A Word to Tim...

I never owned my own horse, but I've straddled a few. In fact, aside from my truck (a fire engine red, standard cab, short bed Ram, slathered in copious amounts chrome and powered by a 4.7 ltr. V8), nothing is better than the squeak of saddle leather astride a buttermilk 'hos. That's my story, and I'm stickin' to it! As a matter of fact, I am writing a work of fiction, called The Bone Tree. It's like giving birth...painful, messy and promising many years of after-care. Happy New Year, Tim!
~ James

At Least Until I Die

I sat atop my pony
Gazing ‘cross the Great Divide.
We could go west, or east
It was for us together to decide.

There was little prompting.
It didn’t much matter which.
But we decided we’d head east
Based on a nagging itch.

The mountain passes would soon close
Being overwhelmed in snow.
The main thing was just getting out
Whichever way we’d go.

We backtracked the grassy plains.
Crossed rivers we’d crossed before.
There was little that we wanted
And we needed nothing more.

A couple of hard months later
We stepped into the eastern sea.
I thought of the troubling matter
Of what may come of me.

Talking it over with my pony
We determined to head south this time.
The matter was decided
In the flipping of a dime.

We finally arrived in Brownsville, Texas
But there was little for me there
So I discussed it with my pony
And we turned to take some northern air.

The day we came to Windsor, Canada
Was the day we made another choice.
Everybody must be somewhere
So I harkened to my pony’s voice.

My pony said he wanted a place
Where he could just lay down a bit.
He said he had grown so tired
And it was time for him to quit.

I bought that faithful pony two acres
Of good grass with apple trees.
But I was still good at walking
And any more goin' was up to me.

So I strolled to the Pacific Ocean
Just to see that water roll.
I could step in it and go on walking
There weren't many more places for me to go.

I guessed I could walk to China
Or retire atop a watery crest
Or I could go back to see my pony.
He always knew to do what's best.

So I turned back to my dear pony
And he made a place for me to lie.
Then invited me to stay forever
Or at least until I die.

Now we talk about our journeys
Up till our rambling days came to an end
Discovering the reason that we traveled
Was for a man and pony to become friends.

The Swear Word

The swear word she selected
Surprised me.
I had not expected someone
As slight
As feminine as she
Could even know phonics
Like that.
The way she formed that word
Made it sound appropriate
Even cute
Though it is not.

I raised a brow.
I smiled.
I even laughed a little.

She cocked her head
At my response
So I felt the need to explain.

How could someone as delicate
As you
Even know the meaning of so low a word?

It was now her turn
To raise a brow
To laugh a little.

Our conversation took needful turns
And drifted into some fascinating narrows.
I marveled
At how deftly she maneuvered
Our discourse
Our interaction.

She handled me with the skill
Of a true craftsman.
Before I realized what she was doing
She had pared my biography like an apple
Every detail opening to her
Easily
Painlessly.

Reciprocation was in order.

The next several weeks
And months
Were spent exploring the ways
Our paths wended and intersected.

She never again used that word
That first caused me to look up
Arch a brow
And smile.

Though she clearly understood its meaning.

The Taper

I lit a white taper
Placing it on the mantle.
It has a twin
Somewhere.

Two small flickers
Are all that remain
Of a fierce flame
That once raged
Unmanaged
Uncontrolled
Unending.

It’s like a coal fire
Deep in the earth
Having few ports
To vent heat.
That kind of
Fire will burn
Forever.

I sit back
In early evening
Shadows
In fading light
Content knowing
The darker the room
The more brilliant
Is
Even
A
Very
Small
Flame.

To My Readers ~~

I wish every reader of The Dashboard Poet a very Merry Christmas. May your homes ring in joy, and your hearts be warmed in the blessing God extends...Peace on Earth, and Good Will Toward Men, With Whom His Favor Rests!

~ James

Fur and Feather

I tethered my pony
Near a stand of good grass
Brewed up some coffee
And let the time pass.

The stars begin to wink on.
They took their place one by one
And soon they were everywhere
With the going down of the sun.

