Back Porch Reverie

You sit gazing
Into the distance.
You’ve been silent
Though perhaps
Not at peace.

I almost interrupted
About to intrude
To prod your reverie
But thinking better of it
Held my peace.

If you choose
You will tell me.

I do not expect
To always be in your thoughts.
Nor do I hope
To be in their majority.
It is enough
To share the quiet
To breathe the same air
With you.

As a much younger man
I believed I must dominate
A woman’s mind.
How foolish, such narcissism.
Now
On the precipice
Of real age
All I hope is inclusion.

I would reach for your hand
Inches from my own.
By simple touch
I could draw you back.
You would turn to me
Smiling
Inquisitive.
But even such honest touch
May be imposition.

There is no need
I be a hulking presence
In your thoughts
Your vision
Or even your heart.

In awhile
You will shake your head
Returning to me.

You will softly smile
An unnecessary apology
Your hand folding into mine.

I will hold your gaze a bit longer
Than usual.

You will sigh and say
“Where was I?”

And I will kiss you.

Perhaps

In the pause
Before first light
Unwilling to wake
Your hands find me
And I rise
At your touch.

Smiling
I think of last night
Your cheek
Upon my shoulder
Before the slide
Into darkness.

Our ceiling fan
Circles
In the predawn
Hush
Hush
Hush
Hush.

The night has been busy.

In sylvan fields
We roamed
Dancing
Upon river bluffs
Soaring
With falcons
Falling
Through thunderheads
Sailing
Down rainbows
Until this half-awakening.

Your touch rouses me
Teasing me
New with promise.

Perhaps
Even the sun rises
At the heat
Of your touch.

Comanche Days

Years ago
The brace
Of burnt cordite
And the explosive
Combustion
Of my semi-auto
Was provocative.

All up and down
The firing line
Officers leaned into
The muzzle flash
Hoping
Never to need it
Hoping
Always to have it.

It shoved
Steel
Into my hand
Iron
Into my spine.

The kicker:
I hate guns.
But I craved knowledge
That come hell
I would stand
In the angry day.

The stinger:
I have experienced
The butterfly breeze
Savagely singing
Their Death Song
Very near my left ear.

The knowledge you may die
Makes life sweet.

These days
My weapon is secure
Its magazine sleeping
In a drawer I never open.

But I remember
The Comanche Days
The siren song
Of life
Sweet and rare.

I remember.

Replies to Recent Comments....

Dear Fellow Poet, who commented on Mixed Joy...I'm just a novice poet too. I make this stuff up as I go along. Most of it comes from my life experiences, but not all. In response to your question, I encourage you read the classic poets, and most contemporary poets (Pablo Neruda, Sara Teasdale are two of my favorites. By "contemporary," I mean those who have written in the last 100 years. A living poet, Billy Collins, always amazes me, but in ways far different from the first two I mentioned). They all are willing to "get naked" before their readers. Writing good poetry requires the poet be willing to expose, from his/her life experiences, those things nearly everyone has in common. Yes! You may alter what you write, making it a bit different from what actually happened. But be "stingy" with that. Your best work will spring from truth. Some of the poems I write have nothing to do with my personal history. It's manufactured. I've never been a cowboy, but I write about cowboys. Never been a soldier. But I write about soldiers. (I do have qualities from both, however. I've chased loose bulls, and been shot at)They're okay poems. But I have been seriously injured. I've been hurt. I've been loved and left. I've been satisfied. To me, those poems really shine. Everybody has suffered, known devastating loss, experienced passion, thrill, and mystery. You must help them visit again those moments by allowing yourself to be their lens. That's what I mean by "get naked" with your readers. Maybe 20% of your readers will understand. Write for them. Those who read you in hurried exasperation will never understand. Be kind to them. Do not discount them. They may return. If you would like me to read some of your work, and offer constructive thought, e-mail them to Coldrainandwind@aol.com. Remember...I'm not a "pro." I'm just a guy trying to present life as I've seen it. "Good Luck" is a meaningless sentiment. "Get Busy" is far better. Just write. Don't stop writing. That's what writers do. Writers write! I hope to hear from you again. Thanks for reading me! ~~~ James

To the reader who commented on F...Yep. It hurts. It really sucks. Words mean things, and our society places incredible value on the "F Word." We call it the "F Bomb" for good reason. It flings burning shrapnel directly into the human heart. Lovers use it to provoke passion. Actually, I think that's a base and low word to employ for the most amazing and transformative of human actions. People who are provoked to rage use that word to slash, inflict emotional pain, and establish, what they think, is a position of dominance. I feel pity for them. Unfortunately, I have experienced this very thing. I don't usually respond well, but I have never slashed out. Engaging in passive behavior may seem to be the reaction of a weakling. But I submit that, to not return anger for anger, shows great courage, and restraint. I hope to achieve that someday. I'm getting better at it, but turning the other cheek is a life's work. You asked why I stayed so long in the marriage. Great question. Perhaps for the same reason beaten dogs stay...there's no open gate. Expectations of others I hoped to please kept me there. But that's a flimsy reason. I hoped I could change her. After all the time I'd invested, I was unwilling to walk away. Dumb, yes. I've learned a truth that most folks likely already knew: there is no change coming unless the one in question is ready to engage in healthy behavior. I no longer see myself as tenacious. In retrospect, I see myself as foolish. Thanks for reading me! But please don't feel sorry for me. All the pain I've endured (you would be amazed at the variety) has made me a wiser man.....James


