A Glimpse at the Monarch

Several have asked about my Monarch Butterfly. I have also referred to her as my “Ghost.” She is at the core of much of my poetry, though I am uncertain she knows. Maybe she visits this site. I don’t know. She will always be my muse.

Thirteen years ago I was in bad shape. A traumatic brain injury, while not robbing me of physical abilities, did leave me in extreme neural pain. Often the pain would mimic a heart attack, and leave me writhing in agony. I was alone in a world of hurt. Admiral Hyman Rickover famously said, “God, your sea is so big, and my boat is so small.” I understood that. And then came Monarch. She flitted into my life with grace and ease. But I was a bitter, hard man, packed with anger and disillusion. I trusted no one. But Monarch loved me. She did so without boundary, and loved me with grace and ease. She was cold water to a parched man. I loved her. We were together less than a year. Most things transitional are also sudden. Her gift to me was not in letting me love her. That was easy. Her gift was teaching me I was worth loving. She restored my dignity. The man I’ve become is due to Monarch. I learned love’s amazing truth…if you can let one person love you, you can also open yourself to the world.

Monarch’s are migratory in nature. And like her namesake, she could not stay. Neither could I impose my will upon her. She left on a Christmas Eve. I have neither seen, nor heard from her since. But she changed me. I wish I could tell you more. The story begs revelation, and were it up to me, I’d tear away the veil and let you see her in all her beauty. But I promised her I would hold her in my heart, for me only. A gentleman keeps his promises. But when you read my love poems, you’ll see Monarch in my garden. It’s best to let the regal creatures fly. They are much more pleasing when they paint the sky with color. They are not so beautiful with their wings pinned, lifeless, under glass.

Thank you for your kind expressions concerning my craft. I enjoy sharing my thoughts, and it gratifies me if you can see something of yourself in my words. I've learned the world is often cold, and dangerous. But it can also be beautiful and amazing. We live between the extremes. I wish you beauty. I wish you peace. But most of all, I wish you love. You're worth it.

~~ James

MERRY CHRISTMAS & HAPPY 2013

I wish you a very Merry Christmas, and hope your holiday will be filled with friends and family, lots of good food, and surprises under the tree. Let's deeply remember that Jesus is the Reason for the Season. Without Him I'd be in a world of hurt. He's made all the difference in my life, and I hope you know Him, too. God bless all who read The Dashboard Poet, all over the world! ~~~ James
p.s.~~~ Merry Christmas, Monarch!

Herod’s Sword at Sandy Hook

Morning’s light is pallid yellow
And feverish on my skin.
All is wrong
And will nevermore be right.

Children fell before the monster
And with them their teachers
All gone
Vanished in the smoky smear.

I cry
Oh, darlings, come back to us!
Come back and prove this a terrible dream!
Visions of hell!

But it is not a dream.
They are not coming back.

Encircling angels weep with us.

All the shining lights
And bright sentiment
Is scattered and shattered
With the babes that fell
On a December Friday morn.

Blood thirst
From Herod’s sword
Is never sated.

O, Sweet Jesus
Hear our prayer.

12/12/12......Just Thinking.......

It's Dec. 12, 2012. Or 12/12/12. Everybody knows that, and writers with far more ability than I will comment on this today, so I won't try to get all poetic. Instead, I'll be mathmatical.

The next time the year spins around to be this orderly, and in sequence, it will be January 1, 2101....or 1/1/1. That's 91 years away, or 1,092 months, or 56,784 weeks, or 397,488 days, or 9,539,712 hours, give or take. My calculator started overheating when it tried to calculate the number of seconds. What, you may ask, does all this mean? Great question! The answer...not a dang thing. Nada. Zip. No meaning whatsoever. It has about as much meaning as the odometer on my truck rolling over to a quarter of a million miles (I told ya I love old trucks). It has about as much significance as my age (I'm 59. Get over it). Numbers mean things when they are preceded by a dollar sign ($). I love those kind of numbers, unless they're on a bill.

Numbers are just numbers, folks. We aren't gonna "bite the big one" on 12/21/12. Life will roll on until Gabriel blows his big 'ol horn, and only God knows when that will be. So, let's all let out a collective sigh and get on with our lives.
High 5, ya'll !
James

Red Dirt

My blood is red
Because Arkansas dirt is red.

Examine my skin cells
Under the scrutiny
Of a microscope.
You will find red dirt.

I grew up playing
In red dirt
The way Yankee kids
Rolled in sand boxes.

Red dirt
Lines my lungs
It’s biologic
Cultural
Spiritual
It’s in my DNA.

My speech is fashioned
By overwhelming buckets of
Red dirt.
It’s the root of my thinking
The gee of my haw.

There are no
Red roads
On your map
But they’re there
And I’ve driven them.

I’ve plumed the sky
With clouds of red dust
Jetting behind my Ford
Rising like granular flame
To thinly coat
Weeds, trees and dogs
Left in my wake.

I’ve chased bulls
In red dirt
And they’ve chased me.
I’ve kicked red dirt
Worked in red dirt
Spit in red dirt
Sat in red dirt
Lay in red dirt
And loved in red dirt.

I’ve cussed it
Blessed it
Loved it
And left it.

My ancestors sleep
In the red dirt
They tilled
Sewed and worked
For generations
And someday I may make
My bed in red dirt too.

But only if I’m lucky.

I am Listening

Sometimes I think I hear a voice.
Not in the natural, auditory sense
But a voice directed toward my center
An intimate voice
I have heard in shout
And whisper.

It is a warm voice
Soothing
Comfortable.

It is an alluring voice
Flirting
Teasing.

It is a sad voice
A note of “I shall see ye ‘neer again.”

It is a disturbing voice
For which I strain to listen
Yet there is but silence.

Across the vast spectrum
Of auditory range I wander
Listening
Ever listening.

And sometimes I think I hear
The voice
And test the sample
Against all I know.

Yet the quiet returns
Leaving me frustrated and alone.

Speak again
Dear one
Speak.

I am listening.

Special Note to "The Strand" Inquiry

The strand is brown. But "brown" in the sense that the sunset is golden. In the same sense that pepper is warm, and love is pleasant. In other words, "brown" is just auburn to most...but to me, this strand is substance and evidence of one who loved me long ago.

HAPPY THANKSGIVING ALL!

This morning, as I rolled out of bed, my right foot set squarely in a little "gift" my "Best Buddy" left for me. Ugh. Nevertheless, I am not going to let even this cold and calculated stunt by my little pup make me not have a heart of thanksgiving. Even for him.

