A Moment in Midnight

A single candle’s glow
Resisted the night.

The soft buttery gleam
Glazed her face.
Her body
Backlit by the tiny flame
Spoke of quiet beauty
Precious as spun gold
And burnished bronze.

Her half-opened eyes focused
On an indefinite
Distant point
While her fingers
Slowly twirled dark tresses.

I would have interrupted.
I wanted to tell her
How lovely she is
How I desired her
But doing so would be
Intrusive.
It would break her charm
Nestled like a bird
In the nest of the moment.

I contented myself
In the mystery
Of her silent gaze
Wondering where
Her heart had fled
Hoping her journey
Would return her again
To me.

Almost Five Seconds

Mustang and rider froze in mental snapshot.
It remains in sensory detail.

I smell rank manure
Littering the corral’s red soil.
Heavy in moisture-laden noon heat
Powdery dust suspending
Talcum-like
Lightly coating everyone
Everything.

Midday heat pressing down
Sheens of sweat glistening man and beast
Cotton shirts affixing to skin.

The melee of sounds were astonishing.
Cursing snorting grinding thundering.
Stringy muscles bulging in the mustang’s arched neck
Withers, torso and flanks
Etched in well-defined strength.
Straining just beneath his flesh
He snorted
Blustering and blowing mightily
In desperate buckings
He did all possible to master the corral
And dislodge his momentary rider.

Never had the mustang been ridden
And never would he be!

High atop the steed
Leaning forward
Eyes inches from the horse’s flying mane
One hand wrapping reins
The other twirling and flashing
Through the air.
The rider whooping
Hollering screaming
Responsive to rhythmic detonations
Propelled by the mustang's legs
Which never had more than two
On the ground at any moment.

The horse was a sunfish
Twisting in the air
Seeming to take flight
Then splashing again into whirling dust
Beating a tattoo with mighty hooves.

Watchers
Eyes shaded by wide brims of hats
Squatting atop the corral’s fence
Shouting over the combat they witnessed
As men unable to divert attention
From the struggle before them.

ONE! TWO! THREE SECONDS!
FOUR SECONDS AND FI....
It ended.

The thrown cowboy
Landing ingloriously upon hands and knees
In sprays of red dust
Grabbed his tossed hat
Then scrambled to safety.
The mustang
Satisfied with his win
Trotted calmly to a rail
To which he had been previously tied.

A little harmless cursing
Some soft laughing
And an “Aw Shucks, Jeb. Git ‘em next time.”

It was
Doubtlessly
The most amazing
Almost five seconds of life.

But I would rather gnaw cactus
Than ever saddle Sunfish
For a twirl around his corral kingdom.

A Remembrance

Rising from hard packed soil
The shell of the old Dodge
Sprouted as a rust blossom
Of truck weed.

Years of sun
Wind-whipped sands
And ten scores of ages
Of snows and ice
Reduced its paint
To that little retained
In creases and contours...
A dull cornflower blue.

Sharp edges of its shattered glass
Caught and reflected the dazzle
Of a climbing sun.

The old work horse was abandoned
Sightless
Dismal.

Tall grasses sprouted from
Its engine compartment
And missing floorboards
As green exclamation points
Of lost history.

Ghost emblems
Arched the doors:
Rowling Camp & Sons.
Whoever they were
And whatever they did
Was lost to record.

Leaning against a fender
I breathed grease and oil
Even the scent of age
Hung in the air
Penetrating the fragrances
Of the prairie
Upon which the Dodge slumbered.

Everything
Sinks into soil
Leaving a hole in the air
A remembrance
Of what had been.

What Time is it in Detroit?

You cut the right forefinger
Off your glove
To better curl around the trigger
Of your Garand.
Hopefully the action has not frozen.
You continue to blow your warm breath
On the receiver
But then you fear the vapor might freeze on the slide
And you’ve made things worse.

You fear your breath
Rising like steam
Will betray your position.
But if you can't see them
How can they see you?
They aren't supermen after all.

Just within the range of your rifle
A heavy mist has settled.
If they are coming
You won’t know until they’re too close.
Hopefully their equipment will clink
And give away their surprise.

You have to piss so bad it hurts
But if you try to go
That’s when they’ll come
So you hold it.

You don’t remember when you last ate
A warm meal
But what you really crave
Is a cigarette.
The glowing ash is too dangerous to risk
So you push that need away too.

You re nineteen years old.

The fog enhances sound
And you think you hear German voices
Out there.
And beyond the voices
You hear Panzers on the move.
Their engines roar and their treads clang.
To you they seem dragon-like
And you shudder involuntarily.

Shit.

Shit, shit.

The Sergeant hears them too.
He's an old man at twenty six.
He looks at you from his hole
Ten yards to your right.
He taps his helmet and shrugs.
You nod in response.
You both hear them.

It begins to snow.
You think of home
And the snows of Christmas past
Of sledding with your friends
Down Powel’s Hill.
You think you smell your mother’s cookies.

To your left
Freddie clears the action on his heavy .50
And you think any German out there
Surely heard that.

Shit.

Down the line
On both sides
You hear boys clicking bayonets
Onto their rifles.
You do the same.

Somebody out there
In the milky white
Coughed then laughed.

Too damn close.

Then you dimly see ghost forms
Clad in white camouflage
Break through the mist
Stepping slowly
And hunched over.

An instant before you hear
The first ferocious bursts
Jet past your left ear
You see the blazing yellow orange blossoms
From the muzzle of an automatic weapon.
The infamous Schmiesser.

Christmas Eve.

What time is it in Detroit?

The Hanging Road

As a kid
Living out in the country
I spent many nights
On my back
In the grass
Gazing up into
The Celestials.

I remember marveling
At the Milky Way
Its billions of stars
Planets
And heavenly bodies.
It was a star speckled sash
Across the breast of night.
I was always wide-eyed with wonder.

The Cheyenne and Lakota call it
The Hanging Road
Believing it to be the path traveled
By spirits departing this life
For the other.
I understand their estimation
As I think back
Upon my own astonishment.

I guess The Hanging Road
Got canceled by the network
Or repossessed by the bank
Or maybe it’s simply
No longer a source of wonder
Having been replaced by
The NFL, the NBA or MLB.
We seem much more interested in
The Stanley Cup
Victoria’s Secret models
Hover Boards
And who did what to who(m).

I’m going, though.
To The Hanging Road, I mean.
I don’t know when, or how
But I am going to walk
The bright path
Play Kick the Can with stars
And twirl around planets
Like Fred Astaire twirled around lamp posts
While Singing in the Rain.

I mean it.
I am going.
Close your eyes
And go with me.

My End of Year Rant*

I have a device in my cell phone
Insuring I will never get lost.
And yet, that is precisely
What I want to be.
I yearn to go somewhere
Where the street names
Local scenes
And stuff of life
Are completely unfamiliar.

I am weary of spirit
Living in a world
With vanishing edges
Where everything
Even regional accents
Have been homogenized.

You can sleep in any hotel
Eat in any restaurant
(With or without a "Drive Thru Window")
Watch any newscast
Shop any mall
And you could be
Anywhere in America.

The points of the compass
Are nothing but reference points
Without cultural significance.

The athletes on any pro team
All come from other states
Even other countries
Attracted not by regional pride
But by dollar signs.

I was born out of time.

I am supposed to be on horseback
Somewhere west of St. Louis
And south of Des Moines.

I am supposed to live without
House slippers
Microwaves
A GPS
Laptops
Cell phones
And toll booths.

I know
I know…
Life would be difficult
Hazardous
Full of privation.

That’s okay.
It would also be a life of flavor
Of passion
And purpose.

That’s all I have to say.
Now..…is there anything on television
On any of my 948 channels?


* This is not a poem. I never intended it be. It is a rant. Every so often I push one button too many, and get all out of sorts. Life is far too fast. I just micro-waved a cup of water (90 seconds, on high) in order to make a cup of instant coffee. And, to make it worse, I got upset that it took me nearly two full minutes (120 seconds, by gosh!) to produce my coffee. That's the moment I got all "electrified" inside, so I wrote the above. It ain't pretty. It ain't no poem. It ain't memorable, and will never be shown to anybody after you read it. This is just my way of flipping out. I'll be okay....and that's mostly the problem. I'll get over it.

Who You Is

I don’t need me no new hat
And I got some good 'nuff boots.
About them city-fied suits and ties
I don’t give two hoots.

I got me a good saddle
To throw across my trusty pony.
All the stuff they say a cowboy needs
Is mostly pure baloney.

I got me a sweet, red-haired gal
Far down Austin way.
I see her every now and again
And she spends all of my pay.

I keep company with a short-haired mutt.
He ain’t no particular breed.
When I’m out on the trail alone
He’s all the pardner I ever need.

Got me a passable Remington
I keep tucked down in my pants.
Them fancy tied-down holsters
Is mostly storybook romance.

