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.