To all my readers, those within the US and those international readers (of which there are hundreds!) I wish you a blessed THANKSGIVING! We all have something to be thankful for. In my last post I spoke of the pain which has chronically attacked me for 15 years. I am thankful for my pain, in as much as it drives me to Jesus, who is "a very present help in time of trouble." Only the dead have no pain. I am sure many of you experience pain that would make mine feel like pleasure, by comparison. Please be thankful that (1.) it's not as bad as it could be, and (2.) that you're still alive, and have much yet to do. But hey...I don't mean to preach. I just hope you can stop long enough to think about all you have to be thankful for. I'm thankful for my readers. Ya'll are way too quiet. I rarely get a comment. But I can hear you breathing!

~~ James
PS---Happy Thanksgiving, Monarch in Flight!

Laugh!

Like an old tire
Worn and frayed to its steel belts
I cannot go much further.

This pain fatigues me.

It bites into my flesh
Making the promise
Of a new day
One, rather, of dread
And foreboding.

But every morning
With few exception
I mount up
To take my place
On the firing line.

I confess to you
Quietly and humbly
That it would work in my favor
Were the unfriendly
And gloomy creatures that be
Gain a brief upper hand
And dispatch me home.

I say this not to alarm
Those who care for me
But to cheer them.

If you hear one day
I have been reprieved
And have slipped life’s silver cord
You are to laugh!
Laugh and be glad.

I will be where I always meant to go.

I Will See You Again

A day is coming
I will see you again.
It may be a day of shimmering sun
Dancing from your hair
In dazzling auburn rays.

I will see you again
Maybe in soft rainfall
Glistening from your shoulders
In prismed light.

I will see you again
Possibly in sparkling snow and ice
Framing the purity of your heart
In tiny pristine crystals.

I will see you again
Perhaps in firelight’s soft comfort
Warming your buttery flesh
In golden and amber tongues of flame.

I do not know
My love
My dear one
What majesty of nature
May illumine your tender form
But this I know…

I will see you again.

Against the Zephyr

I remember your glistening hair
Reflecting bright sun shafts
Long and loosed
Describing the whims of the wind.

As a younger man
I stood alone in golden wheat lands
Hands spread against the zephyr.
I had not remembered that
Until now
With your soft strands wafting free.
Free like Tibetan prayer flags
Seeking divine eyes to see
To know and understand.

How I wish I understood
Knew you.
I would have furled your hair
Tamed your wild heart
And planted hope
In your tender soil.

But I was afraid.
Afraid you would fly
Like the wind that chased you.

I cannot pass a wheat field
Or standing corn
Swaying in summer winds
And not see you again
Your long hair loosed
And flying free.

The Rapture of You

I feel you
As the wind feels you
Know you
As does the earth.

You are fresh
As sea breeze is fresh
From the salted coast
Mixing with fields
Of saw grass and grains.

As morning rains are soft
You are soft
Your touch as gentle
As mist
As insistent
As time’s inexorable passing.

You are the melody of evenings
The glow of starlight
You are the urgency of breath
And all that charms me.

You are the warmth of sunlight
The fullness of bread
The hope of tomorrow.

When measured against the rapture of you
All else is ordinary.
I fall into you
As leaves from the limbs of autumn.

All I long for
Desire and need
Is met in you.

Finished

I have seen too much blood
Too many bodies
Splayed across gory floorboards
Draped over crimson beds
Slumped on shattered steering wheels
Or swaying from wooden rafters.

I am surprised to discover
I have an inner quota
And can stuff and pack
Not one more dead child
Fresh-faced teen
Or broken woman or man
Into my ledger of the dead.

I discovered this
By loosing all composure
While lying in bed
On the apron of an eve
When suddenly all those empty
Lifeless eyes
Spilled from my heart
To shatter the night.

Step by step
An inch at a time
I have eased away from the certainty
Of one more dance with death.
I have no further word of comfort
Not another expression of compassion
Or prayer for the dying.

I am finished.

I guard my heart.
I protect myself from the Reaper.
He will come for me someday
And that’s fine with me.
But please do not ask
That I stand watch
When he comes for you.

Weighing it Out

I’ve stood on this ridge before.
I have viewed the broad expanse
And have weighed the risk
Against the possibilities.

I know that he who never risks
Can never attain.
But I also know that he who always risks
Will eventually be prey.

So I stand here again
Balancing one against the other.
My inclination
Is to ease into the tree line.

My gut warns my silence
Leave no footprints
And know that opportunity
Is sometimes only bait.

My Best Buddy

You wag your tail
When I fetch the mail
And wait for me
By the door.

But I gotta thought
This ain’t how it ought
‘Cuz you’re the fetcher
Not me.

When you go out to poop
It’s me that must stoop
To pick up your junk
From the lawn.

Seein’s how I’m your boss
I’m left at a loss
As to why I’m doing
All the work.

You want food, I fix it
Never grumbling a bit
But you don't lift a paw
To help me.

You snore in my bed
And mess with my head
But I put up with you
Every night.

You stink when you’re wet
I take you to the vet
And care for
Your every need.

You do as you please
Sometimes you get fleas
And bark your snout off
When I'm trying to read.

You get your paws muddy
But you’re still my best buddy
Even though you zig
When I zag.

So, hop up in my lap
And we’ll take a nap
Then we’ll watch what you want
On TV.

Castro

Nose, like a sail
Jutting beyond cheeks
Of steel wool
His thick, pecan skin
Pocked and filthy
He looks like Castro
On a bender.

Red eyes, like bitter wells
He surveys his world.
Gulping diesel exhaust
He belches curses
In slurred Spanish.

Staggering at the curb
He swills from a bottle
Wrapped in a paper bag.
Angrier by the moment
Castro spins a swaying circle
Gesticulating at all he sees
Summoning an imaginary firing squad.

Dismissing the world
With the flick of his wrist
Castro squats in the dappled shade
Of a scrub bush
Chin nodding
Into his soiled shirt.

In his wake are broken children
And more than one woman
Who cringes at his memory.

But Castro is heedless
As he again rises
To lecture the assembly
At the red light.

I’d Rather Be Lonely Alone

I’d rather be lonely alone
Than be lonely tonight with you.
You’re killing me bit by bit
With everything you do.

Your wondering mind is wandering
And you’re little more than a stray.
I worry over who you’re with
When you walk from our home everyday.

The phone calls you try to hide
And your evasive replies
Are the stuff of shoddy fiction
Half truths and outright lies.

I’d rather be lonely alone
Than be lonely tonight with you.
But try and give me a reason
To think you can be true.

It’s crazy to sit night after night
Listening for your key in the door
Hoping you’ll finally come home
And love me like you did before.

I try to convince myself
My mind’s playing tricks on me
And I’ve no reason to fear
But no one’s so blind as he who will not see.

I’d rather be lonely alone
Than be lonely tonight with you.
I’ve tried and I’ve tried to believe you
But there’s nothing more I can do.

