More Deeply

Come dusk
A man leans
On a fence rail
And considers the day.

Was the day's work done well?
What could have been done better?
What more needs done?
How much will it cost?
When should it be complete?

As the sun sinks
Into the horizon
A man is shrouded
In the deepening dark.

He thinks more deeply.

How has my body worn?
Is there energy remaining?
Is all I’ve done worth all I’ve given?
Has my life had significance?

In the deepest darkness
A man disturbs his mind
In an effort to probe
More deeply.

Am I loving well?
Have I given my best?
Will I leave something to lighten
The way for those following?

Just before the morning birds sing
A man hears an answer
That is higher than language
And interpreted only in his spirit.

The answer comes as mystery:
More deeply.

Give more deeply.
Hear more deeply.
Work more deeply.
Live more deeply.
Love more deeply.
Rest more deeply.

More deeply.

Vengeance*

Closely listen
You will hear the drums
Death is moving
It this way comes.

The crashing cannon
The rifle fire
It is too much
It is far too dire.

Unloose the warrior
Bridle the horse
Give answer to
The wicked one’s force.

Rain down hell
Let it fall wide
Let not one escape
Let not one abide.

Pursue! Pursue!
Let wicked blood flow.
Sound the trumpet!
Let vengeance roll.

* I wrote earlier of my repulsion with war. It is, in every regard, the very last recourse following the failure of reasonable dialogue. But there can be no dialogue with godless creatures like ISIS or Al Queda. When reason fails, the ambassador of bullets must follow. Just hours earlier another westerner lost his life at their evil blade. This poem (it does not merit such a peaceable designation) may have been written concerning the Napoleonic incursions, or Hitler's carving up of the European continent. But the horror of war remains with us. "Wars and rumors of wars" will come before the end, Jesus said. Even so, Lord Jesus, come!

A Better Place

Behind my eyelids
Is an intimate
Screen
Upon which is displayed
Every manner of sensory
Delight.

Last night
I journeyed in
A horse-drawn surrey
Across idyllic meadowlands
Into a leafy canopy
Of splendid timber.

My mind
Filled in the blanks.

I knew the presence
Of an unseen
Companion
That journeyed with me
Silently
Warmly.

I inhaled the zephyr of
Aromas.

Blond grasses
Freshly mown
Were bundled onto trailers
For storage as winter feed.

Wildflowers
In and out of season
Pale blue
Yellow and burgundy bloomed
Fragrancing the red clay road.

The regular clomping
Of my horse’s hooves
Counted cadence
To the passing of seconds
Minutes and hours.

No contrails
Unzipped the sky.
No jangle of devices
Marred the moment
No hurry
No distraction.

The destination
Was not the matter.
Every particular was contained
In the pleasant passage.

So unlike the buzz and bluster
The hurry and hoo-doo
Of contemporary transport
My imagination
Became a conduit of conveyance
Taking me to a place
Unreached by a century and a half
Of “refinement.”

I must close my eyes more often.

Transition to the soul’s
Better place
Is but a membrane distant.

The Recommendation

Illusions
Abound
Some lethal
Others harmless.

It is for the individual mind
To discern
Credible threat.

A harmless walk
In the sunshine
Is joy to the soul.

Resting
Half asleep
In one’s backyard
Is restorative.

Yet
Disaster lurks
Ready to pounce
On the unexpecting.

A stray bullet
Finds the head of a child
Playing
In his grandparent’s yard.

A brick falls
From a century-old church
Striking and killing
An innocent pedestrian.

All peace
All safety
Is illusory
In this fractured world.

No one may truly know
Whether the next moment may bring
Pleasure
Or pain.

The remedy?
There is none.

But there is a
Recommendation:
Live life to the fullest
Knowing that the sands
In the glass
Hidden to us
May drain at any time.

Live!
Love!
Laugh!

Disregard
The fear inherent
In this age of terror.

Live every moment
With tenacious enthusiasm
As though it were your last.
And thereby defeat
The lurid threat
Of this darkening age.

Merciless Patience

My grandmother
Chased wasps through her house
With a pair of scissors
In her hand.
Patiently she pursued them.

Suddenly
Like Arkansas heat lightening
She struck
Snipping a wasp in twain
In mid-flight.

It was both a chilling
And wonderful spectacle.
And it was a lesson
To her little grandson.

She taught me
To pursue my troubles
Rather than to hide
From torment.

And further
To initiate a pre-emptive
Strike.

