Feature Story

Friendly Readers,
The Beacon News, owned by The Chicago Sun Times Group, featured this blog in their Friday, August 23, 2013 issue. I am very flattered. Below is that article:


Blog Log: James Woods, The Dashboard Poet

By Joy Davis For Sun-Times Media August 21, 2013 3:22PM

Yorkville resident James Woods, 60, shares his poetry on his blog, The Dashboard Poet. | Submitted

Updated: August 23, 2013 9:35AM


James Woods published his first poem in 1970, in his high-school literary journal. More than 40 years later, he’s still at it. Woods, 60, now shares his poetry on his blog, The Dashboard Poet.

Woods, of Yorkville, grew up reading classic poets like Byron, Keats and Browning, and says he has been writing poetry since he understood what poetry is.

“For me, poetry is the stream of life. The longer I wade in that stream, the swifter is the current,” Woods said.

Woods is inspired by various elements of life, from love to death to mystery. Readers of The Dashboard Poet can find a wide range of poems about any of these topics, some sharing intricate details, while others offer a more cryptic and metaphorical view.

Because Woods finds inspiration in his life, many readers will relate with similar feelings of love, trauma or loss.

“The ordinary stuff of life often carries the most profound weight. I just received a new granddaughter. One lives with me. I cannot interact with them without knowing I am in touch with one of life’s greatest wonders,” Woods said.

“A sunrise in New Mexico goes down as one of the best few seconds of my life. That kind of light endures for a moment.”

The Dashboard Poet has readership in 22 countries. Woods considers his writing to be constantly evolving, allowing readers to accompany him as he grows.

Woods is working on his first book of poems, featuring 80 of his pieces, and is also working on a novel, titled “The Bone Tree.”

To read his poetry, visit his blog at thedashboardpoet.blogspot.com.

Yep.....I blushed. But not enough to not share it with you.

Special Note

Friends and Friendly Readers,
Sometimes my neural pain (TBI) takes my breath away. I am forced to use a cane (feels so wrong). I have the inner spirit of a Walt Longmire, but right now the outer body of a Barney Fife. I'll get back to where I should be in a few days, but right now.....feels like I'm dying. But it's only a feeling. I just wanted ya'll to know why I'm quiet.

James

Was the Sex Good?

Was the sex good?
He asked
As casually as though he’d asked
The score of the game.
How was the weather?
Did I enjoy the cigar?

I couldn’t tell him
I cried when I held you.
How could I tell him
We lay together naked
The whole night
Talking and laughing
Talking and crying
Talking and singing old songs?

Was the sex good?

Does the sun blaze in the dark of space?
Do ancient rivers carve rocky bluffs
Into yawning canyons?
Do birds nest and feed their young?
Does the moon irresistibly pull the tides?

Was the sex good?

I can’t
I will not tell him
When we joined as one
I suddenly understood ancient mysteries
And touched
The face of God.

Yes
I said.
Yes.
The sex was good.

He smiled
And poured the coffee.

The Best Critter

He circled the clearing
As I watched him draw near
And I fingered my Henry
Thinking I’d make him pay dear.

Eyes red as embers
Gleamed in the night
Filling me with dread
And no little fright.

Clothed in bear skin
And feet soft in snow
He could kill quickly
Where ever he’d go.

I sat still as granite
Not making a sound
The only noise my fire
Crackling there on the ground.

As I watched his progress
I knew he'd attack from behind
He’d do it next pass
And he wouldn't be kind.

But he came at me head on
Much to my surprise
And I shot him in front
Of where my bedroll lies.

I skinned him right there
And cut me a shank
For my fire that night
With his blood, which I drank.

It put me to thinking
Who was better, him or me?
As I tossed his ears in hot water
To brew me some tea.

Aw, it don’t matter
Someday I’ll do it again.
When we fight the good fight
May the best critter win!

In a While

I held her small feet
In my hands
Her long toes moving slowly
Unconsciously.

She stretched her body
Thrusting her feet
More firmly into my embrace
And I kneaded them softly
Like a baker would bread dough
My palms across the ivory
Of her skin
My fingers working
Her arches
Down to each tender toe.

Time crept slowly
Our shadows
Traveling across the floor.
Her eyes half closed
I watched her chest
Rise and fall rhythmically.

A long sigh
Escaped her red lips
And she opened her eyes
To look at me.

I love you
She said.

You love this
I smiled.

A long moment passed.

I love you
Much more than I love this
She said.

She lifted her long legs
Sliding to her knees
From the sofa
Onto the carpeted floor
Her hands moving
On my thighs.

A crooked smile
Played upon her lips.

In a while
She said
You may tell me the same.

Share the Air

Share the air
I said
Before our lips met.

I inhaled
As she breathed into me.

She inhaled
As I breathed into her
Our breath damp and warm.

We continued our
Singsong
Until we grew lightheaded.

And we laughed.

Share the air
She said
Placing her head
And flowing hair
Upon my shoulder.

I sighed lazily.
And we shared the air again.

Trail Mates

Telling him was unnecessary.
He knew.
We both knew.

Human eyes communicate
In ways impossible
With other creatures.

He smiled softly
Then turned his head.

It’s hard for men sometimes.

I love this man
Who sometimes angers me
But usually delights me.

We spoke of another time.
We would be trail mates
Whose conversations sometimes lag.
One of us may even lead the other
By as much as a mile
But we never lost sight of the other.

We would share the campfire
Look into the face of the same stars
And complain about the grounds
In the coffee
The next morning.

But we are not trail mates.
He carries a star in his wallet
And I carry a badge in mine.

Our eyes and bodies are aging.
We have both seen too much
Of the same heartbreak.

We have each other's back.
We can laugh together
But we cry separately.
One mile ahead.

He is my friend.
And we are trail mates.