I’d rather be lonely alone
Than be lonely tonight with you.
I’d rather be lonely alone
Than be lonely tonight with you.

Jelly Roll

Great splats salt the boulevard.
Chicago shrugs its shoulders
Traffic and commerce rhythmic
In pursuit of capital.

Warm summer rain drives me
Into a fragrant bakery
Rich, sweet smells rising
Like mist off the lake.
Around me, conversation buzzes
Like Joseph’s many-colored coat.

I smooth a bill into the baker’s hand
Buying a jelly roll
As rent for a stool by the window.

On the rain-silvered street
Horns protest
Tires sigh
And umbrellas sprout
Like mushrooms
From the forest floor.

Where are you?
I wonder if the same rain
Pelts us.
I hope so.
It makes the world feel smaller
The distance between us
Less large.

Too soon the clouds brighten
The rains ease
And my jelly roll is eaten.
Time again to assault the streets
That remove me further away.

Always away and never toward.

Unfamiliar Stars

Morning’s sun rose in the north
Spreading new shadows across my floor.
Amazed, I ran into the yard
Peering over gables
Between spreading maple limbs.

High the bright orb climbed
That blazing sphere
Until, at its zenith
It reversed
Angling toward the delta
Coming to ground
At the foot of farms and factories
Rivers and lakes.

Remarkably, only I observed this peculiar anomaly.
There were no news broadcasts
Commerce continued unimpeded
Wall Street made money
And the government took it.

But I saw the universe
As a spilled purse
Scattered beyond understanding.
It’s been this way
Since you left.

Familiar patterns have changed.
I teeter on a line
Too fine
A path
Too perilous
And navigate by unfamiliar stars.

I must be patient
Hold onto what remains.
Reason will restore
Old markers will renew.

Life will settle
Like dust
Trouble will leave my door
And shadows will again rightly travel my floor.

Not All

Not all poetry is passion
Not all tears are mixed with rain
Not all love is pure; old fashioned
Not all poor decisions bring pain.

Not all sunsets are hued pink
Not all lost loves get renewed
Not all dead skunks stink
Not all clumsy drivers get sued.

Not all noble deeds are feted
Not all nomads live in tents
Not all quotations get repeated
Not all dents can be unbent.

But every foolish thing I say
Will be written on the sky
And I’ll pay a month for every bad day
I must live before I die.

The Frightful Canyon

There is a yawning chasm
Into which every man must look
Toe to the rim
Wind at his back.

In that mighty and vast emptiness
One may see
His own barrenness
And the manifold array
Of weaknesses
Temptations
Foibles
And the recalcitrant nature
Of his inner darkness.

It is a bone-chilling
Bleak experience.

Into that darkness
A man sees
The child he was
The man he wants to become
The thing he is
And the wide spectrum
Of differences.

Failure to make the pilgrimage
To this frightful canyon
Is to so fear your own humanity
That there can be no recovery
No reclamation
No mastery of one’s heart
No fidelity to one’s mind.

It is a fearful haunting.
It is a soul-numbing thing.

But a man cannot be a man
Otherwise.

What We Knew

Do you remember sock hops
In your school gym
With strawberry punch and cookies
And the overhead lights set dim?

Do you remember rock 'n roll
With a garage band on the stage?
They strummed guitars, banged their drums
And we thought they were the rage.

Do you remember your first car?
It was your pride and joy
Even if it was a five hundred dollar buggy
It was your personal toy.

Do you remember “Duck and Cover”?
How about those fire drills
That got you outta math class
And gave you a little thrill?

Do you remember that awesome scent
Of those mimeographed tests?
I don’t know what was in them
But wasn’t that ink the best!

Do you remember hall passes?
How about those audio-visual geeks
Who wore sweaters in hot weather
And shoved projectors around all week?

If you don’t remember any of these
You just don’t have a clue.
And I don’t have time to learn ya
What we from the 50’s knew!

We lived in a time of simple pleasures
In an age of innocence.
But all the junk comin’ from this “new age”
To us just don’t make sense.

Night Visions

I’ve held you close
In many dreams
Loving you
To the tattoo
Of raindrops
On the windowpanes.

In night visions
We laughed and loved
Curled together
Like snowdrifts
Around greenery
Quiet in winter’s sleep.

We never talk
In these dreams
But, oh, we love
Away the hours
Conversing in sighs
Exhalations of joy.

In the blush of dawn
I rise
My bed half empty
My heart echoing
Long nights past
With faded memory.

The hands on my clock
Will slowly tick
Me back to you
And we will love again
We will join again
In our dream embrace.

100 in ‘84

Far beyond my windshield
The sun slid into the corn
Igniting the western sky
In a blaze of pastels and violet.

My red Camaro’s engine whined
As it gulped air into the carburetor.
It came to life
Crouching the country road.

The speedometer slid
Past the century mark
And my heart paced the little car
With its own hefty beat.

Cool air rushed the windows
Tangling my hair
Pounding my ear drums
Exciting my senses.

I buried the pedal
In the floorboard
And we briefly went airborne
Cresting a rise.

This was foolhardy.
But this was also thrilling.

It seemed much time had passed
But it was only seconds
Before I eased the throttle
And gentled the RPM’s
Into something more reasonable.

Pulling onto the gravel shoulder
I sat on the hood
And gave my heart time to settle down.

A cow lowed.
Lights in farm houses winked on.
Crickets chirped.
A dog barked.
Across the darkening horizon a jetliner
Traced its path in silver contrails.
My little red Camaro idled
Thankful I’d been easy with her
Her first time.

This was going to be fun.

Distillation

I don’t remember the things
I thought would be important.
Rather, it’s the smallest things that return.

I still feel her fingers
Slowly combing through my hair.
I remember her small hands
Bunching the sheets
In her fists.
I still hear her gasps
Feel her shudder
And remember the breathless quiet
After loving.
I remember washing her hair in the shower
Toweling her dry
And her slow, sexy grin.

In youthful exuberance
I gathered fleshly details
Thinking someday
I would treasure these most.

Not so.

It’s the tender expressions
The heartfelt connections
I esteem.
I spend much time
Remembering her smile
The light in her eyes
The warmth of her leg
Lying across my hip.
I remember the cup of tea she sipped
And the coffee I drank
After loving.

The shock and awe of youthful sex
Is not what prevails
As years pile like snow against my door.
What returns
Are the ways
She touched my heart
And soothed my soul.

Somebody needs to tell young lovers
All the “knowing” kids
That the hell for leather days are fun.
But what remains
In the cooling clime of age
Are the fond
And affectionate distillations of love.

(Between the Parentheses)

I have learned
To communicate with you
Between the parentheses.