I sat against a rock wall
And slowly sipped my brew
As I considered all my blessings.
You know, there are quite a few.

The evening air grew chilly
So I built up my little fire
And huddled down in my sheepskin
To listen to creation’s choir.

An old hoot owl was the conductor.
The orchestra was composed of geese
That, while winging high or’ head
Gave the melody full release.

A lone coyote, in the distance
Sang the tenor part
While the bass was sung by bullfrogs
Who knew their lines by heart.

My pony filled in as soprano
As she whinnied soft and high.
I closed my eyes and listened
As the hours seemed to fly.

My own heart gave the drumbeat
As everything came together.
Not a single thing was missing
By furry critters, or birds of feather.

The whole night long I listened
To one melody after another.
Each performance was amazing
Every voice was fine and sure.

Daylight dawned far too quickly.
My campfire had grown cold.
But had I remained there forever
I doubt the music would’ve grown old.

One day I hope to return
For my soul ever yearns and longs
To pause at the edge of midnight
And again hear creation’s song.

The Badge, the Uniform, the End of Days

Several years ago I created this site as an outlet for my poetry and prose. My intention was, and is, to maintain that endeavor. But sometimes events occur about which I cannot be silent. Such is the case with the assassination of two New York police officers, who were simply sitting in their squad car, on a "10-7"…having their lunch.
Officers Wenjian Liu and Rafael Ramos loved their city, and were committed to its welfare. Officer Liu was married two weeks earlier. Officer Ramos’ thirteen year old son made a public statement saying he’d had the “best dad in the world.” There are no words equal to the loss in describing the horror of these killings.
As many of you know, I wore a police uniform for 22 years. I was not a patrol officer, or detective. I was a badged and uniformed chaplain. I was the one who knocked on your door at 2:00 a.m. to inform you your teenager had been killed in an accident. I was the one standing beside the dead bodies, waiting for the Medical Examiner to give me something to tell the survivors. I wore my uniform proudly. I loved my city, its citizenry, and the men and women with whom I served.
In that time, I conducted four police funerals, one officer dead by his own hand, having indicated he could no longer face those things officers experience every day. I removed my badge and retired my uniform, when I began to experience severe symptoms of PTSD. When it became obvious I was not going to get better I knew it was time to step back.
Last night I asked my family what they would think were I to return to duty. Their response? “No! You would just get shot.” What an awful contemplation forced upon the family of one who simply wants to serve. I have been shot at, though at the time I was just an unfortunate pedestrian caught in a cross fire. It was over in seconds, but for the next half hour I sat on the curb, throwing up and shaking. Liu and Ramos likely never saw their attacker. They had no opportunity to defend themselves.
Days before their murder, activists led a crowd loudly chanting, “What do we want? DEAD COPS! When do we want it? NOW!” There has been no strong language coming from the White House or Justice Department to come alongside police officers who just want to do their jobs and return home at the end of their shift. Nothing. The best that has been offered is tepid compared to the strong language supporting offenders. Were I young again, and contemplating a career, the very notion of entering law enforcement would be laughable. In terms of "Line of Duty Deaths," it's less dangerous to be an infantryman in Afghanistan that it is to be a beat officer in any major American city. You may laugh at that statement. I hope I'm wrong. I'm not.
Pray for the families of Officer Liu and Officer Ramos. Pray that the "Thin Blue Line" that remains the only barrier between uncontrollable violence and your loved ones, remain intact, and safe. Approach an officer (slowly and carefully, as they are hyper-vigilant now) and thank them for their service. Folks, it is going to get worse. It is not going to get better. Our poor land has already tipped over the edge, and there is no return to Mayberry. There are no longer any Sheriff Andys or Deputy Fifes. There are only heroic and embattled law enforcement officers. Are there any bad cops? Sure. Just as there are bad taxi drivers and bad garbage haulers. But I must cast my lot somewhere. I cast it with my fraternity in blue, confident that the vast numbers of them are good people doing an impossible job. I hope you agree. If you do not, then the next time you need help...call a thug.
I tell you, this world is, to me, a Picasso. All the familiar lines have been skewed. Nothing makes sense. Well, that’s not entirely true. There is one thing that makes perfect sense. It makes sense that I have permanently retired my badge and uniform.