Reckon I'll make a fire tonight
Tether my pony and set up my camp.
My dog and me will sleep together
To ward off the chill and the damp.

Being a real cowboy these days
Is pretty much a quiz.
It ain’t so much about what you do
As it is about who you is!

The Click of Detonation

Detonation

Silence occupied the room. 

Nothing

Not even as much

As the hiccup of a mouse

Was heard.

Complete and total silence

Prevailed.

As did tension.

In a millisecond

Just before the detonation

Of a bomb

There is a tiny metallic

Click.

This is the detonator

Charging the explosives.

No living person hears this.

Were you to notice the click

You are already dead.

I heard that click

At the back of her throat.

The movement of her tongue

Against the soft pallet

Of her mouth

Charging the detonation. 

“I hate you.”

Detonation.

Everything changes
In that second.
There is
What came before
And what came after.
But what came after
Will never again be like
What came before.

The explosion vaporized everything.
All memory
Of pleasant times
Loving times
Hopeful times
Times of joy and celebration
All destroyed
At the click of detonation.

Grandpa’s Christmas Wish*

She always loves
This time of year
With trees and lights
And songs of cheer.
Hot chocolate to sip
And candy canes
Houses softly lit
Behind window panes.
As Christmas carols play
She decorates our tree
As I play with grandkids
Balanced upon my knee.
Christmas Eve night
Presents will all be set
Beneath the tree
And every wish be met.
As for myself
All of my wishes
Is for a honey baked ham
And someone to do dishes!
I know what you’re thinking…
What a silly verse!
But I assure you, Reader
Grandpa could do worse.


*For over 30 years, my custom is to do the Thanksgiving and/or Christmas dishes, including the gooey mess of related pots and pans. I figure that's my contribution to the production. I take no particular pleasure in the chore...that's why it's called "chore." Come on, all you men who read this blog..."man up," put the apron about your manly loins, grab the scrubber, sponge and towel, and get in there, up to your elbows. Still...if somebody else volunteered to tackle the task (they never do), that'd be great!

Peggy*

Here she lies
Old Peggy
My steed
My faithful mount
My companion
My friend
Along many a weary path
And lonesome lane.

We chased our shadows
As one being
And not two.

Where I slept
Peggy slept.
I ate my beans
Drank my coffee
With but my small fire
And her
Munching nearby
Upon sweet grass
Oats, when I drew my pay
And the occasional apple.

We knew both
The sands of coastal dunes
And blistering desert days
And frigid nights.
We knew
The cobblestone of fine cities
And packed clay
And muddied ways of mine towns.

We sang the doggies quiet
‘Neath pale moons.
We forded streams
And swam rivers.
I sometime slept in the saddle
While Peggy navigated the dawn.

We dodged Lucifer's bolts
Hunkered 'neath drenching storms
And watched blue St. Elmo's fire
Flicker across bull horns.

But here our journey ends.
Here Peggy lies
Returning to the earth
From whence she came.

I will have another horse.
Another mount will wear her blanket
Another girth
Will feel the cinch of my saddle.
Another steed will take her bit and bridle.

But there will ‘neer be one as she
Who knew my mind and heart
So well as did Old Peggy.

Rest here, old girl.
Perhaps we may again
Run Elysian fields
Beyond the thunder heads, high.


* See 'The Sorrowful Man' in the right side column. In this shifting world, there is yet an enduring tie between man and beast. May it ever be.

Restless Moon

It all fell suddenly…
The mountains on the moon.
Standing in frigid
Stark winter fields
I felt caught in the debris
Of distant tremors.

This is impossibility.
Shaking myself
I tried to disengage
To repossess my rationality.
Nevertheless
I wait in the empty land
Beneath
The dirty coin moon.
She stares at me
Through elongated eyes
Like a gilded Greek icon.

The moon probes
My wayward heart.
She knows
There are places
I’d rather be.
She knows
There are places
I must never go.

Perhaps the moon
Yearns to change her orbit.
Maybe she
Would rather strike across the cosmos
Eager to, once again, be
Thought a goddess
Rather than an arid
Lifeless disk.

We went to the moon
Plundering her secrets
Robbing her of romance
Leaving her naked
Before our critical gaze
Having mapped her mountains
And wandered her valleys.
We are travelers
Of her terrain
And she offers no further allure.

A virgin no longer
She is nothing more
Than afterthought
And nothing less than
A dry, dusty vacuum
About whom nobody write poems.

I understand her
And she sees me.

Maybe the moon is restless, too.

To Protect and to Serve*

I have learned
The oath
To Protect and to Serve
Is less an oath
Registered in roll calls
And pay vouchers
As it is one
Registered in Heaven.

An eternal oath.
A costly oath.
An oath encased
Within Divine Records
Impossible to void.

I have tried.
I have asked to be dismissed
From responsibility
Complaining I had already
Given enough
Bled enough
Cared enough.

I explained my weariness.
I suggested others are
More capable
Younger
Smarter
Eager to serve.

The answer was firm.
It came as a simple response.

Request denied.

Standing there
I had nothing further to say.
I retrieved my burden
And walked back.
Back.
Not away.

The call
To Protect and to Serve
Is without repentance.
It is a life-long commitment.
It may
Or may no longer wear a badge.

But it cannot be surrendered
Or recanted.

It is forever.


*Every parent who loves a child, every marital couple, even every pet owner (no, I'm not kidding) is expected to Protect and to Serve. You may walk out on your responsibilities, but your responsibilities never diminish, nor disappear. Although the phrase is found on patrol car panels, it is expected that all those who love someone, or something, is expected To Protect and to Serve. That's how I see it.

I Don't Want You Back*

I don’t think much about you, babe.
I have better uses for my time.
When it comes to time spent on you
I'm just not so inclined.

I never talk about you, babe.
I hardly remember your first name.
I never review the things you said
And I don’t sort out who’s to blame.

I don’t visit places we used to go.
I don’t keep your picture on my wall.
I’m far past grieving your departure
And I’m not looking for some place to fall.

But what I do is work to forget
Why I ever gave you a diamond ring.
Though, you may as well have that, too
'Cuz you left with everything.

I still have that scar on my left leg
Caused by the iron you burned me with.
All that talk of “love” you spewed
Was plain and simple myth.

I appreciated that new toaster, babe
But they say you’re a psychopath
Because you threw it at me, still plugged in
While I tried to take a bath.

I still am shy of crossing streets
Since that morning you ran me down.
And I’m working on my smile, babe
Since you tattooed me with this frown.

Some nights I wake up screaming
Ever since you pegged me with a knife.
Your lawyers said you were acting out a nightmare
But the cops said you tried to take my life.

So, no, I don’t want you back, babe
And I do not wish you well.
Maybe you'll think it over, babe
While you rot there in your cell.


* Nobody's in custody, or sitting in a cell. But somebody, somewhere, may or may not read this and see glimmers of bits and pieces, shreds and slices of nearly correct occurrences that may, or may not resemble things that may have, or may not have actually happened. But that was, or was not a long time ago, and I may, or may not have entirely healed. There. That may, or may not satisfy my legal experts. Some of my best poems may, or may not be loosely based on that which may, or may not be fact. "Loosely"...but not entirely.

An Aside to Sheriff Walt Longmire*

I don’t know much of you, Sheriff
But I’d certainly like to know.
I don’t know the things that drive you
But they keep you on the go.

I know your past is haunted.
I guess that’s why you wear that star.
It keeps you sane and grounded.
Helps you remember who you are.

I’d like to know you better, Sheriff.
I suppose that’s a bold request.
I know you hold your friends close
But your enemies closer to your vest.

I suppose the mountains of Wyoming
Are a very long way from here.
But time and distance can lessen
And draw nearer than they appear.

Anyway, I thought I’d tell you, Sheriff
That I think you’re an amazing man.
You’ve set the bar pretty high
But I’ll do the best I can.

In the meantime, I’ll see you, Sheriff
Within the pages of your book.
I’ve read every one of them, Sheriff.
I guess I’m on the hook.


*The legendary Sheriff of (mythical) Absaroka County, Wyoming, as told by master storyteller, Craig Johnson. I’ve read every book, and recommend them to avid readers and all fans of the mystery genre. Winter is an especially good season to settle in with an excellent book. Turn your TV off and your imagination on!

Keep Driving

Driving to the Shell station
I filled my tank with gas
Then drove out the interstate
And threw away my past.

My future stretched before me
Somewhere down that road.
As the miles rolled and piled up
I felt the lessening of my load.

I rolled the window down
And turned the music up.
The tunes were all familiar
Like sweet wine in my cup.

Dusk fell so slowly.
Cars turned their headlights on.
They seemed like glowing pearls
With the setting of the sun.

Maybe it will be tomorrow.
Perhaps I will know next week.
My life has reached a crossroads
But I don’t know what to seek.