Never wait for misery
To assail you.
Strike swiftly at misery.

This is, of course, impossible, unless
You have a pair of sharp scissors
And the merciless patience
Of my grandmother.

Secrets

Secrets may bind hearts
As surely as love.

Secrets shared
Are secrets compounded.

It is no longer the secret
But the secret that there are secrets
That knot the attachment.

Quietly held
The way evening holds shadows
Unspoken mysteries
Like darkening hues
Grow more potent
As time passes.

At an undetermined point
Parallel lines converge at infinity.
The secret
And those who held the secret
Become known.

The secret dissolves
And loses its mystery.
The power that bound the two
Instantly disappears
And its particle remnant
Is known as shame.

The two secret keepers
Once fast friends and collaborators
Now cannot tolerate the presence
Of one another

The world clicks
Its collective tongue
And a new secret is born.

The new secret is
That secrets themselves
Are not based in love
But desperation.

An Eager Student

What can you tell me?
Believe me, I’ll listen.
I’m you’re eager student.
Tell me what, why and when.

There is much I don’t know.
But I’m ready to learn.
I’ll receive all your teaching.
I’ll study every concern.

I sit in rapt attention.
Tell me all that you know.
I’ll take it and determine
The way I must go.

I’m watching your life
The way that you live
That I might make use
Of all that you give.

I will be your best student.
Make me as wise as you can
That I might grow tall
In the garden of man.

Guns on the Hill*

They put guns on that hill
Overlooking this straight
Polished cannons of brass
Gleaming, bright and ornate.

They put guns on that hill
To train on these narrows
Impervious to rifle shot
Lances and arrows.

They put guns on that hill
To rain down fires of hell.
How many were slaughtered
God only can tell.

Warriors climbed these slopes
With ropes, chains and claw
Only to perish
At the cannon’s fierce maw.

But all the guns in the world
Cannot prevent those
Who arise from within
To challenge and oppose.

As testimony, silent
The cold guns now stand mute.
The folly of war
Only fools will dispute.

*I have never been a "dove." In truth, I have been a "hawk" all my life. But I hate war. It is all foolishness and folly, and must only be waged with wise and prudent council. Once waged, it should be full and swift. But God forgive us all for creating a world in which freedom must be secured at the cost of blood, and the sacrifice of a generation of young warriors.

I Have Learned

I have learned
A man can sleep beside someone
And be utterly alone.

I have learned
You can shave a face
For sixty years
And not know
The man in the mirror.

I have learned
What touches the soul
Must touch the body
But what touches the body
Need not touch the soul.

I have learned
That true satisfaction
Is often wordless.

I have learned
The higher I sit
The further down I look.

I have learned
That music of the soul
May be tuneless.

I have learned
That the man
Who is your friend
Need not tell you he is.

I have learned
That the summation of life
Is always too early reckoned.

I have learned
The darkest clouds
Sometimes contain
The least rain.

I have learned
The best love-making
Is usually less energetic
And endures everlastingly.

I have learned
My best wisdom
And keenest insight
Was learned in childhood.

I have learned
The deepest
Most profound misery
Was inflicted
With a dull blade.

And I have learned
That nothing I have learned
Is final and absolute.

The Diner

In morning life
The Diner thrums.

Swirling
In sensory mosaics
Aromas mingle
Into amazements
Of coffee
Bacon
Eggs and buttery toast.

An auditory feast
Of clinking dinnerware
Plates
Cups
And conversations
Cresting
Then lulling
To crest again
The way the surf casts itself
Breaking
Onto tens of thousands of beaches.
To recede again.

Eyes rejoice in prisms of color
Brightened by morning light
Filtering through high clouds
And filmy café windows
Washing across a kaleidoscope
Of patron’s shirts and caps
And the hurry of servers
Lofting plates and pots
Like circus performers
Above their heads.

Tangled into a corner booth
Order taken
I watch faces
Eyes
And the quick movement
Of fingers hooked through cup holds
Of mouths hurriedly chewing breakfasts
Of waitresses and busboys
Of the leaving of dollar tips
And the jovial cashier
Making change and jokes
The retrieval of caps
Purses and coats
Feeling the cool autumnal air
Invade the inner warmth
As the glass door admits new
Hungry morning crowds.

I come to the diner
To immerse
Into lives
Webbed temporarily
By a common need:
The fellowship of food
The blending of motion
Splashes of living paint
And cacophony of noises
Fixed to a menu
Beyond that listed on paper.