You do not say what you mean
What you want
Or intend.

Rather, you allude to it
Hoping I will decipher
The mystery presented.

It would be much easier
To simply state your mind
In simple sentences.
But I chase you
In never ending games
Of hide and seek
Or charades.

I gotta tell you, girl
Though I love you
You weary me
In quests for that
Which should be simple.

You make the easy hard
The simple complex
And the joyful
Numbing.

I am trying to tell you the truth.
But I’m afraid
You also listen
Between the parentheses.

Get Gone

Sometimes I stop
Atop the slopes and hills
To look back at the path
I’ve walked.

That can be foolish.

The danger is to assess
The worth of the trip
Whether
Given the chance
I would do it again.

But the true value
Of any pursuit
Cannot be fully known
Until journey’s end.

I do not say
I must never look back.
But do so carefully
Not to evaluate
But to celebrate.

I am glad for the trip.
I am warmed at the memory
Of those I have loved.
I am heartened knowing
Worth comes
Not in being loved
But in loving.

I count my blisters
But do so understanding
That every trip is costly.
The better the trip
The greater the cost
Not so much in money
But in the price of pain.

When I look back
I see those huddled along the roadside
Hesitant to get up and keep going.
They will eventually turn back
Lamenting all as failure.
I pity their lack
Of spirit and fortitude.
They must carry back
A great burden
Of self-loathing and woe.
They will gather about them
A crowd of like-minded failures
Affirming their determination
To cast away hope
In favor of futility.

I never walk alone
But neither do I walk
In a great company.
The way is lonely
But never alone.

Too much ruminating is not good.
Too much thinking
Wears at my already frayed edges.
There is a time to every season
And a purpose to every pursuit.

Sometimes that purpose
Is to wear down shoe leather
And get gone.

What Happened?

In an age
When ancient symbols
Have been trivialized
Commercialized
And scandalized
The moorings of faith
Are pained
And strained.

This cross hanging
Around my neck
Identifies me as
A disciple.
But to any stranger
It may suggest
I am a bad boy
Thug
A self-centered narcissist.

What happened?

In historic cultures
Theology mastered art
Providing framework
For mind and heart.

Today
Theology and serious thought
Are dusty and irrelevant.

What remains
Are tarnished crosses
At resale dins
And unused Bibles
In garage sale bins.

When society
Holds nothing dear
All I want
Is out of here.

August Moon

A full August moon
Glowed in the midnight vapor
Above suburban roofs
And fields
Golden in its soft light.

Leaning on the doorpost
My gaze fixed
On ancient craters
And lava lakes
That surely captivated the attention
Of kings and emperors.

That’s the marvel of the moon.
It charms anyone
Willing to slip into the heavenlies
With the price of admission…

A gasp and a grin
A sensation deep within
And the time to take delight
In its mesmerizing light.

Uncomfortable

There are times I am uncomfortable
In my own skin.
I want to be someone else.

A southern gentleman, perhaps
Sipping bourbon on a wide front porch
Attended by a loving daughter
Who esteems suitors by the standards
Established by my gracious example.

Or maybe I could own a garage
And wear an oil-stained blue shirt
With my name stitched above the pocket.
I would teach my son the honor of hard work
And knuckle-busting dedication
To my craft.

I don’t need to be a jet jockey
A quarterback
Fireman or cop.
I have no urge to be a superhero
It’s not in me to entertain the masses
Be anyone’s idol
To own the skyline
Or have a prestigious byline.

Maybe I could drive a truck.
I would know where to find the best cup of coffee
A good biscuits and gravy breakfast
And the cutest waitresses, coast-to-coast.

I might be a dog-walker
A radio talker
Night stalker
Carnival barker
Boat caulker
Or car parker.

But, like an NFL referee, I must say
“Upon further review”
No matter what my trade
Or the satisfaction of career
Nothing could soothe this inner ache
Because they all address the wrong need.

It’s not a matter of what I do
But who I am.
And, until I am content
With the man in the mirror
Anything else comes down to
“Do you want fries with that??”

No Matter

I thought I owned the world
That it all belonged to me.
Back when I held her
I owned all my eyes could see.

I was the master of my fate
The universe was in my hand
Because she was mine
I stood on solid land.

But there are thousands of poems
About care-free yesterdays
And millions of songs
In love’s hallowed praise.

But here’s one in testament
To love’s bitter taste
When two lovers part
And their lives are left in waste.

On second thought, forget it.
Let’s pretend I didn’t say a thing.
If we can, perhaps I’ll avoid
This miserable, fiery sting.

Instead, let’s think of butterflies
And rainbows in the sky.
If we can, maybe then
It will seem I don’t want to die.

But, damn, didn’t I love her!
I did everything I knew.
But sometimes, love isn’t enough
No matter what you do.

An Uncomfortable Preponderance

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

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

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

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

Monarch in Flight

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

Your answer haunts me
After all these years.

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

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

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

I saw it all
I thought.

But I missed one thing.

Butterflies fly away.

The Space Between the Words

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then we talked again.

But it is the silence I remember.

The Dollar

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

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

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

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

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

Dawgs

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

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

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

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

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

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

The River Dragon*

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

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

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

But we were sly.
Too sly to die.

Until we saw
The River Dragon.

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

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

But I stand at a distance
Fearing
The River Dragon.



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

Yesterday’s Cry

Wind sifting prairie grasses
Sound like ocean waves lifting.

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

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

In thunder rolling
Across endless grasslands
I hear war drums.

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

In the emptiness of the yawning land
Time is inconsequent.

We are never far
From yesterday’s cry.

A Door That Never Opens

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Flinch and the Clench

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Long Grass

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

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

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

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

She laughed.
Her eyes now dark slits.

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

She lay the sandwich down.

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

Voices

I miss voices
I shall never again hear
Among the living.
They are as gone
As smoke
As dry as dew at noon day.

In memory they yet speak
Though even there
Their once distinct tonality
Is diminished.

I know the names
Of each phantom
But what are phonics
To the dead?
They cannot answer
And to speak the names
Fires the burn of separation.

I sit most nights
Smoke my pipe
And listen
To the wind blow across the earth.
In the rushing whirl
I hear voices
I will never again hear
Among the living.

I Remember

I remember Louisville’s white steeples
The Big Muddy rolling under Memphis’ I-55 bridge
The simple punctuation of Indianapolis.

I remember the grit and threat of Detroit
The towers and gang turf of Chicago
The want-to of Toledo.

I remember the Kingdom of Night in New Orleans
The grit and scrabble of Vicksburg
The gentility of Natchez.

I remember the mystics of Taos
The light of Cimarron
The ya-hoo of Ft. Worth.

I remember the palmettos of Savannah
The grace of Charleston
The Gateway riverfront of St. Louis.