I guess the answer is keep driving
So, I’ll hold on to this wheel.
Down the road I’ll find my answer
And see what tomorrow may reveal.

Presumed Victory

You’re not being helpful
She said.

I offered no defense.
It would not satisfy anyway.

What do you intend to do for me?
She asked.

My lack of response communicated
My intention.

She used expletives that surprised
Even me.

I did not fire back.

She insulted my mother
Then suggested I commit acts
That were physically impossible.

She drew closer.
The odor of menthol cigarettes
Was overpowering.
Neither did I move
Nor break eye contact.

You are the worst
The very worst man
On the face of the earth!

I shrugged.

She executed a perfect right heel
And strode away
Presuming victory.

It hardly mattered to me.
Victory is usually what you claim
When you have nothing else.

In Rains Such as This

In rains such as this
Light becomes indistinct
As though it radiates
From nowhere
As though it comes
From everywhere.

Even sounds change.
Other than the whispering
Of tires on the street
Sounds flatten; hush.
I can hear
Usually private conversations
From considerable distances.

The only sense that lessens
In rains such as this
Is sight.
The downpour draws a veil
Over the eyes
Reducing vision to feet
Not yards.

The strangest affectation
Is memory.
I am uncertain my memory
Is as true
In rains such as this.
Perhaps memories become
Rain-washed
Sanitized for Your Protection
Like the paper bands
Fitted around toilet seats
In cheap motels.

Memories lose their edge
When standing
In rains such as this.
Pain is not as acute.
Anger reduces to a simple disturbance.
Even thoughts of love
Glaze over.
Old aching sadnesses
Seem tame.

The memory of
Her kiss
Always volcanic
Gentles.

Her embrace
Always molten
Cools.

Her body
Always narcotic
Sobers.

Her loss
Always mournful
Feels negotiable.

I try not to think of her
In rains such as this.

It is better
To read the sale ad
In a grocery window
Or study the elderly man
Awaiting his bus
At the corner.

That is good counsel
In any weather....
But especially
In rains such as this.

Mt. Moriah Redux

On my eighteenth birthday
My dad drove me
To the Will County courthouse
To register for the draft.

Vietnam was staggering on
And would for another four years.
There was plenty of time
To lose and arm or leg.
Plenty of time to die.

Dad was silent the whole way.
We listened to the radio.
I could have gone alone
But dad insisted he take me.
Kind of like Abraham taking Isaac
To Mt. Moriah.

We parked the Buick
And walked together
To the second floor
And into an office
With Selective Service
Stenciled on the opaque door.

It did not take long.
I provided two forms of identification
Signed a form
And was told
My draft card would arrive by mail.

Reversing our course
We returned to the Buick.
Dad put the key in the ignition
But did not turn it on.
He paused.
An uncomfortable silence
Hung in the air around us.
He finally spoke
While staring into a space
In the far distance.

If they call you up…
If you have to go…
I’m going with you.

I almost told him that was impossible.
I almost told him no fathers were allowed.
I almost reminded him he was too old
To reenter service.
I wanted to remind him he had his war
That this one was mine.
I nearly revealed my foolishness.

But I suddenly understood what he was saying.

He was telling me he did not want me to know war.
He was trying to say he needed to protect me.
He was letting me know he loved me.

So, I nodded, biting off what I nearly said.

I let a few seconds pass as well.
Then I said
I love you, too, dad.

And he started the car.

Before the Ambulance*

I lay my head
Against the leather headrest
Closed my eyes
And considered ways
To remain conscious.

All around, people scurried
From parked vehicles
Into stores along the highway.

The length of my extremities
Seemed unusually warm.
Too relaxed.
Far too relaxed.
My mind seemed to extend
And retract
Although this very notion
Seemed strange.

I wondered whether
I might stay conscious
By concentrating
On minutia....
The sweep second hand of my watch
My radio
My dashboard's glowing lights
The steady hum of the idling motor.

Opening a stick of gum
I put it in my mouth
Enjoying the zestful spearmint flavor.
Perhaps, if I tried
To stimulate as many of my senses
As possible.
Think. Think.
What are they?
What are my senses?

My head seemed encased
In a warm
Pleasant fog
Of something ethereal.
It was inviting
And I wanted to yield
To its comfort and welcome.

My engine's bass hum
Receded.
The radio blurred.
My dashboard lights dimmed.
My watch's second hand ran out of seconds.

Where was I?
Why was I here?
Why couldn’t I remember?
What time is it?
What day?

I stopped chewing the gum.
It tumbled from my mouth
Onto my lap.

I was so warm.
So safe.
So very warm


*Several weeks ago I was found slumped at the wheel of my truck, in a bank parking lot. Paramedics rushed me to a hospital, where I remained "out" the rest of the day, and some of the night. A full battery of tests were run, all proving inconclusive. Now I grow nervous whenever I feel sleepy. Strange. I wish they'd found something to treat. Not knowing what my "enemy" is seems ominous. Whatever it is, its strategy is painless. Interesting...pain could be a friend, if it indicates a root problem. As it remains, every yawn is now suspect. Not complaining...just reporting.

The Depot*

There were no flags or banners
No parades
When I got home.
I stepped onto the platform
At the depot
All alone.

I didn’t tell dad I was coming.
He couldn’t know
I’d be home so soon.
Only my shadow
Was there to greet me
That blistering August noon.

The Army gave me a new uniform
With ribbons
And shoulder patch.
I had a few bucks in my pocket
Some Lucky Strikes
But no match.

I walked about an hour
To get back
To dad’s small farm.
My shadow followed me
All the way
With my duffle bag on my arm.

Dad must have seen me coming.
He bolted
Like a shot out the front door.
He ran down that long driveway
Even though
His health was poor.

Dad grabbed my duffle bag
From my shoulder.
He kissed my neck and face.
His tears wet my ribbons
As I fell
Into his embrace.

Twenty four hours later
I was dressed
In my old blue jeans.
Dad and I went into the fields
And made war
On the summer beans.

Sure, sometimes I have nightmares
Of things I saw
Some things I had to do.
But, all in all, I’m fine now.
And the dreams
Are getting few.

The years have flown so swiftly.
Dad passed
A long time ago.
But there are moments
My mind flies backward
To that lonely train depot.

They tore that thing down
Last winter.
They even ripped out the tracks.
I guess what life has taught me
Is the mistake of
Looking back.


*A day late for Veteran's Day...but I hope not a dollar short. This post is lovingly dedicated to my dad, Cpl. H.L. Woods (WWII, ETA), and Cpl. L. Gillespie, (Vietnam), United States Army.

She is Absolutely Almost Right*

Forty three years ago
I was much too young
And far too eager
To carve my path
To make my mark
To be the best I could be.

But in the battle for attainment
I neglected the core reasons
Making the struggle necessary.

I left my babies in their cribs.
Later, I left them
In front of a television set.
Then I gave them the latest video games
And all the distractions that would
Divert their attention from me
And my “more important” pursuits.

My wife sought warmer arms
And deeper embraces
Than those I provided.
So, I sought comfort too.
Then, when she left
I blamed her for the betrayal.

The monuments I’d erected were proud
And all in my own image.

Everything I’d worked for
Over the course of four decades
Ultimately crumbled to dust.
Nothing I’d accomplished endured.
Except one thing...
Shame.

I wallowed in misery
For two terrible years.
Nobody came to my relief
Except an encouraging little brother
And a persistent still, small voice
Saying, “Trust me.”
So, I did.

Step by half-step
I crawled out of the mire
Until my rehabilitation was complete.

Complete. But not finished.
I was given a full measure of grace.
Enough to rebuild
And refurbish my life.
But renewal must be a daily refit.

Recently an intimate voice from the past
Returned to
Accuse
Blame
And indict.
The voice knew precisely
Where to insert the blade.

Every word fashioned by my attacker
Was founded in truth
But all extracted from the distant past.

I wanted to engage
And open a new front on an old war.
I fashioned words
And set the fuses
To combust the atmosphere
Intended to afflict maximum misery
To rend and destroy.

I am efficient with words.
I have learned the calculating
And foolhardy art of war.

I deleted every word.
I did not answer her charges.
Nothing I could say would fix anything
And everything I would say
Would hurt everybody.

She must think I am afraid.
Too timid to reply.
She would be right by half.

I am not timid. Never was.
But I am afraid that, by reply
I would fall again into that old morass
Of bitter self-justification and defense.

She is right on every count but one.
The man to whom she addressed her charges died long ago.

And the dead answer no letters.


* I am told I may be too transparent. But I own my misdeeds. I alone am responsible for all I did, or things happening on my watch. I offer the above to, in no way entertain my readers. Please do not make the mistake of thinking any confessions of past wrongs is noble. They are ugly. They are ignoble. They are mine. But I thank God (and by "God" I mean GOD), that he heals to the uttermost. My hope is that some reader may happen upon this post and, in response, consider his/her own actions. We must all have our "Come to Jesus" time. I hope you've had yours.