Sadly,
James

PS....Five hours after this post I discovered the Line of Duty Deaths of six officers, nationally, just in the month of December. One was murdered by a handgun, in Florida. Four others in pursuits and vehicular accidents, and one murdered while transporting a prisoner. And so the story goes.
PS2....Flagstaff, AZ, Officer Tyler Stewart was gunned down and killed last Saturday, when he calmly asked a Domestic Violence suspect permission to pat him down. After being wounded, and on the ground, the officer was repeatedly shot until dead. News services offer no detail concerning Stewart's family. He is the second northern Arizona officer killed in the Line of Duty. The first was killed after a traffic stop involving a vehicle with too-loud a stereo disrupting a neighborhood.
PS3.....After the New Year I have no intention of updating the numbers of firings on law enforcement officers. This site is not for that purpose. But until we cross that magic line at midnight, Wednesday, I will provide those troubling, grim statistics. Last night two Los Angeles officers were fired upon while in their squad car. A man with a rifle and a handgun was arrested and charged. Thankfully, even with a rifle, the suspect was a horrible shot. But even horrible shots, when they miss, sometimes kill innocents, like the little girl that was killed while sitting on the front steps of her grandmother's home.
PS4.....On Tuesday, Dec. 30, six Boston teenagers attacked two officers as the officers made an arrest in an apartment building, sending the officers to the hospital. Trend, anyone?

Realization

You opened my life
The way I open an orange:

Firstly
Delighting in the appearance
Of what entices me.

Secondly
Carefully tugging away
The thin outer skin
The casing that holds the flavor.

Thirdly
Pulling the sweet inner life apart
In sections
Understanding the content
By degree.

Lastly
Savoring the tart taste
By the slow reduction
Of its parts
Until it joins my life.

So have you done with me.

How Funny

It was an amazing sunset
The kind that forms tears
In the corners of my eyes.

I had very recently been abandoned
After twenty eight years
Of a very troubled marriage.

I felt like ash.
I felt that way constantly.

Coming from a meeting
With the police brass
I was still in uniform
As I fell into my lawn chair.

I had an open bottle
Of red wine
I bought years ago
From a little place
I occasionally visited.
I am not a very good drinker
But a little wine seemed about right
This evening.

I looked at the sun.
Beautiful.
But it was also alone.

I took a sip.
Then a sip more.

The golden orb of the sun
Sparked from the thinning branches
Of my maple tree.

It was becoming chilly
So I huddled deeper into my blue jacket.
It felt wrong to drink wine
While still wearing the badge.
But I was alone.
Nobody would notice.
Who would care?

Hell, I was always alone.

This time I took a long pull
From the shapely bottle.
Then another.
And another.

I drank half the bottle
And didn’t feel a thing.

Weak wine.

Hell
I drank it all.
The whole thing.
It was about as potent as grape soda.

I didn’t even notice
The sun had set.
In fact it had become full night.

I must have fallen asleep.
The bottle
Still in my hand
Was amazingly empty.
And weirdly funny.

Damn weak wine.

I stood up.
Or, I tried to stand up.

I fell flat on my face.

I started to laugh.
Laugh hilariously.
I crawled all the way
To my back door
Laughing all the way.

The grass was wet with dew.
My uniform would need dry cleaning.

That seemed so funny!
I laughed again.

I crawled into my bedroom.
I crawled into bed
My badge catching
On the blanket.
That was funny!
So I laughed.

The empty bottle
Remained in my right hand.
How funny!
So I laughed.

Tomorrow I would write that winery
And tell them how weak their damn wine is.

And I laughed.
Then I slept for twelve hours.

Damn weak wine.
How funny.

Cherokee Poker, 1876

To any novice
Watching the card game
Our conversation
Seemed harmless
Banter.

It was not.