But what I most remember
What gleams like a jewel in my memory
Is the grassland beyond the home of my childhood.

I still smell the sweet marsh
The musk of clean rain falling, thunder rumbling
The scent of mom's dinner on the table.

I still hear the crunch of gravel
‘Neath the tires of my father’s Chevy truck
The melody of my brother’s laughter.

I still see the nightly expanse of God's starry craft
The twinkle of lamps from neighbor's homes
The streak of meteorites far beyond our roof.

Our cities rise as citadels of industry and commerce
Of culture and science.

But take me home again.

Blush

You taste like coffee
And mornings washed
In sunshine.

The blush of dawn
Is upon your cheeks
And the dew of early stars
Soften your eyes.

There is nothing I might say
That increases your countenance.
Nothing in my power
Contributes to your grace
Nor steeps your simmering brew.

You are morning's delicate flower
The scent of sunrise
The flare of first light.

I remain in early shadows
Content to let the rays of dawn
Play over me
Knowing light and dark
Are home to our coupling.

Testament

I make much of time
But time has made little of me.
In review, it is blessing.

Notoriety is a curse.
The requirements of fame
Are broad, wide and deep.

I live simply in the glare
Of bright sunshine
As well the gloom of storms.

My skin sheens in summer sweat
And chills in winter cold
Yet I enjoy ruddy health in both.

Friends cheer me with goodwill.
I have no sworn foe.
The crowd owes me nothing, nor I it.

I open my door mornings
Close it evenings
With no fear of either.

My words are testament
To life spent in modesty
My destiny among starry climes.

I have the earth to breathe
And the heavens to exhale
A miracle of biology and theology.

I have loved and been loved.
I have injured and been injured.
I am common.

In war I am at peace.
In peace I am at war.
I relish the value of both.

When I close my book
I do so with little care
Who may be my reader.

Life’s glory is not that I lived
But that in living
I became heir to Greater Glory.

The View From a Tailgate

I have this belief.
It’s pure theory until you try it.
But once you do
You’ll be a believer, too.
It’s easy
Simple
Requires no effort
And will change your life.
Ready?
Get a pen.
Write this down.
Here goes…

To reduce your hypertension
Correct your troubled digestion
Heal your marital problems
Fix your erectile dysfunction
Focus your worldview
Know your brat kids better
Know what to do about what you’ve done…

…sit on the tailgate of a pickup truck.

Yup.
Simple..

Life observed from a tailgate
Comes into sharp focus.

It’s impossible to stay mad while sitting on a tailgate.
When you cool off your blood pressure moderates.
When your blood pressure moderates
You don’t need little blue pills.
When you don’t need little blue pills
Your sex life gets easier.
When your sex life gets easier your marriage improves.
When your marriage improves
You like your brat kids better.
When you like your brat kids better
You sit with them on the tailgate.
When you sit on the tailgate
You slow down long enough
To stop moving at ballistic speed.
When you stop moving at ballistic speed
You live longer.

Trucks are expensive.
Tailgates are cheap.

Hell…
Just buy the tailgate.

I Dream Sometimes

I dream sometimes
And she is there
Across the table
Steam rising from her coffee
A sultry smile
Above a loosely tied robe.

She never speaks.

I know her thoughts
Sense her passion
Know the rising steam
Has nothing to do
With coffee.

I want her.
I need her the way earth needs rain
And she is right there
Smiling like a Sunday afternoon.

I rise to move the short distance
Around the table
To take her in my arms
To whisper my love
To lead her down the hall
To receive her into my dry soul.

But it’s a dream
And the coffee in my cup
Has grown cold.

Screw the Pooch

My hands were steady
On the controls.
My eyes were clear.
My back was strong.
I acted with authority.
I was skilled
At making things work.
If it wouldn’t fit
I’d force it.
People looked to me
To solve their problems
Resolve their troubles.

I've snatched lives back from the brink
Starred down death
Raced dark streets with lights and sirens.

Then it snapped.

My hands are not only off the controls
But the very controls
Are missing.

I no longer direct life
Life directs me.

I’m in a flat spin
And losing altitude.

I will inevitably
Auger in
Pancake
Splash one
Screw the pooch.

What does a man do
When he can no longer manage
What he once could do in his sleep?

It’s not a Viagra thing.
It’s not about a manly bearing
The right cologne
Bulging biceps
Or ripped pecs.

It’s about my gray matter.
It’s about the ability to navigate tossing seas.
It’s about being the captain I once was.

Where the hell are the controls?

Mama Said

Don’t run with scissors
Mama said
You’ll fall and stab yourself to death.

Don't go shooting BB guns
Mama said
You’ll shoot your eye out.

Don’t go out in the rain
Mama said
You’ll catch your death of cold.

Don’t run in the house
Mama said
You’ll break my pretty knick-knacks.

Don’t forget to wash behind your ears
Mama said
They’ll rot and fall off your head.

Don’t go in the water after you eat
Mama said
You’ll get a cramp and drown.

Don’t go kissing all the girls
Mama said
You’ll get blisters on your lips.

I listened to everything
Mama said
With one exception.

Where can I get an extra strong lip balm?

Circling the Drain

It’s hard to be happy
When you’re half scarred to death.
Fear is paralyzing
It sure takes your breath.

You hold on to life
With a rock-solid grip
Vowing to keep
A stiff upper lip.

You sweat and you pray
And hope for the best
All the while feeling
You’re the brunt of some jest.

Hoping to appear
You’ve not lost control
Your heart is a riot
Of shake, rattle, and roll.

Happiness is valued
As an end in itself.
What a shame it can taint
Your spiritual health.

I promise myself
I’m bigger than this pain.
Yet, I fear that my life
Is circling the drain.

Prodigal

I wept for joy at finding
I had not lost my way.
Home is the important thing
At the closing of the day.

I had been all ‘round the mountain
Had exhausted every trail
And had come to despair
To believe that I had failed.

When no one lays beside you
In the pale gray of the moon
You hear the hungry wolf cry
And think you’ll die there soon.

There’s a shiver when you’re lonely
When no one holds your hand
When it’s you against the world
Against a savage land.

That’s when something breaks
Within the beating human heart
When you think again of home
And determine now to start.

God then sends direction
That takes the prodigal home!
This once miserable wanderer
Will never set his face to roam.

The Reaper

Waiting for the inevitable
I’m just resting ‘neath this pine
Waiting for the Reaper
To put his boney face in mine.

He’ll poke a ghastly finger at me
And insist I come with him
So I’ll rise to my full stature
And do his bidding, grim.

He’s taken his time arriving
And I’m glad he’s been delayed
Because I’ve been given longer
To delay my being paid.