It is a conurbation of hurry
Electrons of diners
Orbiting
A nucleus of victuals.

It is drama and comedy
Stewed and steamed
Into early morning delights.

All this
And coffee too!

Sunken Galleons

Sunken Galleons 

The sea and moon
Wrestle
Like midnight lovers
Tangled
In filigree foam
Like tangled sheets
Enfolding
Glistening bodies.

On my back
Eyes star-ward
I listen
To the passion
Rolling
In the great ebony deep.

Later I dream.

The voice of the sea
Murmurs wantonly
Begging
Promising
Becoming her voice
Words half-said
Sentences ill-formed
Knowing I understand
Even before her thoughts
Her desires
Fully express.

I match the tossing
Of the surf
Alone in my bed.

She was here.

Her scent lingers
In the brine of day.
But the dream
Dissolves
The way tides
Dissolve
Into vague memory
Returning again
When the lunar pull
Insistently draws.

In morning’s pale shine
The moon is a pastel orb
Blushing
Two hands above
The horizon.
It seems to evade the sun
In its flirtatious dance...

But the sea and moon
Will embrace again
In the roiling spray.

And I will reach
Into the night
Sorrowing.

She is forever lost
The way
Sunken galleons
Whose uncharted treasures
Are lost
In the dark
Salty deep.

The Plan

Over more than half a century
I developed expectations
Of my body.

It served me well
Answering every demand
Required.

I have pushed it uphill.
I have slowed its descent.

I have withheld adequate provision.
I have supplied more than required.

I have enforced extreme hardship.
I have allowed excessive pleasures.

But it betrays me.

Like a pilotless helm
It sometimes does not answer
The rudder
Setting me adrift
In a sea of need.

I often stumble
In modest incline.
I make use of a cane
To support my stride
No longer the man
Of confident gait.

My formerly well-lubricated form
Now pops and creaks
Groans and moans
When stressed.

I must take sleeping aids
To promote proper rest.
I rise hours before dawn
At the slightest disturbance.

My appetite flags
Before generous portions.
That which effected pleasure
Now seems like work.

Daily
My face appears a dim shadow
Of the confidence it once inspired.

What am I to do?

This is my plan:
I will celebrate the capable vehicle
And powerful engine
My body once was.

But from this time forward
I believe I will take the bus.

About & To "Nic E"...a Reader

Nic E is an amazing artist living in the UK, whose photography is incomparable. After visiting this site she made kind remarks concerning my poetry. It turns out that she is also skilled in music (No fair! Why can't I have multiple abilities?!). She has inquired about setting some of my work to music, which I enthusiastically endorse.

I encourage ya'll to visit her craft at AnInstantOutofTime.BlogSpot.com.

To Nic E...I would love to further your notion, and see what may come. Please write me at ColdRainAndWind@aol.com. Thanks!

~ James

Oh! *

Oh, what I saw
In Omaha!
What an amazing scene
Direct from a dream!

Oh, she danced
Nearly nude.
It was rowdy
And lewd!

Oh, she made
Me blush.
She gave such
A rush!

Oh, please don’t
Tell mother
Daddy, sister
Or brother.

Oh, I’m goin’ back
Some day!
Gonna take
All my pay.

Oh, gonna give that gal
My money.
Gonna make her
My honey!

Oh, please don’t
Tell mother
Daddy, sister
Or brother.

* This fanciful, humorous ditty rises from an over-the-road trucker I knew, who loved the Omaha run for reasons beyond his pay. As you may guess, he never got the girl. Oh, but, he did loose all his money.

The Dimming Day

The forest floor slants
At the angle of the setting sun
Lengthening shadows downhill
Dappled in purples and blues.

High in the bowers
Birds of prey await their meal
Searching movement
Among downed limbs and grasses.

The very air lives
With golden gleam
As mists collect
And dew is born.

Tonight a doe and her fawn
Will make their woody bed.
Stars will soon sparkle
Like embers tossed skyward.

Come day, the eastern horizon
Will blush tangerine.
The doe and fawn will rise
And earth will hurry again.

But in this moment
A hush is collecting
And the world holds its breath
In the dimming day.

Be Still, Little Darling

A morning will dawn
You will find me gone.
A day is coming
You will be alone.

A sky will darken
And you will miss me.
A midnight’s coming
You will feel like a refugee.

Be still
Little darling.
It will be alright.
Believe
Little darling
And hold on tight.

