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.