To the Reader who Commented on Solace...I am stunned. For the 1st time, I am unsure what to say. My mind is reeling, and trying to imagine who you may be. Perhaps you are a voice in the wilderness, for me, reminding me of who I once thought I was (See how the mighty have fallen!) But, okay. Let me respond as best I can. You are right. I had the world in my cross hairs in the '70's. I believed I was capable, and I was thrilled with the prospects that lay ahead. As a young man I took risks. The late 80's and 90's were full of risk, and I accepted each one of them. But life beat the hell outta me. I was pushed, dragged, threatened, injured, I lost, I won. I had 2 life threatening events that nearly killed me. I left, I was left, I made promises and broke a few, I fell, stumbled, picked myself up, grew bitter, learned to accept what happened, got right, made mistakes, made good choices, but mostly got beat to a pulp. And presently....I am a burned ember. Observed from the outside, I appear irrelevant and used up. But the fire of which you spoke...Ah! That remains. But it's burned into my interior. I appear a grey hunk of used ash. But if one got close enough to feel the heat...it's still there. But it has found its home in my heart, where it does me the most good. If you please, I would love to hear from you again. You can contact me at Coldrainandwind@aol.com. Let me correct myself a bit. I'm not saying I'm just old and used up. I'm saying my "uniform" is ragged, soiled, torn and bloodied...but it's still my uniform, and it proves I've been there, done that...and I'd do it all again. I know what I've just said is contradiction. But I am a contradiction, in the flesh. I am not what I appear to be, and I appear to be what I am not. Life has been...difficult. It's my life. I love it. But if there's a next time I'll duck, where needful, and punch where possible. I'm still a fighter. Thank you so much for your expression. It means more to me than you could know. By the way, you may not be as anonymous as you think! But what do I know?...James

Distant

The stars seem distant
Tonight.
More so
Than measured
By light years.

It seems
A wall
A barrier
Has fallen.

It seems
The hollow crash
Of a gate
Has closed.
The heavens
Are iron
The stars
Brass.

This is illusion.

Nothing has changed.
Heaven is intact.

But within my heart
A chill
Has set.
A frost
Has fallen.

The stars seem distant
Tonight.

Tagged and Dragged

He watched
As they hosed out
The cruiser’s molded plastic
Back seat and floorboard.

It stank of urine
Feces and vomit.

A weak tan slush
Flowed from the vehicle
Oozing into the sewer drain
Behind the station.

The maintenance worker cursed
When the cocktail of human debris
Speckled his new
Red Wing work boots.

“Need help, Chaplain?”
A cop asked.
“Nothin’ to see here”
He laughed.

The weary chaplain
Shook his head
Gagging on the
Vomitus fumes.

“We got the perp
Tagged and dragged”
The cop said.
“He’s so trashed
He don’t even know
Where he is.”

The cop shrugged himself
Into a fresh cruiser
One boot in
The other boot out.

“All in a day’s work”
The cop laughed
As the slurry continued to flow.

The chaplain gagged again
As the alcohol
Feces
And urine
Streamed
From the cruiser.

All in a day’s work.

The human that belonged
To that sickly mess
Had been shoved into
The drunk tank
To sober up.

He was fourteen.

F

“You’re an F-ing
Idiot!”
She snarled.
His heart flamed with anger
With malice.
But he said nothing.

“I hate
You”
She said.
“I wish you were

Dead!”
He also wished he were dead.
He felt like an F-ing idiot
For having married her.

She threw his briefcase
Across their bedroom.
Gouging the drywall.

“F
You!”
She screamed.
He sat on the edge of the bed
Imagining the satisfaction
He would feel
Were he to throw her
Across the room.

“I’m gonna take a fistful
Of pills”
She taunted
“Then you’ll be

Sorry.”
He wondered where those pills were.
He would provide the water.

“You’re not a
Man”
She sniveled.
“A man wouldn’t sit there
And take

This”
She spat
Tearing a fistful of pages
From his new hardcover book.

He imagined she was right.
He should stand up
And put his fist
Through her nasty mouth.
But he sat there
Awaiting the next barrage.

“F
You”
She said
Walking out of the bedroom.
“I’m taking the truck
And ramming it

Into
A train.”
This time he spoke.
The blood-red half ton
Fully fueled
Was in the driveway.
A train would demolish
The truck he had just hand polished.
He loved his truck
Laughing at the irony
That it was labeled
A Ram.
But Rams were made every day.

“The key’s on the table”
He said
Smiling.

“F
You.”

Ka-bump

The wooden rocker thumped
Steadily
Across worn floorboards
On the front porch.

Ka-bump
Ka-bump

Ka-bump
Ka-bump

Children ran
Biked and skipped past
All day
Every day.
Through milky eyes
He watched them.
They ignored him.

