’m not sure I ever told her
It’s not in my memory.

She was such a gentle woman
With a bold
And indomitable heart.
Every time I think of her
Tears from my eyelids start.

Please rush and tell your mother
You love her
And how much she means to you.
Tell her before it’s too late
To do what you should do.

One day I’ll see my mother.
And she’ll hug me
To her breast
She’ll tussle my hair like she used to
And gather me to my rest.

Oh, mother, if you can hear me
I want you
To know I miss you every day.
And words just don’t do justice
To all I meant to say.

The Box

I took the gun out of the box
And turned gently it in my hands.
It felt smooth and warm to touch.
But I’d not had much use for it
Nor ever handled it that much.

I thumbed a single round
Into the magazine
Then slammed the cartridge home
Jacked the slide back to charge it
When my mind began to roam.

It took me to that night
In Blytheville
Many long years ago
When she said those wicked things
And she needed me to go.

Then I went back to that time
She said she wanted a divorce
And told me it was a mistake
To think
Love was something she could force.

I felt the checkered grips
Beneath my
Clammy, sweaty palm
My finger tensing on the trigger
But my mind focused and calm.

A parade of bitter memories
Filed by, one at a time
Each one worse than the last
And my pulse began to quicken
As each remembrance slithered past.

I felt the cold muzzle against my temple
Squeezed my eyes tightly shut
Took the slack up on the trigger
When a single word came from heaven
Something impossible to figure.

It was not a word heard by my ears
But one understood within my heart
That single word was “Don’t!”
I turned my face to God
And softly said, “I won’t.”

I did not really want to do this
I was just so incredibly sad.
I laid the gun down on the floor
And I cried a little while
Feeling heartbroken, weak and poor.

That was a long time ago
And it seems impossible today
I ever was that man
Who forgot how to walk
Much less how to stand.

But God uses time and love
To regenerate the heart.
He understands how to heal
And showed me that running is easy
Only after I’ve learned to kneel.

I still have the gun.
It’s in a case on my closet floor.
But it’s ironic, don’t you see?
It’s in a box forever now
When there was a time it might have been me.

The Sorrowful Man

He stood alone
In a wide, empty plain
Hat in his hand
Hair wet with rain.
His eyes
Were downcast
As though any joy
Were far in the past.

His lips trembled
A prayer
Winging on high
Through the damp air.
He pressed his hat
To his chest
Close to his heart
'Neath his worn vest.

The sorrowful man
Was lost in despair
And seemed to me
To be going no where.
Behind him, his horse
Stomped at the grass
As if to say
“This too shall pass.”

At his feet
I noticed a cross
Just a small thing
Marking his loss.
A tear fell
To the ground
On the turned soil
Without making a sound.

After much time
He spun on his heel
Preparing to go
The half turn of a wheel.
Then mounting his horse
He raked a spur down its side
Caught a fresh wind
And off he did ride.

But wet with the rain
Carved in the wood
He’d etched a name
And forever it stood.
“Amelia, my love”
Is all that it said
“Who parted this life
On the day we were wed.”

Mister

It’s a sorrowful thing
Ain’t it, mister?
To see how life just
Drifts away?

It’s a downright shame
Ain’t it, mister?
To have to go
When you want to stay?

And I was thinkin’
Just now, mister
‘Bout how love
Goes all to hell

When you do the best
You can, mister
Only to see it
All go down the well.

But, that’s how it goes,
Ain’t it, mister?
When you think
You’ve loved so hard and pure

Only to find out
Nothin’ matters, mister
‘Cuz love ain’t certain
Though you thought it was sure.

But I guess
That’s what I get, mister
For trustin’
A woman’s heart.

The crazy thing
About it is, mister
I thought we were
Off to a pretty good start.

I think I’ll just
Go now, mister
And get on
Down the road.

But it’s really
A damn shame, mister
‘Cuz a broken heart
Is a frightful load.

Softly Walk Away

I’ve got bruises
You don’t know about
And scars
You’ll never see.

I’ve got fears
I don’t talk about
From things that
Got past me.

I’ve got losses
I haven’t figured yet
Things that scare me
In the dark.

I’ve got memories
I can’t let go
That flames
Like gas burst by a spark.

I’ve got pains
That pills can’t touch
Sheer torment
In my soul.

And I’ve got pills
For every complaint
That push me
Deeper in my hole.

I’ve got demons
That shriek out loud
Driving me crazy
In my brain.

I’ve got enemies
You don’t know
That press me
Like a driving rain.

If you ever
Got to know me
I doubt
You’d stay for long.

Because if you
Really got to know me
It might cut the rhythm
From your song.

So thanks
For slowing down a bit
And sharing the time
Of day.