I know I’m due the wrath
That waits beyond the Reaper’s door.
We all must pay the fiddler
For the dance that went before.

I’ve drank my fill and tasted
The best of this life’s wine
And found it to be delicious
When I tried to make it mine.

But both wanting and possessing
Are two very different things.
Now I find myself convicted
And must take what the Reaper brings.

It is a good enough day for sleeping.
The clouds just sail on by.
I will wait me ‘neath this pine tree
Until the Reaper bids me die.

Clean Outta My Mind

I ain’t got the sense
God gave a mule
And I’m riled and eager
But clean outta fuel.

If you’ll give me some gas
We’ll smoke some tires together
I’ll put the top down
No matter the weather.

There ain’t none like me
I’m one of a kind
Crazy, but book smart
Clean outta my mind.

Oh, baby, sweet baby
This is your only warning
I’ll love you and leave you
Before night turns to morning.

Take a good look at me
Take me for a spin
Kick the tires, light the fires
And climb right in.

I’ll take you to heaven
I’ll show you a good time
I’ll dance you, romance you
Then stop on a dime.

There ain’t none like me
I’m one of a kind
Crazy but book smart
Clean outta my mind.

Falling

Falling is hard
But landing is worse
One’s inconvenient
The other a curse.

I observed this
When I tried to fly
By avoiding the ground
And tried not to die.

There’s nothing to do
But watch the end arrive
And pray in hopes
You’ll stay alive.

I recommend you avoid
The ground at all costs.
The end arrives suddenly
So you’d best cut your loss.

Over

The life we chose together
Was the life we hoped to end.
Love, once frail and tender
Had broken and would not mend.

I cannot say what happens
To the heart and to the mind
But I fear they are hindered
By angels most unkind.

Or perhaps it is the lover
Who quits loves ragged quest
Or exchanges heated passion
For cold-hearted jest.

At any rate it was over
And we parted separate ways
To see the other no longer
For the length of all our days.

A Stranger

I am a stranger in your land
A wide-eyed pilgrim
On soil not my own
And possessed of a dream
Beyond the machinery
Of manufacture
Attainable only
By providence.

My footprints are lost
In the foam of silvery tides
Hidden among forest floors
And stone canyons

I am brother to the wolf
Known to elk and otter
I am kin to laughter and music
Friend to morning stars
And the sweat of the tiller’s brow.

I am a child of the dew
Son of virgin forests
The progeny of rivers
And a creature of storms
Flashing lightening
Resonate thunder.

I ask only the right
To stand among you
To breathe the air
Drink the water
And leave you better
Than I found you.

I own little
And want nothing.
I am a stranger here
Passing quickly
Leaving no trail
Taking nothing
But the knowledge
That I was among you
A simple man.
A stranger.

Give Them Back

Memories crowd
Of days past
When I was a younger man
Filled with strength
Energy
For all that was mine
To care for
To love
And protect.

Give me back
The tender years.
When my babies cooed in the cradle
And sucked on their mother’s breast
The precious years
When laughter filled our house
And they tottered
Room to room
Happy in their innocence.

Give them back.

Those were hungry years
Nights of passion
And days of dreams.

Give them back.

I held hours lightly
Never imagining
They would flee
And my children scatter
Like squirrels in the trees.

Give them back.

The only hope
For an old man
Is that he may dream tonight
Clutching memories
Like gems in his hands
And give them back.

The Room

I sit alone and stare
At my wall of flaking paint
Thinking, in it, I see your face
Images both strong and faint.

On the ceiling I count panels
One hundred and fifty two
The very number of days
I was to spend with you.

I still smell your fragrance
In this little room
Which has become my hideaway
My shelter, and my tomb.

On the floor is a ragged carpet
That once listened to your voice.
It heard you say goodbye
The night you made your choice.

Today I watch shadows
Paint patterns on the wall.
Maybe, if I wait long enough
You may give me a call.

It’s as though nothing happened
In this crumbling little space
Though in every corner
I think I see your face.

How empty is this room
Once so filled with you
But is now completely vacant
Like an evening without dew.

With my back against the wall
I must close my eyes to see
This place, once so full of happiness
Was a mansion for you and me.

Twisting in the Breeze

It’s a snicker and a grin
And it isn’t much a sin
To imagine I’ll get in
With sheer determination.

But maybe you’ll pardon me
And will try a bit to see
If I can likely be
Your co-conspirator for eternity.

Maybe it’s not possible
Perhaps the idea horrible
And my venture just not tolerable
In this universe most unremarkable.

I’m just being such a tease
As I’m twisting in the breeze
With my pants down ‘round my knees
Doing as I please.

Yet, I thought I’d simply mention it
And suggest you try my wit
With the notion we may fit
But I see you just don’t give a s**t!

To Dream Again

What a dream I had
Of time with her
Skipping down streets
Like a smooth stone on pond water.

A dozen years fell away
Seeming but minutes
And we talked and laughed
Like time was our toy.

Her eyes flashed
Her cheeks a rose blush
Lips a red bow
Fingers folded softly within mine.

The whole of the world
Was a blazing dazzle.
Light and color danced
Within and around her.

So brief a dream
A drop in a saucer
Dew upon a blade
Glimmer on rippling tide.

She is the song of larks
Her scent the fresh wind
She is water to the parched
Her smile the rising sun.

A moment with her
If but a dream
Is more fair than seasons
With another.

As light fades
And darkness falls tonight
I will hurry to sleep
To dream again

Another Personal Note

To my readers who are people of faith...
My health continues to sag, which is why I have been unable to post anything new since the 12th. If you could say a prayer for me, I am confident that the Lord of the Universe and my Great Physician will hear you. And who knows? Perhaps, in His mercy, He will heal me.
Thank you for your kindness. And thank you for reading my work.
Friends.....James

Silos

The seeds I’ve sown
Scattered to the wind
The crop
Long ago harvested
Stored in silos of sorrow.

Not everything can be
Explained
By youthful exuberance
And misadventure.

Indeed, I was a man
Knowing the consequence
Of allowing his heart
Its course and reign.

I may shove my heart aside
Bury fists
In pockets
Steeling my spine
Against her loss
But posture and resolve
Do little
To anesthetize the burn.

I garnered this crop.

I tilled that ground
Labored that field
And gathered that grain.

I sowed the wind
And reaped the whirlwind.

A man as stupidly bold as I
Ought not settle his soul
In open land.

Panama City

I close my eyes
And I’m back in the sand
On Florida’s gulf coast
The sun hung like an orange
In the denim sky.
Radio chatter stained the day
Along the beach.

The salty breeze, tart on my tongue
Sand warm between my toes
Lulled me to believe
Peace was possible
And life secure.