Recurring Dream

In the deep gloom of sleep
I mounted my bay
And turned from the house
Where my body lay.
The fingernail moon
Lay near the horizon
So I tuned us east
And the soon-rising sun.

The intrusive chill
Of the November night
Cut to the bone
In the milky moon light.
I heard the rustle
Of fallen, dry leaves
Tossed from the trees
By small elfin thieves.

The chatter of creatures
At home in the dark
Mixed with owl's hoot
And a distant dog’s bark.
Steam from my bay’s nostrils
Rose upward like smoke
Frosting the night we wore
As a cloak.

I touched the bay’s sides
With the reel of my spur
Going from trot to a run
The trees becoming a blur.
We broke from the wood
To a wide, grassy plain
As the clouds gathered
And started to rain.

No clear destination
Was fixed in my mind.
I knew not what I wanted
Nor intended to find.
It seemed good enough
To my sleep-clouded soul
To permit my horse
Determine our goal.

A slow, autumn rain
Soaked us to the bone.
We were years from my bed
And utterly alone.
Where wends the traveler
The dreamer of dreams
Where runs the horse
Chasing strange schemes?

I awoke hours later
Damp with night sweat
Wrapped in my sheets
Disturbed with this debt
Of both what I wanted
And pretended to need
Dreaming I may find it
On the back of my steed.

I lay on my side
In the dull dawn of morning
Studying the dream
That nightly is forming.
I have no bay, nor bridle
No saddle, nor spur.
But I do have a pain
That dreaming won’t cure.

I long for the darkness
The chill autumn air
I yearn for the quest
And the hope of a prayer.
I ache for the gallop
On the back of the bay
And that intangible need
That will not go away.

Perhaps tonight, in my sleep
I will dream again.
My bay, in her stall
Will know where and when
To run through the forest
And into that field
Where I will end my search
And my treasure revealed.

Sierra Hotel 51*

All alone at angels thirty
Strapped into my sleek 51
With a bubble canopy
Breathing air in a mask
Eyes on the swivel
Surrounded by cotton canyons
And the roar of her Packard V-12
Vibrating contentedly
Through the tight airframe
I am alone
With my silver lady.

She is Sierra Hotel
And I'm her tiger.

Responsive to my stick
We sway easily
Peering through occasional holes
In the deck
Toward patchwork fields
Meandering rivers
And ruler-straight highways.

Her four-blades blur
Tips flashing yellow
Pulling us through the thin atmosphere
Hocus Pocus.

Her skin is smooth
Sleek
Polished to a silver sheen.
Her yellow nose gleams
In the flaring sun.
Her peppermint tail
Proud and bright!

I tease the stick
Playing through cloud towers
Swimming the sky
While air frame crickets chirp
Through her lithe little body.

What a lucky man am I!

Were it possible
I would keep her heels high
Never to touch earth again.

She and I
Are made for this
Exhilaration
And I smile into my mask
Breathing her thrill
Nudging us another thousand
Her twelve pistons pounding
Whining
A lover
Demanding
Needing more
Close now to the edge
And we leap heaven
Together
Becoming one
Becoming
Man and his Sierra Hotel 51.


*Sierra Hotel = "Shit Hot"

This Road

You never know where you are
On this road.
It’s always a mystery
So I’ve been told.

I’ve been here before
At least I think so.
But yet it feels strange
So there’s no way to know.

No compass works here.
There’s no east or west
So whichever way I go
It’s always a guess.

The sun rose there yesterday
But didn’t today.
It didn’t rise at all.
I think the Devil’s to pay.

I’m about out of gas
And there’s no station here.
Looks like I’ll be walking
And there’s no help I see near.

There's smoke in the air.
There's a feeling of doom.
It's getting hard to breathe.
It's like the air in a tomb.

Listen to me, driver!
Don’t do what I’ve done.
Stay away from this road.
For God's sake, driver, run!

Bloody Shiloh

He lay his young head
Upon a dead man’s breast
And sighed his last
Into eternal rest.

Monotonous long roll
Bloody April, bloody day
Screaming men and bugles
Never quite go away.

The blood and fire
The blaze of battle
Filled the air
With the saber’s rattle.

Dead horse and rider
Dead officer as well
Dead cannoneer and soldier
All fodder for hell.

The very earth yawned
To swallow the blood
That came as red deluge
That swelled as a flood.

Peach blossoms rained
Felled by the ball
Littering the orchard
Like a strange, early fall.

A pond, stained with blood
Was an oasis for those
Who crawled for a drink
Wearing blue or gray clothes.

Here remain death
And the horror of war
The slaughter of brothers
And what came before.

I stand now where he died
Some young, anonymous man
Here his blood spilled
There it gushed, pooled and ran.

Oh, Shiloh! Bloody Shiloh
You are a mad, wicked whore.
Though dressed as a maiden
You are the cruel dog of war.

Where Elephants Go

Where Elephants Go

I know where elephants go
To die.

They go alone
Leaving the herd behind
Tears mudding their faces
Layered in caked grime
Flies tormenting them
They move slowly
Deliberately
Trunks and ears swaying
To an fading drumbeat.

They stumble into high grasses
Falling onto something soft
Something cool
Something to surround them
Providing a bit of privacy
And there
All alone
They close their eyes to die.

I know where elephants
Go to die
Because I have been there.

Some elephants desire death
As a release
As a kind of mitigation
As a kind of payment for transgression.

A few return
Death being delayed
Though they fervently desired it.
For these few
Judgment decrees life continue.

Where elephants go
To die
Is less a mystery
Than where elephants go
To live.

Scattered Bones*

In renewed provocation
It is best to say as little
As possible.

In the economy of words
There is wisdom.

There is better company
Than old wrongs
Better companions
Than old wounds.

Old wine is good ferment
But old anger distills a bitter brew.

Walk west
And I will walk east.
Or walk east
And I will walk west.
But there is no profit
In meeting in the arid land
Of old battles
In the midst of brittle
Battle-scarred
Scattered bones.

Let the dead bury their dead.
Walk away.


*How sad. How futile. How empty of merit.

Not the Man I Supposed*

The mind presses upon the past
The way winds rustle prairies
Surging
Swaying
And causing to bend
Imprecise memory.

That of which I was sure
Is challenged
In the harsh scrutiny
Of reality
In the blinding glaze
Off polar snows
Shutting fast my eyes
To ancient tales
To oral traditions of my fathers.

I am not the man I supposed.
I am, rather
The sum of the fears
Of my uncles
The price of honor
And unpaid debts of parents.

I am the product
Of my own winding paths.

I am the result
Of the intervention of my past
And the invention of my truth.


* "The unexamined life is not worth living." ~ Socrates

What You Really Wanted

I said ‘no’
And you looked at me
As though I had insulted
Your bloodline
Slandered your mother
Denigrated your father
Molested your sister.

It was a simple ‘no.’
It was a refusal
To enter into agreement
With that which
I fundamentally disagreed.

You gave me your shoulder
Pushing past me toward the door.

I watched you leave
Thinking
You are the progeny of goats
Your mother dwells in sewers
Your father mucks mule stalls
Your sister cleans the linen in brothels.

There.
I just gave you what you really wanted.

In the Weeds

We loved in the weeds
She and I
And not upon the stars
We supposed.

We groped corpses
And not bright flesh.

Our tracks
Were nothing more
Than doe prints
In late-winter snows.

We imagined our loving
Spiraling white
Brilliance.
But we were only embers
Becoming ash.

There is no good return
To regret.

Presidential Campaign 2015-16 Projection

We perch upon a fragile
Human boundary
Believing there is always
Somebody
To whom we may report
Seeking justice
To negotiate accord.

Wisdom is a purchase
Without receipt
Having no opportunity
To protest
That which not only will not
But cannot
Rectify.

We seek to protest
Unjust acts
Unkind manners
Bitter hatreds
Criminal factions
With the few who may right
Wrongs.

But, what we cannot see
From the perspective
Of our limited sight
Is that there is
In fact
No one in charge
That all sense of order
Justice
And right thinking
Is illusory.

Any appeal
Must be directed
Toward a Divine Author.

There is simply
And undeniably
No human hand
Upon the wheel
Of human affairs.

Appeal.
Scream.
March.
Protest.
Insist.
No answer is forthcoming.

The bridge is afire
The lifeboats unmanned
And the cold waves yawn
For bodies.

Nobody is in charge.

Nature abhors a vacuum.
Let us shudder to see
The one
Who pretends to fill it.

Simul Justus et Peccator

The Tower of Babel*

Man Said:
I will build a tower
Its head in the cloud.
I will make a great name
Of which to be proud.

My tower will be grand
Over all earth it will rule.
It will demonstrate my power
And all else a fool.

Earth will be in shadow
The tower's top piercing the sky.
It will exalt my name
And I never shall die.

