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.