The surf murmured gently
And gulls parked overhead
Crying noisily
Above bronzed bathers.

You strolled at water’s edge
The gulf lapping your toes
Coppery hair tossing in the sun.
I watched you.
Your eyes toward the horizon
It was difficult
To separate sky and water.

It was difficult to separate you and me, too
But you managed.

Years later I burned every photo of you
Shredded every letter and card
Destroyed every momento
Working to scrub your memory.

But that’s impossible.

All I need do is close my eyes
And Panama City returns you
Every memory feeding on my heart
Like the gulls
Calling me to remember
What I would pay to forget.

Alone

I sit alone in this room
Surrounded by these walls
Thinking about going out
But I wait here for her call.

I could take the bull by the horns
And venture out on my own
But that feels kinda hollow
Like a payment on a loan.

So I guess I’ll sit by myself
Close my eyes against the dark
And wish a little light would come
If only just a spark.

But I’ve grown accustomed
To living in shades of gray.
I’m a creature of the night
Uncomfortable with day.

Her memory seems to crowd me.
I try hard to ignore
Her smile and her face
And what has gone before.

I feel myself falling away
And sinking through the floor
As I try my best to live my life
On this side of the door.

Sorry, Girl

What’s that you’re telling me?
That you and I were close?
That comes as a surprise, girl
It can’t be as you suppose.

I don’t remember loving you.
I can’t remember why
Though you said I told you once
I’d love you till I die.

You don’t seem too familiar.
I don’t recall your face.
If you were someone I loved once
I’d run to your embrace.

I’m really very sorry, girl
I don’t recall your name.
If I did I'd sure tell you.
Now, isn’t that a shame?

You must have me confused
With someone who looks like me.
If I were the man who loved you
I’d remember, don’t you see?

I really must be going now.
I have lots of things to do.
There are some folks I gotta see
But I don’t remember you.

Old Men*

Old men are ascribed a nobility
Their eyes demand.
The lines on their faces
Are roadmaps of honor
Their thoughts imagined
To be ponderous.

But I am becoming an old man.
As such I want to bring clarity
To a subject given too much tribute.

Most of the time
Old men are not re-fighting old wars
Re-visiting lost loves
Or re-casting latent hopes.

Most of the time…
Hell, all the time…
Old men are just sleeping
Or wondering where
The bathroom is.

* Wink

Not Hamlet

You threatened me
So I am await.

You use silence
Like a blade
Its edge severe
Business precise.

When silence is a weapon
Every latent thing
Is imposing.

I feel you.
You have been long-coming.
Though I cannot see you
Your menace is present.
You seek to intimidate
And thereby disarm me.

But you cannot disarm one
Who is not armed.

I do not fear you.
Nor do I seek to cause you fear.
Pain is no longer my arsenal.

I do not desire to convince you
Of truths you will not accept.
I do not hope to befriend you
Though you will never
Be my enemy.

To defeat me
You will have to appear before me.
You’d rather not.

In the end
Your reticence
Will defeat you
And I will have done nothing
To contribute to your fall.

You will perish
By the poisoned blade
I did not wield.

When this drama is concluded
I will be the one
To draw the curtain.

But you are not Hamlet.
You are not a fallen warrior
And noble arms will not bear you away.

The Remnant

They cut their beloved banner
To scrap
Distributing the remnant
To those
Who would have died.

Not long before
That tattered cloth
Snapped like a cannonball
In the smoke and fury
The blood and moans of the dying.

Years and tears passed and fell
And as each old warrior
Went to his grave
The grieving families
Buried with him his torn rag.

Reduced now to dust and ash
Those shabby bits
Have become the grass and petal
The soil and memory
Of the Southland.

Remember her not
For her inglorious shame
For there was never a cause
As poor as that championed
By so brave a people.

Remember her colors
As the marrow
Bone and blood
The flesh and breath
Of her sons and daughters.

We cut them to pieces
Like they did their flags
Laying their bodies
And memory
In the dirt for which they fought.

And now we have a generation
Who has forgotten those
From whom they come.
They are now the remnant
The torn and forgotten flag.

Pity

I am three generations
From the Blue Ridge.

Those of my parentage
Had eyes of the hawk
And withers of the Elk Dog
People whose banner
Was the sky
And whose home
Was the earth.

Their nails were stained
With the dyes of their blankets
Their bodies hardened
By the demands of life
On the land they revered.

Most were displaced
At bayonet tip
And their Trail of Tears
Winding into Oklahoma
The dark of the moon.

It was not tragedy.
It was criminal.

Three generations is not far enough
To be numb to the insult.
It is not so distant
To be deaf to the cries
Or blind to the sorrow.

Pain rolls like a river
Widening its banks
And deepening its bed.

They took the land
And with it
The shock of what the land may exact.

I do not pity my people
For their loss.

I pity those that imagine
They took from us.

Chief Joseph

I have stopped counting scars.
There is no need
To catalogue pain
Or reference wrongs done.

I have committed to flame
Each offense.
My sword is sheathed
Its scabbard rusty and dull.

I was a student of conflict
A passionate learner
Of every nuance of battle
Disciplined in the art of hate.

Perhaps age dissuades me
Or the knowledge
That targets are more numerous
Than the ammunition allotted.

Odium is a no-win scenario.
Abhorrence a consuming fire
And the only winner of the game
Is one who does not play.

Like Chief Joseph
From where the sun now stands I will fight no more.

Symphonies

There are songs
I must not sing.

Verses shimmer
Like a mirage on a desert highway.
I see them waving
And imagine how they might feel
Urgent in my throat
Forming on my tongue
Birthing from my lips.

But I am not their singer.
They are greater than my flesh.

I yield the greater grace
Unwilling to suggest
I am match to the air.

The tempos are simple
Melodies clean
Every chorus uncomplicated
Building to effortless crescendo
Each verse an expression of fidelity.

Art is for performance
In the theater of the soul
And my soul is a careful performer.

My mind is a stadium
My heart the artist
Passion my spotlight
And God the audience.

Tears start from the eyelids
Streaming the cheeks
And unvoiced cantos
Are symphonies of silence.

Lightly

I live on earth
Lightly.

I make no footprint
Take nothing with me
Leave nothing behind.

My breath dissipates
Into vapor
Wispy as mist.

What few words I speak
Are as a turtle song
The coo of a dove
The thought of a dream.
The boldest of my speech
Is desert thunder...
Rumble without echo.

I use resources sparsely
Needing little to sustain my flesh.

Do not think me motivated
By agendas of conservation.
You would misunderstand.

I am free and able
To use all I want
But have no such want.

Everything I need is in me.

My shadow shrugs off the soil
Like an old coat
And I am unencumbered
Of this shrink-wrapped
Pre-packaged
Tawdry and cheap facsimile
Of what passes for life
In this sad age.