Ka-bump

Morning sun slanted
Across his lap
While his legs slowly pumped
His rocking chair.

Ka-bump
Ka-bump

Deep purple blood spots
Of varying size
Bruised both arms.
His arthritic hands
With knobby knuckles
Hung limply from the rocker’s
Arm rests.

Ka-bump

Occasional rains nurtured
His daughter-in-law’s
Black-eyed Susans
And hydrangeas
Bordering the broken and cracked
Front walk.
He would watch the rain
Beneath the ceiling
Above the porch.

Ka-bump
Ka-bump

At two-fifteen
Every day, but Sunday
The postman
Stepped to the old man’s right
Placing his delivery in the box.
He would smile and say
Good day Mr. James.
No reply ever came.

Ka-bump
Ka-bump

The old man rocked.
He rocked
Rocked
Rocked
All day
Every day.

Ka-bump

When his son returned home
He would follow him
Into the white frame house
In the middle of the block
On Tulip Avenue.

On a Tuesday
The children played
And the old man watched.

Ka-bump
Ka-bump

Nobody heard the old man speak.

Ka-bump

It was the first word
He had spoken
Since the stroke
Silenced him
Thirteen years ago.

Ka-bump

He spoke once
And he never spoke again.

Ka-bump

His hands tensed on the arm rests
When he said
“Abigail.”

And the rocker stopped forever.

Someone Like Her

Showing me a picture
Of a very young woman
The man smiled
Saying
She made him happy.

Taking the direct approach
I asked the difference
In their ages.

Twenty six years.

Knowing he had just received
An inheritance
I posed the next question.

Is she asking for money?

Well, yeah
He said.
She has a lot of bills.
She has a kid.
She doesn’t work.
But, God
Isn’t she pretty?

Question three:
Do you ever feel you’re being
Used?

He smiled awkwardly.

But, damn!
Where ever could I find someone
Like her?

I ended the interview.
But he wanted to keep talking.

Her name is…

I held up my hand
Hoping he’d stop.

I knew her name.

It’s Legion.

Ninety Seconds

Death sat across from me today.
It glared at me through the eyes
Of a young woman
With pancreatic cancer.
She ticked off an exhaustive list
Of body parts
The cancer has eaten...
Pancreas
Stomach lining
Seven feet of bowels
Rectum.

I struggled to think
Of something to say
Something encouraging
Something positive.

Then I realized
I had nothing to say.

Saying nothing
Is the most honest
Compassionate thing
I could give her.

I walked around my desk
And took this stranger
This tragic
Fragile woman
Into my arms.

I felt her body release
And my body
Absorb hers.

I’m sorry
I said.

Sorry
Not for holding her
But sorry we live in such a brutal
Wicked world
Where cancer will destroy
A beautiful young woman
Like Rebecca.

She wept into my shoulder
And I did not pull away.

Thank you
She said.

She thanked me
For a simple embrace.

Finally
She pulled away
To take her leave.

Thank you for not trying
To make it better
With all those damn platitudes
All those meaningless words
People shove into me
She said.

Thank you
She said.

And she left.

Death sat across from me today.
But for ninety seconds
It did not win.

The Inevitable

The sun has an occasional fit
They say
Spewing violence in flares
Speeding toward earth
Playing mischief with electrical systems
And communications
Plunging civilization into darkness
Unable to call help.

Such expulsions confuse GPS readings
Causing one to not know
Where on earth he is.

Unseen by the human eye
This danger hides
In the familiar
Lurking among the benign.

On the poles it excites the Auroras
Beautiful
From a distance
Perilous at close range.

These solar storms are to be taken
Seriously.
They represent disruption
At best
Death
At worst.

Woe to the planet
When the inevitable arrives.

I understand fully
The message
The danger
The risk
Of flares.

I’m married.

Thank You, Capt. Collins!

My thanks extend to Capt. Edward Collins, a life-long military, and commercial pilot, who found use of my poem "This Side of Over There" (Feb. 2, 2010) in his life story. I am privileged to have a copy, and am intrigued and blessed by his work. The diversity of readers who come to this site thrill me. They come from countries all around the world. Thank you...all of you....who read my work, and thank you, Capt. Collins, for including me in your wonderful book!
~ James

A Street Corner Visit

Really
She said
You should come by
Sometime
She said.

You’re always welcome
She said.
We always had a good time
She said
I don’t know why
You’re such a stranger
She said.

I smiled softly
Nodding on the outside
While seeking an exit
On the inside.

I’m right where I was before
She said
I’ve never moved.
I wonder why I haven’t?
No reason really
She said
It’s not like I haven’t
Had the opportunity
She said.

I shrugged.

You’d think by this time
I’d be in a relationship
She said
But then you know I’m a catch
She said laughing
Running her chipped fingernails through
Her stringy blond hair.

I nodded an agreement I did not mean.

Anyways
It’s good to see you again, hun
She said.
Now you come by anytime
She said
I’ll make you glad you did
She said
I always liked you, Davey
She said
Touching my shoulder.

I smiled weakly
Taking my leave
Wondering
Who the hell is Davey?