It was threat
Lethal in escalation.

Isolating on words
He used repeatedly
I perceived intent.

So I did not disengage.

I countered his thrust
With my parry.

I made contact.
He flinched
But slightly.

His next effort
Was a bit less invisible
And the eyes of others
At the table
Fixed upon us.

He called me a bald-faced liar
And a cheat.
Fairly direct, I thought.

Long ago I learned
When it’s time to play your hand
Do it deftly.
With purpose.
Boldly.

So I did what I knew.

I told him if he did not apologize immediately
I would show him to be
The dainty
Foul-smelling
Pig-kissing
Slop-eared
Snake-bellied
Son of a bitch
Cherokee
Mule skinner
I knew him to be.

He could not walk away from that.

This time he flinched more noticeably.
His honor now much in question
He would have to match my mouth
Or leave with his tail tucked
Between the crack of his hog-like ass.

Or he could kill me.

He sputtered
Blew fumes
Turned crimson
And blustered
Declaring my scalp
Would flutter from his lodge pole
In the morning.

Or words to that effect.

That provided grounds
Upon which any jury of my peers
Would agree.

So I shot him.

And I was right about the jury…
Except for one detail.
They are hanging me in the morning.

But I can keep my scalp.

No Dream*

Closing my eyes to sleep
I thought of her
Hoping to steer my dreams
In her direction.

Concentrating
Upon the spark
In her hazel eyes
I considered
Their autumnal blaze.
The welcome in them.

When I awakened
It was 1:11 a.m.

I’d had no dream.

Face into my pillow
I tried again.

Her lips were turned
In a perpetual smile
Though not in expression of humor.
They extended invitation
Passion
Desire.

When I awakened
It was 5:45 a.m.

I’d had no dream.

I lay on my side
In the early predawn.
I thought of her body
Delicate
Soft skin
Perfectly proportioned
Designed
And anxious for love.

When I awakened
It was 8:22 a.m.

I’d had no dream.

But I will try again tonight
Knowing that the only thing worse
Than having no dream of her
Is having one
Knowing she sleeps
At the side of another.

*Reminding you these poems are sometimes personal and autobiographical, sometimes purely fiction. I'll let you guess which is what. Just enjoy them for what they are. I'm betting we have all tried to direct our dreams in Hollywood fashion, usually with no success (whether the dream did or did not occur!).

We Are the Less*

Watching heroes fall
Is an especially ruthless experience.

To have a hero
Requires action
Requires enthronement
And no little trust.

When in painful times
I assemble the thinning ranks
Of the few I’ve so ennobled.
I think on them
And they bring relief
Hope
Charity.
They bring honor.

So, when one of them
Is made to step from behind
A false front
I encounter pain
Rooted in an unwise
Foolish nomination.

Yes, I know this is America
Where innocence is presumed.
I also understand any charge
Can be reduced to
He did / She said.
But there may never be a court of law
In which the matter can be resolved.

That forces deliberation.

Mr. Cosby
I doubt you much care
What one person may think.
But you were on a remarkably
Lofty strata
Among the few that could
Arbitrarily and instantly
Mollify my melancholy.

You are no longer funny, sir.

You no longer have substance.

We who adored you
Are among the victims
(albeit nothing like those you violated)
Of your pathetic behavior.

We are the less
For having made you the best.

*My personal thoughts on Bill Cosby's impersonal behavior.

Worthy

Her bones are those
Of a finely timbered ship
Crafted for the seas
And not the harbor.

Her flesh is that of canvas
Full of salt and spray
Billowed with purpose
Prepared for endless crossings.

Her mind is as the wheel
Steady 'neath her Master’s hand
Ready and longing
To be free of line and gone.

Her eyes are those of the compass
Sighting the sun
Fixing her place under
The stars and moon.

Her spirit is the ship’s creaking
Pressured by the tossing sea
Battering waves
And tensions of her rigging.

Her hearing is as conch shells
Passing 'neath her keel
Searching whale songs below
And storms aloft.

Her nostrils, filled with breeze
Drink both salty savors
And coastal strands'
Earthy scent.