But for the sake
Of your own good soul
It’s best to softly
Walk away.

I'm Just a Memory, Baby

I tried so hard
To be your everything
Not just a shadow on your wall.
I meant to be more to you
But you never think of me at all.

I’m just a memory, baby
And you’re another night
Spent in the rain

Tonight I meant to shine for you
So, I thought I’d take a chance.
But I was just another grin
Another misstep in the dance
And your favorite little sin.

I’m just a memory, baby
And you’re another night
Spent in the rain.

Why is love so hard now, darlin’?
I really need to know.
I’m confused, and I’m in pain
But I’m just a memory, baby
And you’re another night spent in the rain.

I’m just a memory, baby
And you’re another night
Spent in the rain.

Taking a Breather

The nearer the crest
The thinner the air.

My lungs burn
Squeezing as much life
As possible
From what little’s available.

I need to slow down
And take a breather.

The closer the top
The looser the rock.

I’ve tumbled some
And dodged what loose shale I could
But I’ve taken a hit or two.
My body has the marks
As proof of struggles I’ve had.

The nearer the summit
The better the view.

Scanning the landscape
I see the rivers
Valley fog
And circling hawk.
I can see home from here.

Before I gain the peak
I think I’ll settle in
Drink some air
Tend my wounds
And enjoy the scenery.

It’s been a hard climb
But I’ve got time
Before dark falls.
I think I’ll hold on
Appreciate what it's taken
To get this far.

I'm taking a breather.

Are You Leaving?

Will I forget you
As my body stiffens
With age
As my fingers
Which once stroked your face
Bulge at their joints?

Will your memory dim
Along with my eyes
And the gleam of the sun recedes
As the glow of the moon fades
Will you leave
Along with light and shadow?

Will I lose you, too?
When my arteries harden
Will thoughts of you crust and break?
When I can no longer stand
Will your dear memory
Lay amid the clutter?

When taste becomes dust
Will I forget your sweetness
The ripe fruit of spring
Like jam on my tongue
Tart and dulcet
In my mouth?

Must I lose your voice
When my ears grow dull
When music ceases to please me
And the song of morning flies
And the droning cicadas die in the trees
Will the tintinnabulation of your voice leave?

Will you become a stranger
From whom I hide
In the shadows of alleys
And recessed doorways?
Will the knowledge of you
Chase me down dreams of foreboding streets?

Tell me, dear
Will I lose you, too?
Are you going
The way of autumn leaves
Along with the fire’s embers in my hearth?
I must know.

Are you leaving, too?

Nine Eleven -- Time Plus Distance*

This post colors outside the lines for which this site was created. It is neither poetry nor prose. It is an artcle I was asked to write by Dr. Olivia Johnson, editor of a law enforcement journal, based near St. Louis. As a 20 year veteran of law enforcement I have often been tapped to provide either commentary or personal presentation on topics near and dear to the hearts of officers and citizens. What follows is the content of my submission to the journal. The format prohibits proper indentation, and that's frustrating. I hope you'll overlook that. Its focus is the 10th anniversary of the attacks on our country on September 11, 2001. I pray our country be granted victory over the evils of terrorism. I pray we be consoled in our national grief. I further pray we return to that image of a nation long-ago cast for us by our founding fathers. My article speaks for itself, and beside it I firmly stand.
~ James Woods