God Said:
Your tower will crumble
And lie in the dust.
You will come to die
By your own lust.

Who will find the foundation
Of your wicked tower?
I alone am your God.
In Me only resides all power.

Power comes with obedience
And obedience from love.
You think yourself an eagle
But I will humble you as a dove.


* Genesis 11:1-9

Tombstones

Write this down:
Nothing
(With but one exception)
Is more dangerous than action.

That one exception?
Inaction.

Fear is the enemy of action.
Fear is a paper tiger
Streaming the nerves
Boiling the stomach
Dulling the mind.

Failure to rightly understand
The proper course of action
Causes the warrior
To war against himself.

How may one know
Whether it is prudent
To engage the enemy?

It is prudent
When the cost
Of not engaging
The enemy
Exceeds the cost
Of engaging.

A warrior
Knows the state
Of his situation
At all times
Allowing no margin
For much time taken
To evaluate and decide.

Extreme conflict
Is not a possibility
But a certainty.
The only variable
Is the moment
Such an event occurs.

To discover the truth
Of my counsel
You may
Count the tombstones
Of the fallen.

They Up and Left

Just a moment ago
The words were here.
They were my breakfast
Companions.
They were vivid
Had fragrance
Color
Weight
They were soft
Gentle
Even accompanied
By melody.

So, where did they go?

They were sitting right here
In the golden morning light
Resting on the table
Beside my steaming coffee
And buttered English muffin.

I tried inviting them back.
I wanted to explore a bit
See where they might take me.

They just up and left.

They were right here.
But “were” is past tense.
They no longer remain.
They are gone.
They even took the punctuation.

Constant Journey

Subatomic particles
Spin and spiral
Within every body of matter.

Atoms travel highways
Of transit
Mapping every sustaining host.

These incredibly tiny
Vehicles
Navigate the body whole.

The body whole
Negotiates
Passages of time and substance.

Even decomposition
Is energetic
In the process of reduction.

At every moment
Our universe
Expands outwardly.

Nothing about life's process
Diminishes
Slowing to a final cessation.

Everything about us
Moves
With varying speed.

That I might, somehow
Intersect
With you is improbable mystery.

Yet, everywhere
I go
I search you.

If, one day
I discover you
It will be but for the flash of an atom.

Then shall we both continue
Our travels
Until all is erased by time.

Garage Sale

Gonna have myself
A garage sale, girl.
Got plenty
To put out on the lawn.
Maybe sell my memories
Of all those nights
Holding on
From dusk to dawn.

A garage sale’s
A great idea, girl
‘Cuz I’ve got
Memories to lose.
But it’s hard to know
What to toss.
Don’t quite know
How to choose.

I could toss out
That first kiss we shared
In the cab
Of my ol’ Ford.
I remember
How my head swam
How my heart spun
How I thanked the Lord.

I'll sell the memory
Of your arms around me
Your face buried
In my chest.
That should go
For a buck or two
But that's just
An off-hand guess.

I'll discount the memory
Of the day we spent
In the woods
Loving down by the lake.
That was a sweet time
But, I’ve carried that memory
Way too long.
It’s far too painful to take.

Girl, I can’t say
Just what I’ll sell.
There’s too much
Cluttering up my heart.
You'll probably have
Your own garage sale
And have the same trouble
Knowing where to start.

I guess I’ll just sell
The whole damn lot.
Reckon it all
Needs to go.
It’s just too hard
To sort these memories out.
What happened to us
I guess I’ll never know.

Trading Laterally

The egg salad sandwich
And pickle spear
Lay on a paper plate
Within its wax paper wrap
Illumined in the shaft of light
Streaming through the deli's
Dirty window.

When I stood in line
With number in hand
I very much wanted
This delicacy.

But sitting in the molded plastic
Chair
Bolted to the floor
Before a Formica table
Near the window
With two dead flies
On the trim
I suddenly
Wanted nothing more
Than being anywhere else.

Wrapping the egg salad sandwich
And pickle spear
Back into the wrapper
I abandoned
The molded plastic
Chair
Bolted to the floor
Before a Formica table
Near the window
With two dead flies
On the trim.

Offering the sandwich
To a man with a sign
That said
Will work for food
I jumped onto a bus
With molded plastic seats
Near a dirty window
With two dead flies
On the sill
Realizing
I had traded laterally
With the exception that
I was now minus
What was probably a very good
Egg salad sandwich.

Just cut the context of two
Dead flies
And the delicious quotient rose.

There's something to be said
For removing
Dead flies
And the like
For whatever's before us to
Improve its desirability.

Perfect Freedom

Caught away
I slumbered
In angel arms
For a day and a night.

No thoughts occurred
To me.
There was no place
To run
Had I such inclination.

The sun caught me
When I fell.
The moon soothed me
Through the night.
All the light I required
Was amply provided
Until
In morning’s sweet blush
I was brought to sense
Once more
Grateful
For a season of wanderings
About a silent universe
Amid starless skies
Empty rivers
Treeless hills
And snowless peaks.

There is safety in oblivion
Mercy in absence
And perfect freedom
In the arms of angles.

Unending Story

Oh, tell me an unending story
A tale that never ends
With characters fantastic
And plot lines that ever wends.

Charm me with chapters
Of episodic brilliance
And villains evil
With tentacles of dalliance.

Keep me involved
In this forever story
That bathes my mind
In unending glory.

Open the book to me
That speaks to me ever
Of people I love
That die to me never.

We will, in this tale
Keep forever our noses
In this wonderful book
That never, never closes!

Shooting the Moon

Last night
I pointed my rifle
At the moon
And pulled the trigger.

Somewhere
Between here and there
The full metal jacket
Fell to earth, I figure.

I peered
Through the scope
And couldn’t find
A new crater.

I may try again
Tonight and see
If I can do it then
Or maybe later.

I’m not a man
To lightly surrender
To circumstance
Or situation.

So I’ll fire again
Just to see
If I can make
A new lunar formation.

Talking to the Wind

There hasn’t been a day
I've not thought about you.
Not an hour passes
Not even a few.

You’re on my mind
You’re in my heart.
When things never end
Things never start.

I long and I ache
To hear from you again.
You were more than a lover.
You were my dearest friend.

But I suspect it’s pointless.
I’m talking to the wind.
Because when time runs out
All things must end.

The Bitter Cup

I’m not leaving you
He said.
We’re in this thing together.

I didn’t say anything
Back.
We both knew he lied.

The eastern sky
Lightened.
It looked like traveling weather.

Pushing his pant legs into his
Boots
He made sure the laces were well tied.

I’m just going to take
A look-see.
I’ll be back in a minute or so.

You stay quiet and sit tight right
Here
I’ll be back in a little bit.

I watched him pull on
His gloves
As he made ready to go.

The winter sun rose on
My face
And I knew that this was it.

At the top of the rise he began
To run
And he didn’t even look back.

I loosened the tourniquet and felt
The blood
Flow from the wound.

It spread on the ground in a
Warm pool
As I lay my head on my pack.

He disappeared over the
Horizon.
He wasn’t coming back anytime soon.

Never thought it would end
This way
Not in a million years.

As my blood flowed out, the sleep
Rolled in.
I knew I wouldn't wake up.

I would never leave him
Like this.
I’m not a man that surrenders to fears.

So I laid back and let it
All go
Sipping death from the bitter cup.

The Dead

It’s kinda weird
When I stop to consider
The dead always know
Where I am.

Ain’t no use to hide
‘Cuz the dead got eyes
Can see everywhere
So it don’t much matter a damn.

I’m fixin’ to stand
Up tall and brave
And not pay the dead
No never mind.

It ain’t as if the dead
Got legs
Though I don’t mean
To treat them unkind.

Please give the dead
My best regards.
I don’t mean them
No harm.

Got a rabbit’s foot
In my pocket
And a garlic pouch
For a charm.

Leavin’ Today

I’m leavin’ this town today
To some place I don’t know.
Can’t say why exactly
Just need someplace to go.

One city’s as good as another.
They all start looking the same.
Don’t much matter the reasons.
I don’t put much stock in blame.

Got a clean shirt in my backpack
And a couple dozen warm socks.
Got a good pair of boots
That can kick a few thousand rocks.

I’ve memorized a hundred or more songs
I can sing to pass away time.
But there’s nothin’ much in my pockets
Save for a nickel, few pennies and a dime.

This trek is just what I need.
I’m gonna take a bead on the sun.
I don’t rightly know where I’m headin’
But I do know this journey’s begun.

Let the Mountains Fall*

Mr. Collins
My unworthy eyes
Just read your new volume
The way a plebe
Reads a textbook
Or an apostle
The Holy Writ.

Mr. Collins
You shame me
With your pure
And simple words
Your mild verse
And easy symmetry
Of line.

Mr. Collins
So seamless
So naturally
Your thoughts
Gather to flow--
The ink
As blood
In your veins.