She tastes the tang of oceans
The bitterness of lost mariners
The sweetness of discovery
And relish the spices of harbors.

She rolls in the seduction of trade winds
The sharp pang of storms
In the volatile Caribbean
And sorrows tendered in her wake.

How I would serve her
Canvas full
With decks awash
Leaning into the shoulder of storms!

A worthy vessel is she
Made for the lifting of seas
A matchless maiden so free
From Boston to the Leeward Antilles!

A Texaco Station

It had no charm.
It smelled of gasoline and grease
It had a gigantic red star
On a high post
Near the street
Emblazoned with:
TEXACO.

You can trust your car
To the man who wears
The star
The big
Bright
Texaco Star!

Along the front of the station
Roof top-tall
Brightly colored plastic pendants
Snapped in the breeze.

Near the door
To the small office
Stood a squat
Red Coca Cola cooler
The kind with a maze
Of runners each bottle
Must navigate
To give a boy with a quarter
A painfully cold soft drink.

Mitch ran the place.
He had a pencil moustache
And dark green coveralls
Stained with oil and dirt.
Mitch had a goofy smile
Stretching
Beneath dark eyes.

Laying across the service bay
Between twin rows of pumps
Was a rubber hose
That chimed a bell
Telling Mitch
To get out there
Clean the windshield
Check the oil
Check the water
Check the air in the tires
And pump that Ethyl gasoline.

Deep within the cavern
Of the garage
Was a 1966 calendar
Featuring a naked red head
Cupping her enormous breasts
With a “come hither” smile.

As a kid
I always found reason
To visit the garage
When Mitch was busy elsewhere.

The white tile station
With its cracked concrete bay
Dirty glass
Girlie calendar
And the tactile textures
A boy must not forget
Is long gone.

It does not matter
What inhabits that address today.
What matters is that
Once upon a time
There was a service station
That remains
In the memory of an aging man
Who cannot forget
He once was a little boy
That loved
A greasy
Dirty
Noisy
Smelly
Amazing
And forever gone
Texaco station.

The Broken Stradivari

It fell to pieces in his hand
As he took the stage
His violin, from another age
Simply broke apart, crumbling
As his heart did.

Replacing the instrument in its case
The violinist sat to grieve
His tears daubed by his sleeve.
The ancient violin, now gone
Had been his friend, so dear.

For three centuries it sang
Melodies so sweet they made him cry.
It seemed as he may die
And trembling deep within
Could not keep from it.

The manufacture of Stradivari
From so very long ago
The body, neck and scroll
Had finished the race prescribed
And to thousands, was grace, incarnate.

All we, like the violin
Will soon complete our course
And will, by death, be forced
To silence our voice, our song
Yet must rejoice we had one.

For the present, in this day
Make melody and song
Be confident and strong.
Sweeten and endure your tribulation.
May your allure be charming!