The day still dawns
The sun will shine
Life still makes sense
It’s the masterful design.

When you think of me
Remember and sigh.
Some things continue.
Some things never die.

Be still
Little darling.
It will be alright.
Believe
Little darling
And hold on tight.

Lion Tamer

I keep the pain
At bay
The way a lion tamer
Holds back the beast
With the legs of a chair
And a whip.

Pain must be taunted
Made little of
Or it will flare in rage
And tear one’s heart out
With mighty paws
With roars
And fury.

The tamer of beasts
Does so
With a cavalier spirit
Daring death
With glinting eye.

I tame the pain
Because I share the lion's cage
In which there is no door
And the bars too narrow
For escape.

I take up the whip
And chair
Because not to do so
Is to bare my chest to the lion
And submit
To its cruel pleasure.

It is not
Tame or be tamed.

It is tame or perish.

He Who Discerns

Suddenly
Without announcement
He was beside me:
The enemy.

As much surprised by me
As I of him
We both quickly
Recovered
To skirmish in mortal combat.

All combat is mortal
Unless it is immortal.

Let he who discerns understand.

There was clawing
For supremacy
There was growling
As menace
There was cursing
For bitterness.

It was brief
But it was final.

Let he who discerns understand.

At the end was exhaustion
Was the pulse of expended terror
Was the sweet knowledge I prevailed.

The victor is he who lives
To tell the tale.
But only to the few who bled
And make bleed.

Let he who discerns understand.

Light a Cigar

There are times
I wish I could just sit
In the dirt
Light a cigar
And say
“Damn!”

There are moments
I grow weary
Needing to lay my burden
Down
Shrug it off
The way a pitcher shrugs
The call for a curve.

There are entire seasons
I cannot remember why
I still care
Wanting to turn my back
To the world
The way a matador
Turns his back
On the bull.

But mostly
I want to sit
In the dirt
Light a cigar
And say
“Damn!”

Succor of Peace

There is a silence
Behind all the clutter
The busy-ness
That remains
The way the last blush
Of light stains western skies
On the down-going of the sun.

I hurry toward the hush
Needing the quietude
The way lovers need
The kiss
The co-mingling
Of affection.

It is not the absence
Of sound
As much as it is
The presence
Of peace
The presence
Of gentleness
The presence
Of dignity
Needing no assurance
But being that assurance.

The child finds it
In its mother’s arms
The lover
In love’s embrace.

You may find it
Between the notes
Of the best opus
Or between the words
Of masterful speeches.

Silence waits patiently
Unhurried
Knowing the time is coming
For its grand entrance
When it will be all that remains.

Until that time
I listen to the quiet
As succor of peace.

Personal Reflection on the Passing of Friends

Not to my sorrow only, but that most keenly felt by family and others intimate to their lives, is the loss of two friends in the last two weeks. The poetry of Alfred, Lord Tennyson, is a comfort. He pictures death as a "crossing of the bar." The "bar" is a shallow shoal in a bay, and the "moaning" of which he wrote is that sound made by the winds playing across the narrows. He likens it to the moaning of grief, but says "may there no moaning" when he passes. The poet notes that death is not a shallow hazard, but a deep, purposeful draught needing no fear. He speaks of his "Pilot," as one who takes the tiller and provides sure navigation. The poem I offer below, is Tennyson's beautiful work "Crossing the Bar." I hope none now grieve. But when they inevitably do, I hope this brief poem gives them the comfort it now gives me.

Crossing the Bar

Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,

But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;

For though from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crost the bar.

A Belated Note to George Gordon, Lord Byron

I keep a volume
Of your beautiful
Love poems

On the nightstand
Beside my

Bed.

They calmed
Me

Provided a
Keyhole
By which

I might view
With prurient

Interest

Your involvement
With all manner

Of females.

I say “females”
Rather than

“Women”

Because at least
One

Was twelve years
Young.

Twelve.

Your apologists remind us
It was a different
Time.

But twelve years young
Mr. Byron
Is always

Twelve years young.

Twelve.

Four thousand
Three hundred
and eighty

Days old.

Might I quote thee
Mr. Byron?
By day or night, in weal or woe
That heart, no longer free,
Must bear the love it cannot show,
And silent ache for thee.


Tis no wonder
Lord Byron
Thou must not show
Your truly

Silent ache!

She was
Twelve years
Young
Mr. Byron.

No longer
The masterful work
I once enjoyed
Your volume of

Lust poems

Now make a wonderful

Coaster.