Mr. Collins
Your poetry
Compels me to
Secret away my own
Or offer them up
To heaven
As burnt sacrifice.

Mr. Collins
Should you ever find
These poor
Sniffling lines
Please hurry onto
Some other pursuit
More worthy
A master of language
And let
The mountains fall on me.


*My reaction upon reading Billy Collins 2013 collection of poems, titled Aimless Love. Buy it. Read it. Then never read me again.

Contradiction

There is warmth in my soul
But ice in my mouth.
There is love in my heart
But hate in my brain.
These things contradict
Yet the obvious
Remains.

How is it that opposites
Are the building blocks
Of the experience
Of life?
Such uncomfortable truth
Is a palm on the blade
Of the knife.

It’s of no use to grasp
Upon reason
Or wrestle with truth
And try to comprehend.
All of life is reduced
To contradiction
At the end.

Going Alone

I guess
I’m going alone
Although that is not what
I intended.

It appears
Time is deaf
And cannot hear
My call.

I shouted
Then I screamed
Trying hard
To gain attention.

But time
Has no ears
And must not
Care.

So I will
Go alone
Into the proverbial
Dark and stormy night.

The Hanging of Haman

Delusion
Is a rain that falls
Spilling rivers from their banks
Sweeping before the tide
All manner of intelligence
Wisdom
And propriety.

False tales
Silly fables
And outrageous rumors
Violate geography
Rolling upward
Swelling mountains
And subverting truth.

The mouth
Of the liar
And the itching ear
Of the hearer
Are altogether wicked.
They will have
A certain end
But not before great violence
Is done
To gentle truth
And those who dwell
Circumspectly
In a land that was once at peace.

Woe to those
Who trade in delusion
Who lift their necks
To scaffolds
Of their own construction.

Haman always hangs
From his own gallows
While Mordecai is exalted.

The Greatest Question

I don’t know how
This whole thing works.
I just know
That it does.
I don’t know why
All this matters
But I suspect
It’s just because.

The puzzle of life
All comes together
And makes sense
At the end.
I’ll understand
Little more
Than that now
But it’ll all make sense by then.

Stop asking questions
That have no answers.
Just settle down
For now.
To my mind
The greatest question
I need answered
Is not “why?” but “how?”

Fortress

She thundered in
Five hundred feet
Above the deck
A bright white star
Blazing on her port wing
Right out of 1944.

I stood on the edge
Of a field of wheat
Feet planted in the earth
But my soul was executing
A shallow right wheel
Under a wide powder blue sky.

My chest vibrated
With the palpitations
Of four Pratt and Whitney engines
Pulsing all the way
To my loins
And I stood transfixed
By seventy years
Of passion and history.

Come again, hero.
Fly again, warrior.

As she receded into the distance
I became aware
I had been standing tall
My right arm
In a stiff salute
To an old Fortress
Pristine in form
Mighty in honor
And disappearing forever
From skies
That now feel empty.

There Were Men Once*

There are few men remaining
That know the sound
Of summer rain
Pelting a tin roof.

Fewer are left
That have the musk of earth
In their nostrils.

Not many have
The scent of rivers
In their brains.

Not many remain
Whose fingers were cut
By the knife of cotton bolls.

Not many are left
Who savor black powder
Like French perfume.

There were men once
That pissed a furrow
Then planted beans.

There were men once
That bought continents
With their life’s blood.

Once upon a time
There were men
That didn’t need to understand
A woman
Before he could love her.

There were men
That drove old trucks
With the dignity of Cadillacs.

Once upon a time
Men saw no contradiction
Between poetry
And manhood.

There were men once
That never apologized
And never explained.

There were men once.


*Yeah, I'll probably catch hell for this post. And sure, I stepped over the line here and there. But I ain't gonna apologize and I ain't gonna explain.

Some Feelings

There are no words
Sometimes.
Some feelings
Can’t be explained.
Some feelings
Are hard as iron.
Some feelings
Pour like rain.

Sometimes it’s best
To say nothing.
Sometimes
Silence is best.
Some feelings
Flow like lava.
Some feelings
Have no rest.

There are no words
Sometimes.
Some emotions
Get lost.
Some feelings
Burn quietly
Some glow eerily
Hovering like a ghost.

Some feelings
Are raw meat.
Some feelings
Are intoxicating drink.
Some feelings
Weigh heavily upon me.
Some feelings
Take me to the brink.

To be ransomed
From some feelings
Is to be delivered
From a fate.
To be imprisoned
In some feelings
Is to wait
And wait…and wait.

Fixed Behind the Fifty

The kindling and the sticks
He scattered with his boot
Strands of smoke
Quickly diffusing
By overhead branches
And chill morning air.

Coffee grounds swam
In boiled coffee
A grit between
The soldier’s teeth
The way memories
Irritated
His heart and mind.

Tired every morning
Weary all night long
Anxious every hour
And thinking of going home.

Damn these burned out villages
And damn these empty fields.

Damn these brooding clouds
And damn these cartridges and shells.

Today is yesterday
And yesterday today
Tomorrow never comes
In the middle
Of a freezing hell.

Her body was so tender
Her kisses were so sweet
But memories are toxic
When you’re fixed
Behind your fifty.

Memories are toxic
When you're fixed
Behind the fifty.

Ambling Dog

I am a discarded deuce
A cigarette butt in the gutter
Water through a sluice.

Sometimes I feel alone
Powerless to act
Like a chance come and gone.

I am a child of lost stars
Alone in a night of winters
Wandering between the wars.

If I gave my heart away
This road would miss my feet
And I would live in yesterday.

Look for me no longer.
I am just an ambling dog
Hoping to grow stronger.

Of Earth and Sky

Fifteen feet overhead
The kite briefly flared
Catching the wind
Pulling skyward
Forsaking its early
Unsteadiness.

The long knotted tail
Kept the bright orange fabric
Properly related to the horizon.

It climbed beyond roof-lines
Higher than chimneys
Superior to darting sparrows
Into the realms of hawks.

The spool of twine
In my hand
Tugged toward an early
Blue-blushed moon
The kite settling
Into its sky home.

Beside the distant diamond
My mind soared
A disembodied aviator
An exclamation
Of earth and sky.

Tell Me

Tell Me

Tell me where you are
And I will come.
Give me an indication
You want me
And I will be there.

Distance is simple mathematics.

Mile markers tick by.
Horizons broaden.
Highways widen
Then narrow.

Small towns and big cities
Homogenize.
Billboards chatter
Silently.
The geography of travel
Is predictable.

The only thing that truly changes
Is you.

You cannot be who you once were.
What you will be
Cannot be
What you now are.
I fear that once found
You will transition again
And the points on my compass
Will shift once more.
I once more become disoriented.

Tell me where you are
And I will come.

Come to the Summit With Me*

Come to the summit with me.
We will stand where few have.

Before us
The land undulates
From gentle swells
To dramatic peaks
Thrust skyward
By unfathomable Tectonic plates
Glistening
In burnished sunlight
Dappled
By ancient forests
Of evergreen and pine
Oak and birch
Swathed in mists
The color of squirrel pelts
Casting to chambray skies
The aromas of autumn mornings.

We will ford cold mountain streams
Laughing across table rocks
We will scale troubled crags
Seeking finger holds
Few have grasped
Rising upward
In defiance of civilized convention
And domestic routine.

Come to the summit with me.
We will settle into the earth tonight
Faces heavenward
To drink draughts
Of the fiery cosmos.
Gazing into eternity’s starry eyes
We will slumber
Guarded by the shimmering Dog Star.

Before dawn
Jupiter will lay on the horizon
Mars burns red above the peaks
And high
Behind the starry sickle
Venus will shine.
Saturn yawns
Beneath an autumnal crescent moon.

Come to the summit with me.
We will rest upon volcanic upheavals
Dance with granite shafts
Ascending slate and shale
Reaching for September skies.

Forsake
For a season
Urban distraction
And assorted neon avenues.

Come to the summit with me.


*Remembrances of Lilly and a long-ago Appalachian adventure.

Empty

The death of his dog
Diminishes any man.

Mickey died hard.
I foolishly thought
He would recover.
He always had.
But time ran out.

Mickey slept fitfully
His last hours
Legs kicking
As though
In his dreams
He was young again
Loping easily across wide fields.

I gave him pain meds
And that helped
But at six in the evening
Mickey died.

I wrapped the Sheltie
In a blanket
Carried him into the yard
And placed him
At the foot
Of a blueberry bush.

For thirteen years
Mickey was a joyful companion
With a spirited connection
To tossed balls
Frisbees
And water streaming from a garden hose.
With all of nature.

Dogs are amazing creatures.
I would rather have a good dog
Than nearly any other concession
God might offer.

The place Mickey slept
Suddenly feels much smaller
And infinitely more empty.