December 4, 1919, Green County, Arkansas

Today, December 4, is my dad's birthday. Had he lived he would be 95 today. He was not an easy man. He gentled as he aged, but as a young father, there were times he was hard. Distant. He never wanted to take our family to fireworks on the 4th of July. As a kid, that made me angry. I couldn’t understand. There’s nothing more awesome than fire in the sky! I hung on relentlessly one summer. We argued in the kitchen. I was intent on wearing him down. Finally, he reached into his shirt pocket, withdrew a pack of matches, lit one and threw it into the sink. “There’s your fireworks,” he said. Of course, I whined and threw a fit which he ignored, having walked into the bedroom. It wasn’t until I was an adult that I understood him on that night. When he saw fireworks, he didn’t see “fire in the sky.” He saw German 88’s raining down hot shrapnel, sometimes exploding in tree tops, making millions of lethal splinters as well as shrapnel, that sliced into the bodies of his friends. In retrospect, I loved him all the more. He contracted cancer after he retired. He was not doing well. I took a week to spend with him. Most of that week we watched wrestling, which I wordlessly despised. After an hour of this, one afternoon, dad said to me, “I killed a boy.” His eyes never left the TV screen. I was sure I misheard him. But he said it again. “I killed a boy.” His track was stranded, out of gas, in the French countryside. A burning house illuminated them in the night. They were cut off. Stranded. Two Hitler Youth came down the road, pushing a motorcycle that was also out of gas. Schmeiser Machine guns were strapped across their chests. Dad shot them. The next morning they made contact with their unit, got gas, and left. But before they did, dad went to see the boys, lying in the road. A tank had run the bodies over, making them only dimly recognizable as human. He told me that story with zero inflection in his voice. He did not cry, or choke up. He just told me what he did. Then he did look up at me. He said, “Every night, when I go to bed, I ask God to forgive me. And every night I see that dead boy.” No amount of wisdom or counsel could fix him. I’m sure I’m doing dad a disservice. He was an intensely loyal man. I saw him take a swing at a bully neighbor whose bully kid had harmed an innocent. He worked in weather any of us would hurry from, to be sure we were fed, clothed, cared for. I’ve spent a lot of time doing a poor job. I’ll just say that my dad is still my hero. I’ve spent 61 years trying to be something near what he authentically was. I thought he would take pride in me the first (and only) time he saw me in uniform. But it had the opposite effect. He nearly cried. And not out of pride in me. He was afraid (rightly so) that I would become a target. So I never told him about the times his fears came close to being well-founded. I’ve always wanted to match him. But he’s gone now, so that’s pointless. The best I can do is just be the best imitation of him that I can. I miss him so much. He is my hero. Happy Birthday, Dad. I love you.
~ James

Stream of Consciousness*

Oh, God.
What’s in his hand?
Oh, shit.

Got him aligned
Center mass.

Drop it!
Drop it!
Do it now
Or I will shoot!

He’s coming.
Hard and fast.
Eighteen feet
And closing.
Twelve.
Ten.

Stop!
Get down!
Do it!
Do it now!
Get down
Or I will shoot!

He’s not yielding.
Shit!
SHIT!

Stop
God dammit!
STOP!

Nothing.

Blade center mass.

FIRE.
FIRE.

Acrid cordite.
Gun smoke
In my strobes.

Staggering.
Tripping.
Lunging.

What’s in his hand?
Something metallic.
Still coming!

FIRE.
FIRE.

Twisting.
Falling clumsily.
Crimson bubbles.
Four bullet holes.
Blood from his mouth.

God DAMMIT!
GOD DAMMIT!

Pedestrians watching.
Too quiet.

Go see.
Go.

Oh, Jesus.
He’s a kid.
A fuckin’ kid.

Oh, God.
Oh, God.

Twelve seconds.
Oh, Christ.

*I spent 22 years with one department. I've had the training. Very thorough. I know personally officers that have had to take a life. It is, I assure you, nothing like what you see on Law and Order. As I write this, tears stream my cheeks. I have seen the bodies. My hands are shaking. Nobody ever wants this. I have used, in this work, profanity no gentleman uses, until he has to draw his weapon. Then vocabulary is of no consequence. My life was threatened. I understand. Vocabulary is simple phonics, at that time. If I have offended those of you looking for Helen Steiner Rice, well...I cannot apologize. I'm dealing with PTSD. Or, it's dealing with me. This is not an attempt to re-live Ferguson. The dynamics there were different than those I suppose here. What happened in Ferguson is terrible. I do not know Officer Wilson. But he is my "brother." I understand him. Most of you cannot. But I do. This is a shitty poem. It's far too real. I thought, and re-thought whether to post this work. At the end of the day, I think it's right. Think these thoughts. Put yourself out there. Try it.
~James

The Ripper*

The are shadows
In the night
Where I hide
From others' sight
There are shadows
Giving fright
Where dwells nothing.

In these empty realms
Where thrives shade
Where nothing lives
That was made
In the darkness
Colors fade
All is bloodless.

Nothingness resides here.
Gone all created things
Barking dogs
Voices that sing
It all has gone away
From beggar man to king.
The dark is lonely.