Nine Eleven
Time Plus Distance

A melon sun rises beyond the apron at Dover Air Force Base. A hushed detail somberly lifts a flag draped casket from a C-17 Globemaster. Silent salutes honor the slain warrior. The body is on its stateside journey to a devastated family. The detail does an about face and returns into the cavern of the C-17 for another casket. And another. And another.
America slogs through its longest war. It’s so long, fifth grade students don’t remember a time we were not at war. Nearly 4,500 Americans have died as a result of our action in the Middle East. The ally who has suffered the second most battle deaths is the UK, who’ve lost under 200. Each loss has a common genesis.
September 11, 2001 is engraved on the American soul. We all remember where we were when the jets struck the Towers. We viewed endless replays of our buildings collapsing in smoke and dust. We’ve seen that slash in the Pennsylvania soil, caused by the heroic tumble of United Flight 93. Our Pentagon was in flames, our people dead. We knew, instantly, we were at war. Nobody had to tell us. There was no “day that will live in infamy” speech. Our families huddled and wept. We joined in religious services and prayed. We fixed flags to our cars. We sang “God Bless America,” a bit more loudly than before. We sent our sons and daughters to places so strange our American tongues had difficulty pronouncing the names. We smiled at “Shock and Awe,” and distantly felt the thunder of our bombs and rockets lighting the skies over Baghdad. We cheered when an American soldier hung our flag from the stony statue of Saddam Hussein. There was no pretending. This was payback. Revenge. And it felt sweet. It was sweet…until that C-17 landed with a box for you. Then it was bitter and terrible. But we still believe.
When the sun set on September 11, I was in uniform, standing before hundreds of citizens from my city. The mayor asked me to pray and say some encouraging words. It’s been ten years. I don’t remember what I said. When I finished, a sea of small candles winked to life, in the hands of those standing along both banks of the DuPage River. Somebody started to sing “God Bless America.” The tune was joined by a swell of many voices. When the song ended, there came a hush. A holy hush.
A little boy walked up to me. Tugging my pant leg, his little face looked into mine. I bowed to hear him. He said, “Thank you for protecting us.” I had nothing to say. I am paid to say things, but there was nothing to say. Eventually I choked out, “You’re welcome.” He smiled, and trotted back to his mom.
I drove home in silence that night. I kept hearing the little boy. “Thank you for protecting us.” And I understood what I still understand. There is little I can do to protect anyone. Not because I’m a chaplain, and don’t wear a weapon. But because there is always evil out there, determined to destroy what is good and pure. We can fight. We send our most precious to stand in the breech, to protect us. And they do. But the fingers of evil are rough and strong. Insistent. We may protect our way of life, but always at an enormous cost.
I fear for my country. Not because of what the enemy may do, but because of what we are doing to ourselves. When I look out my window, I no longer see a country at war. I see a country at ease. Cars no longer fly flags on the antennae. Nobody cheers our colors. At parades, when the honor guard passes, and our flag flutters in the breeze, crowds remain seated on the curb. Hands no longer move to cover hearts. A few old men stand to salute, and I firmly believe every one of them are vets, who’ve been to war. They know the price demanded to give those seated on their collective butts the freedom to do so.
Nine Eleven. Those words changed us forever. It’s outrageous what four syllables are capable of doing. I have been at nine memorial services, and soon it will be ten. We are accustomed to think in blocks of ten. The tenth, for whatever reason, seems to carry more weight than the ninth, or any previous number. There will be more dignitaries this year wanting podium time to make their remarks. More banners than last year. More flags. But less emotion. The further from a tragedy the less we feel the pain. The old saying is that “Time plus distance equals comedy.” We now make jokes like, “Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how was the play?” Time plus distance. Someday, in the far future, a late night host will take a crack at 9/11. We won’t be around to hear it, but it’ll happen. I remember a song from my early years that whined, “Please Mr. Custer, I don’t wanna go!” followed by the thwack of an arrow. Time plus distance.
Last week I attended a funeral. Among the mourners was a young soldier awaiting his second deployment. He looked sharp in his army blues. Later, he sat across from me at dinner. A few old Vietnam vets were in the restaurant, at a table behind ours. Before they left each of them approached the young soldier, saying “Good luck son, and thank you for your service.” I noticed that no one other than those vets did the same. But I’m not surprised. They were the few who understood we are still at war. For the rest, time is becoming distance. What will it be like at nine eleven’s twentieth anniversary? By the thirtieth or fortieth there will be few to no memorial services. A news commentator will note the date’s passing in his newscast. And for many, that ambivalence is already here.
But the C-17’s are still coming. And for as long as they come, and maybe longer, America is at war. I despise that footage showing bright yellow and orange flame blossoming from the top of the World Trade Center. It grieves me and aggravates some deep place in my soul. It angers me. I am a chaplain. I’m supposed to be a man of God, but that footage makes me want to grab a weapon and take my place at the wall. Of course, there is no real wall at which I may take my place. And there’s no gun big enough to rewind time and make it all go away. What’s left me is to do the best I can for my fellow citizens, and my country, every day. It’s the small steps that make the journey. It’s the single brick that makes the wall. It’s vigilance and determination that wins the war.
On September 11 I will put on my uniform and join my city as we commemorate the anniversary of the attacks. We will bow our heads and pray. We will sing patriotic songs, and salute the flag. In our city lives the family of a naval officer who lost his life in the Pentagon. They will be there to honor their husband, father and son. While there, I will scan the crowd for the young boy that thanked me for keeping him safe. But I won’t find him. He’s ten years older now. He may be in uniform protecting me. I just hope to God he isn’t on a C-17.

* Two days following the writing of this article a Chinook helicopter, with its crew, and servicemen including a compliment of Navy SEALS was shot down by Taliban insurgents in Afghanistan, as they came to the assistance of Army Rangers, who were taking fire. It is to their memory, and faithful service this article is dedicated. May God comfort their families, and their memory ever live among us in honored glory.