I Remember*

I remember
Snow so white
Pure
And cold
That numbness
Came as a mercy
After the first moments
Of icy agony.

Once or twice an hour
I sat in the cab of my truck
Hands under the heater
Tears streaming my cheeks
With the pain of exposure
Psyching myself to go out again
To carry on to completion.

Small flakes struck my windshield
Fine as talcum powder
Only to instantly resolve
To droplets
At the warmth of my defroster.

I remember
Tiny flakes fluttered to earth
Like millions of parachutes
Covering urban streets
With a crystalline blanket
Covering city grit
In a holy shroud
Muting busses
Taxis and trains
Exacting a price of pain
To exposed flesh.

I remember
Marveling
That each tiny flake was unique
Not another like it
Among the millions
Piled
Against garbage cans
Against locked doorways
Against derelict cars
Against naked winter shrubs
Against high line poles
Against winos asleep in cardboard boxes
Dying one second at a time
Numb with cold.

I remember
Chicago ice
Glazing rungs of the ladder
I would climb
Making treacherous the ledges I would walk
Frosting the high voltage lines I would negotiate
Deadening the fingers I would use
My gloves too clumsy to be of benefit.

I remember
The hushed moments
In my truck at day’s end
Sitting in the silence of gathering gloom
My breath rising as vapor in the frigid cab
Grateful I had completed my job
Praying I would successfully
Do it all over again
The next day
And the next.

I remember it all.
And I still shiver.



* It seems my recent thoughts are weather-related...however the seasons of earth are deeply attached to the seasons of life. I am at the place where that kind of reflection is increasingly common. Can I get a witness?

Night Fall

Clouds, rain-laden
Dark as bruises
Suspend from
Early-autumn skies.

I sit by the window
Television droning
Unwatched.
Mindless chatter.

Soon the firmament will darken
Black as Lucifer’s heart
Empty as a winter barn
Cold as river ice.

Moments like these reckon
Those that follow
Resisting hollowness
Or yielding to loneliness.

Somewhere in western skies
A pumpkin sun sets, but not here.
Here darkness beckons
Within night's priestly robes.

Time

My words resonated.
They were hard targeted
Finding their mark.

Time.

My mind was prepared
My fingers the instruments
Of a ready writer.

Time.

My shoulders were strong
Abel to carry the burden
To muscle-through obstructions.

Time.

My feet were well-shod
Anxious to travel
Any path necessary.

Time.

My heart was tuned
To the frequency of wisdom
Prepared for the chase of life.

Time.

My body sighs
Like boughs
Of autumn leaves
Weary and wanting rest.

Where have you strayed
Oh, soul
And why are you disquieted
Within me?

When the best of life’s journey
Is spent
And thrill resigned to memory
Yearning yet remains
Within the treasures of
Time.

Perfection

She is beautiful
But not classically so.
She is not a “Model.”

Models do nothing for me.

Look up “Model”
In the dictionary.
It will describe
A “Model”
As a small approximation
Of the real thing.

She is the real thing.

Her inner being
Rushes from her eyes
Sparkles from her mouth
And breathes through her lungs.

It is not the package
That most charms me.
It is that which is thinly veiled
Behind her flesh.
Were she unwrapped
An exquisite woman would still gleam
As noon rays on white sand.

Of this I am certain.

That is not to say
Her flesh
Is of no consequence.
But I never was a man distracted
By wrapping paper and bows
(Though I do admire the unveiling).

I am trying to say
That the whole of her…
Package
Paper
Bow
And spirit
Are absolute perfection.

She naps in the afternoon light
Streaming through the pane.
Her breath comes easy
Unguarded and peaceful.

She will not sleep long, though.
Every day with her
Feels like Christmas morning
And I know
Precisely
How her ribbon ties.

Solar Fruit Salad

The sun
I know
Wears a variety of gowns
Among the many spheres
In which she sets.

She glows white hot
In orbits closer to her
Massive
And oppressive.

On the War Planet
Of Mars
Her setting hue
Is powder blue.

From perspectives distant
She seems a tiny
Gleaming nuclear furnace.

But here
In the “Goldilocks Zone”
She is a lemon in the morning
An apricot at noon
And tangerine when she sets.

I’ve no desire to see her fury
Nor her ambivalence.
Give her to me
In her Northern nurture
Her Midwestern charm
Her Western thrill
Her Eastern sleepiness
And her Southern sweat.

Last evening she slipped into
Illinois cornfields
The color of sliced cantaloupe
Full-bodied and late-summer ripe.

She does not beg worship
But calm appreciation.

Soon her warmth will sleep
And we will rest in hope
She will awaken to us soon
Playfully urging us outdoors
To offer her our shoulders
Our arms and legs
In celebration
Of her gleaming joy
And our perfect place
In the universe.

Today

This is not a good day.
My lungs cannot draw
A full breath.
My eyes burn.
My arms and legs
Are rubber.
My brain is muddled
And powerless
To think clearly.
My body is on fire
And my pain levels are
High.

This is not a good day.

But it is a day
And I have the ability
To make it
All I can
In order to effect change
That tomorrow
May be a better day
And the day after that
A good day.

I admit
This is not a good day.
But I am above ground
And today is my day.

The One Thing

I can do nothing
To change your situation.
Advice would be futile
And sympathy fall flat.

I am too far from you
To physically alter
Your circumstance.
I am not bright enough
To re-imagine your dynamics.

Though I have given much thought
To things you may have left
Undone
Or discovered creative ways
Out of your difficulty
It seems you have done
Everything possible
To help
Yourself.

I have exhausted
Every referral
And tapped-out
Every resource.
I’ve got
Nothing.

Well…
That’s not entirely true.
I can give you my
Tears.

Dashboard

Turning the radio off
I turned my imagination on.

Vibrations from the road
Through my car’s suspension
Body
And ultimately into the steering column
And wheel
Connected me to the long
Gray highway.

Tar patches
Spaced evenly in the road bed
Beat time
To my speed
And I heard the beginnings
Of verse.

Words migrated into my brain
Suggesting rhythm and meter
Adding a beat that sat down
Emotions
And temper.

Every poem has its own color
Its particular hue.
This one was deep violet
Passionate
Flirtatious
And wantonly off-balance.

I vented the window
And the flow of air
The warmth of summer sun
And scent of mown fields
Provided the poem’s season
Even its weather
And time of day
Releasing half-forgotten memories
Into the creative mix.

The best room
I have yet discovered
That offers contemplation
And atmosphere
For the making of poetic birth
Is the open places of the earth
And the dashboard of a car.

Verbal Poker*

Forgive me.
Perhaps I misunderstood.
Would you please
Repeat what you just said?

You see
I believe life is precious
And I would not want
To be hasty
And do something untoward
That violates
The sanctity of life
Liberty
And the pursuit
Of your happiness.

I do not want to repeat
What I thought you said
Because I am probably wrong.

But if you did
Indeed say
What I thought you said
You may want to place a call
To a friend
Or two
So they can begin
To make their way here
To sweep you up
Bind you up
And carry you somewhere
So you can begin to heal.

After all
Healing can be a long process.
Don’t you agree?

I hope you agree
Life is precious.
You do not appear suicidal.

But one never knows.
Does one?


* I admit, I have on more than a few occasions, played "verbal poker" with bad men who intended harm. I figured, were I to lose, what they wanted to do to me was not acceptable. Were I to not fare well, they would certainly ruin my day. Were I to succeed, we would both walk away. So far this has happened. This is a dangerous game, played for high stakes. To date I have won every hand of "verbal poker." I hope to never play again. If I must, and I lose, you'll never hear about it. There simply will be no further posts on this blog. I have spent a career working with street people. Sometimes things go south so fast that engaging in conversation is impossible. Let's hope that doesn't happen. I'm getting too old to find this exciting. It's best to stay in my recliner these days. And that is what I hope to do as I approach my Social Security years.

The Shadow Man

The distant past takes form
Stalking me
The way a dangerous man
Skulks in shadows
Preying upon another.

From time to time
I see him
Emerging
From the dark
As he scurries
Shadow to shadow.

I am a warrior.
But how may even a warrior
Destroy memories
From yesterday?

Though the shadow man
Has no lungs
With which to breathe
Or exhale his venom
I hear his low
Sinister growl.

Having long given thought
To my predicament
I have come to one conclusion…

Memories cannot be destroyed
Nor may the threat of attack
Be avoided
But I have within my power
To be a good man
And if necessary
Die as a good man
And not as what I was
When I was not
What I now am.

Before I Forget

Sorry it’s been so long
Since I’ve been down to see you
But time has a way
Of robbing me of what I mean to do.

You gotta know, though
You’re always on my mind
Even when I’m busy
And can’t seem to find the time.

There’s nothing new to tell you.
Life is just the same ‘ol thing.
It’s always an old tired story
And a song I forget how to sing.