But I am watching you
From here.
From the bleakness
Where is no air
Within the shadows
You have no prayer.
You are mine now.

* This gruesome little verse is a brief glimpse through the eyes of a twisted killer. I spent 5 years working in a prison. While there, I met the most frightening man I've ever known. He was a serial killer; a hired gun, an assassin. I was alone with this murderer up to 5 hours every week. He had "shark eyes"...dead, dark, forbidding. I never turned my back on this criminal. If ever a mortal had a satanic soul, this man did. He never threatened me. That was not how he did business. He would simply, coldly, and brutally take your life. Watch your "donkey," people. Stay in the light.
~ James

Facing Goliath

What were you thinking?
That I would not pursue?
That I would shrug this off?

You imagined me weak.
Indecisive.
Thought me mild.
Tepid.
Lamb-like.

I will explain our confrontation.

I surprise you.

You are off-balance.
Must reexamine
Your reasons
And resources.

Natural law dictates
For every action
There is an equal
And opposite
Reaction.

I am your exception
To this rule.
Nothing is equal
Tween thee and me.

I am relentless.

I will smite you
Hip bone and thigh.

I will be merciless.

Compression

Strange what is noticed
When the universe compresses.

She was rationalizing goodbye.

I unplugged
Not listening.

A button was missing
From her coat
Third from the top.

The midday sun haloed her auburn hair
Causing her to appear angelic
Beatific.

A honeybee hurried between us
On an invisible highway
Shoulder high.

From somewhere
U2 blared
I Still Haven’t Found
What I’m Looking For.

Her eyes misted
Tears forming
On each lower lid.

She reached for my right hand
But I withdrew.

She finally ran out of words
Like a geyser exhausts its steam
Then asked if I hated her.

The gathering tears
Slid down her cheeks.

I also had no words.

Across the parking lot
A man changed a flat.

Personal to Tim O'Keefe

Thank you for your comments on my work. "Aachen" is a lethal scene that harks back to my father's WWII service with the 2nd Armored. I truly believe that generation was our greatest, as said by Tom Brokaw in his memorable tome. I find it hard to imagine the brain-bending fear of knowing you were going to cross a river when the sun set, and that guns already trained on your position would then open fire. My God. Combat, in every detail, land, sea and air, is horrific and brutal.

As for A Chicago's Winter Eve, I once worked for the Illinois Central Gulf Railroad, as a tariff agent. In winter, I arrived at work in the early dark, and left my 27th floor office after dark. I'm very familiar with the emotions a person often had when looking down into Chicago's Magnificent Mile. I remember being overwhelmed at the composite of human drama in the vast scene at my feet. Down there, somewhere, was a girl with a sparkling new engagement ring, and another woman, devastated at the betrayal of her mate. There were people blossoming, while others wilted. There were happy men, in luxurious Mercedes automobiles, having that day, won a million at the Market, while others limped away completely broke. And there were the many, like me, in the middle, just waiting for the trains to run. It is as fresh in memory as though it had just happened. I do not miss it. It is a terrible thing to see the world through a God-sized lens.

Fiddle Dee Dee happened to me, but the recounted meeting across a table is imaginary. In reality her lawyer did the cutting. I did the bleeding. My ex, and the guy she left me for, were the financial winners. I learned that being in the right is irrelevant to our legal system. The lawyer with the biggest bite will win. I had no money because she cleaned me out. So yeah...the story is true. I'm not bitter (any longer). But I am educated as to the way the system works (and doesn't work). My ex I leave to God. I hope he is merciful, because I would not be. Okay...I admit to harboring a little bitterness after all these years.

As for Giving Thanks...my life has been in question so many times, to recount each incident would sound melodramatic. I am grateful for each breath.

Thank you, Tim, for reading my work. Anyone who returns as often as you is my friend! I hope others, reading this, will give your site a look as well. (Anyone who enjoys thoughtful, excellent writing can read Tim at Justordinarythoughts.blogspot.com). I must say, however, your thoughts are anything but "ordinary."

~ James