I live on earth
Lightly.

A Cowboy's Choice

A saddle ain’t a rocker
And a pony ain’t no truck
A cowboy ain’t nuthin’ fancy
And he never gets no luck.

A lady never loved me
And a girl never held my hand
Love never came near me
And I never bought a ‘lil band.

Whiskey ain’t no soft drink
And jerky ain’t no steak
A cowboy hardly eats well
And never gets no break.

I never seen no city
Bigger than a street or two
And I never got all gussied up
To do what gentlemen do.

I been watchin’ the south end
Of a herd of north bound beef
And I seen a few extry hard days
That brought us boys to grief.

But I seen my share of sunsets
And mornings fresh with dew
I seen a buncha rainbows
A whole lot more’n you.

I seen the swollen rivers
And the eagles circlin’ high
I felt the rain and snow
And know what it means to die.

But all in all, I’ll take it
This cowpoke life I chose
So you can take all your dandies
And jam ‘em up yer nose!

The Marker Stone

It was just an old stone
A Marker Stone
Set in place to remember
Property lines
Of old farms and fields.

Covered by leaves
I stumbled over it
And found it to be
A remembrance
Of long ago.

I did the same with you
Dear
Falling to my knees
Without noticing
Someone already placed his marker stone.

How I loved your fields
The fresh daylight
Upon your petals
And the grassy scent
Of you.

But your marker stone
Was secreted from me
Covered by the debris
Of hard years
And harder words.

When you revealed the stone
I crumbled to powder
To ash
Like the dryness
That consumed you.

But there was his marker stone…
On the third finger
Of your left hand.

The Dragon

Didn’t we wear our Blues
Like kings?
All dazzle and polish.

We were as flint
Uncompromising
Our eyes lanterns
Boots singing on pavement
Like jack hammers
In concert.

I’ve put away
Every remembrance
The chevrons and brass
Every device
I once so proudly wore.

There are fewer of us
Our ranks thinning
Like our hair.

I’ve grown my beard
Let my hair creep past my shoulders
That once wore sparkling pride.

I still believe.
But the man I was
Sleeps in a drawer
Beneath my socks.

To open it
Would be to loose
The Dragon.

And I am just too weary to ride.

I Am

I am electrons
Vibrating on a screen
The product of key strokes
The communication of processors
And program formats.

I am electrical synapses
Firing in gray matter
The result of experiences
In a physical universe
And the reduction of emotions.

I am the product
Of all I have seen
Everything I have heard
The end of what I have touched
And been touched by.

I am the compression
Of human emotion
The lofty summits of joy
And the gloomy despair
Of sorrow.

I am like you.
I am parallel to your path.
I am where you were.
I am going where you are.
I am life
And I will remain
Until my electrons cease dancing
And I become a drop
In the stream of eternity.

The Bargain

Have ye a ship
A boat or bark?
Have ye a compass
And a lantern against the dark?

The water is wide
At the river’s mouth
And the way will be hard
When I turn south.

This is a troubled land
And I’ve fixed on yonder star
To take me over
The moaning bar.

Have ye conveyance
A craft of sturdy frame?
I care not a whit
For its flag or name.

Give me your vessel
And I’ll give you gold coin
But if you refuse
I’ll split you gullet to groin.

I am a hard man
In a land harder yet
And if ye know my name
It’s best ye forget.

Am I altogether clear, sir?
I’ll be taking my leave
And you may take a few gilders
And the dust off my sleeve.

I’ll be having my life back
And the good of my name.
And you’ll be having
Your share of the same.

Home

Home is an idea
Beyond mere halls
And a place to lay
Needs no walls.

I’ve my shoulder
For a pillow
And for my blanket
A wispy willow.

I wash my face
In a cold stream river
And brew my coffee
To fend the shivers.

I’ve a fire inside
That needs no hearth
And for my floorboards
I have the earth.

The early songbirds
Are my rousing clock
And for my friends
The southbound flock.

My front yard faces
The western range
And my backyard
Cities wild and strange.

I wear the land
The corn and wheat
As cover for my bones
Hair to feet.

Shed no tear for me.
Do not think me poor.
Everywhere you stand
Is my porch and door.

A Personal Note...

If there are any readers who, like me, believe God hears prayer, then please say one for me. I'm in the fight of my life. (Actually, same song, second verse). I must not lose. If I do...well...it'll all be over. Most of you don't know me. But like you, I exist, and I want to live. Thank you for the kindness you do me in a simple prayer. I have so much more I want to write. But death tends to stop the whole process of writing.
I need your prayers and best wishes. Thank you.
Now let's get back on the trail, whatta ya say?
~ James

Tonight

I drag my body
Like a Hebrew slave
Toiling with great stones
In Egyptian heat.

It complains to me
In the ancient language
Of pain
Prehistoric and guttural.

They say angels hover
Around the prayers
Of saints
The plea of the righteous.

Refresh me
O, Lord.
Answer the cries
Of my unfaithful flesh.

One more day
In the desert
Before Jordan
Rolls.

I can smell the river
From here.
Tonight
I’ll camp in Canaan.

Grace

When I lay with her
The sun
And moon
Cast their light
At our feet
Adding their gathered glory
To our mingling.

Her touch was
Gentle
Like mist
Yet insistent
As the pull
Of tides.

Her gaze upon me
Was that
Of compassion
Mixed with
Feral need
And I offered my heart
The way a man
Offers water
To the parched
And bread
To the starved.

I wear thoughts of her
Like soft clothing
Old shoes
Sun on my shoulders.

I could contain her
No more
Than laundry
Drying on a line
Can hold the summer wind
No more than
Clouds
Can hold an August sun.

But she held me once
And her memory
Is grace to me.

Still

I recall your ribbon smile
Eyes that flamed the night
Finding comfort for a time
In the dancing diamond light.

I remember your voice, melodic
As the call of tropic birds
And your heart, a glowing candle
That flickered at my words.

I saw you as a child
In the skin of a woman, grown
With a charming, temperate spirit
And a heart I may have known.

But time and distance moved us
And though I won't see you again
There still burns the smallest fire
That flickers yet within.

I sometimes sit before it
And watch the tiny flame.
It returns me to our loving
And I will never be the same.

Across the sea of time
And the immensity of space
Within that sparkling little fire
I still see your face.

One More Time

What would satisfy?
One night with you
Wants a thousand
Tens of thousands more.

One more kiss
Is a seed
To plant
A harvest.

One more time
Making love
Is a wave
That surges a tide.

Your hand
In mine
Flares a spark
To blaze a fire.

You are my craving
My breath
My bread
My being.

What would satisfy?
Endless hours
In the light of your eyes
In your arms.