I guess I’m doing okay.
Nothing too good or too bad.
But I guess that’s better than most
So I try not to be very sad.

I haven’t forgot
All you taught me
About how to be a good man
And being all you meant me to be.

I brought you these pretty roses
To decorate your grave.
I guess I best be going
Before I forget how to be brave.

Feels Like 1945

It was a northbound freight
On the Cotton Belt line
Haulin’ rice and cotton
Outta South Caroline
And that ‘ol lonesome whistle
Called out to me
So I wandered down the road
Just to have myself a see.

The smoke and the cinders
The steam and the thunder
Rose to the skies
And sparked a need in me to wander
So I jumped a car
When it slowed for a bend
And rode that train
All the way to the end.

Hell, buddy, that was a life time ago
But I remember like it was yesterday.
They’re all diesel now I guess
But if I were young again, I’d say
I’d do it all over again, more or less.
I’d hop one more train
And I’d ride it one last time
Just to rock away the years and the pain.

The Cotton Belt line is a long time gone
But those ‘ol rails are always there.
That steel ribbon is my blood and breath
And there ain’t nothin’ like cinder smoke in the air.
In my heart I’m riding that train again
And it still feels like 1945.
Whenever I hear that lonesome whistle blow
I feel like I’m a young man, and I’m alive.

Mister

The things I wish he’d told me
Outnumber
The things he did
And I’ve always wondered
What I might have been
Since the years I was his kid.

Don’t get me wrong
Mister
He was a good dad
And a mighty fine man
But he was quiet
And always seemed a little sad.

I knew my father loved me
Mister
He just didn’t know how to say it
But he kept his hand on me
And all my growing up years
My desire to please him never quit.

He’s been gone a long time now
Mister
Though it seems it was just yesterday
On the phone, he told me
He loved me.
That memory will never go away.

I suppose every father ought to
Say
The things a child needs to hear
I know I will always wonder
How his words might have changed me
As I listened to his silence year after year.

A Sad Old Man

Sitting opposite me
The old man tugged several papers
From the grimy confines
Of his winter coat.

Each paper was as crumpled
As soiled as he.

Offering them to me
One at a time
He begged I read them.

Each individual paper
Said he
Was the only one needing attention.
But with the conclusion of the first
He begged the second.
At the end of the second’s
He requested the third.
And so it went
Until a dozen papers were read
Aloud.
He leaned back
Eyes closed
His mouth a straight line.

One page built upon another
Presenting the finding of a judge
That long ago
Administered his forgotten case.
The pages were all in the negative
For this illiterate old man.

Handing the crumpled pages
To him again
He smoothed each one
Folding them back into his coat
As one may do
A treasured letter
Though they were anything but that.

Turning away
He offered no thanks
For the reading.
He said nothing further.

Pulling down his tattered hat
He shrugged away.

I wonder…
Is there any sense of deflation
Equal to that
Of a sad old man
Who carries court papers
As testament
That he
Once upon a time
Actually lived?

Apparently damning documents
Are
To shadow men
Preferable
To no identity at all.

Outside Café Beignet

Bitter Brew

On old Royal Street
I sipped bitter brew
At half-past two in the morning
Watching curiosities
Outside
Café Beignet

The coffee was thick
And stout
But not thicker
Nor stronger
Than early morning
Outside
Café Beignet.

The sugar donuts
Were delicious
But the shadowy creatures
On Royal Street
Were saccharine
And salacious
Outside
Café Beignet.

There is no hope

On Royal Street
No brightness of promise.
There is only
Donuts and coffee
Only the strange
Sad
And lonely
Outside
Café Beignet.

I finished my brew
Pulled my hat low
Tugged my collar high
And walked into the gloom
Glad this was not
My Zip Code
Content to live my life
Outside
Café Beignet.

Surfs and Sands

West winds
Lift salt spray
From the breast
Of the Pacific
To later mingle
With desert sands.

The salt and sand
Distilling
In the arid
Early morning
Awakens me
Among gnarled
Joshua trees.

It takes no spur
To move my pony.
She is driven
By what drives me.

Desert yields
To scrub plains
Which in turn
Become grass fields
And small
Pioneer towns
Peopled
With quiet
Stern settlers.

And we find the sea
Stretching impossibly
Beyond many horizons.

I wade my pony
Into the foam
Alive in the moment
Our journey done.

But there are many shores.

We will trace
The eastern sun
Seeking a second sea
And the scent
Of others surfs and sands.

The River

My eyes grow weak
From gazing too long
Into the river.

In the stream
I thought I saw again
Those long lost to me.

I thought I saw again
Yesterdays full
Of reason and hope.

Deep within the river
I thought I felt arms
Reaching for me.

So I surrendered
To the quick stream
To the cold and deep current.

My breath shallows
The beating within my breast slows
And I smile into the river.

The river enters me
And I enter into the river
Into the cold and flowing river.

Ron's Half of the Impala*

It’s not easy being eleven years old
And confined to the Impala’s backseat
For twelve
Stiflingly hot hours
With the windows down
And August’s thunder of rushing air
So loud
The AM radio could not be heard
And my nine year old brother
Protesting (accurately)
That I had wantonly
Crossed the invisible line
We had established as the DMZ
Between us on the
Sweltering black vinyl seat.

Dad did not believe in potty breaks
So we drank little
As we counted mile markers
Down US 66
And read Burma Shave signs...
If Hugging on Highways
Is Your Sport
Trade In Your Car
For A Davenport!

Deep into the night
Dad searched for a bargain motel.
They always looked beautiful
Washed in red and blue neon lights
Affixed where gutters should have been.
The cabins typically were walled
In knotty pine
The in-window air conditioners rumbling
Like an idling diesel.
The beds were sometimes equipped with
Magic Fingers
That shook the mattress
For ten minutes
The way a wet dog shakes itself.
Fifteen bucks for the room
And a dime for the vibrating bed.
Glorious!

The black and white TV’s
With "rabbit ears"
Received a station or two
But often had to be smacked on the side
To stop the picture from rolling.
But that didn’t matter.
We were on vacation!
Mom and dad tantalized us
With promises of stopping the next day at
The Ozark Mule Trading Post
Where, if we were good
Could buy a pecan log candy bar (my choice)
Or a box of malted milk balls (my brother's choice)!

The new DMZ was now drawn down
The center of our bed
But that was okay
Because sleeping brothers cross that line
All night long.

Those days live only in memory.

I’ve stayed at expensive hotels
Ate wonderful dinners
And haven’t desired a pecan log
For fifty five years.
The Ozark Mule is in ruins
As well those bargain motels.
Movies can be had on any Smart Phone
And today's kids don’t know
What an AM radio is
Much less "rabbit ears"
And rolling pictures.

My brother and I love one another
And the idea of any DMZ
Between us is laughable.
I spoke with him last night.
(Actually, texting has supplanted voice.)
But we are loyal citizens of the backseat
Where memories of oppressive heat
Fading AM signals
Cheap motels
And too-few potty breaks
Have served to make aging brothers
Become young once more.

I would do every bit of
Those rattling road trips
Over again
With one exception…
There is never to be another
No-man’s land
Between Ron’s half of the Impala
And mine.


*It truly does not matter if no one reads this post, but my younger brother, Ron. He turned 60 recently, and I 62. This is for him. But I think other folks may have a memory or two similar to mine. Sometimes memories like these get sweeter and sweeter the further they are from their origin. I guess the lesson here is to cherish every moment...even the sweaty ones. They seem to be the memories we hold onto when the skin wrinkles and the bi-focals are prescribed. There may be no going back...but I am thankful for every moment in the back seat, at The Ozark Mule, The Wagon Wheel Motel, and the 1960's version of Silver Dollar City.

Oxygen

I no longer know you.
I did once.

Familiar metaphors apply…
Water under the bridge.
Turning a corner.

So much time has passed.
I am different as well
Although that is more difficult
For me to see.

Do not misunderstand
Dear one
I ache to see you again
Though that prospect
Is terrifying.

What if I were to look
Into your eyes
And saw the gaze of a stranger?
The cold
Unrecognizing
Return of an alien?
Or the tentative look
Of an embarrassed old love?

I cannot imagine anything more painful.

I still search for you
In the passing parade
At grocery stores
Shopping malls
Backseats of taxis
Cross walks
And bus stops.
But I do so cautiously
Like one uncertain.

When we were in love
The whole world was ours.
The sun and moon
Were our admirers.
Nothing was uncertain.
But uncertainty is now
The oxygen I breathe.

The Impossible Trail

Pathless traces
Marked only by fading
Wheel ruts
And the occasional
Abandoned remains
Of an ancient piano
Or china hutch
Show the way west.

Graves are here, too.
The wooden crosses
Long ago reduced to
Splinters and pulp.
Sadness and tears watered
Prairie flowers
All along
The impossible trail.

In the distance
Like a promise of a dream
Strands of purple ranges rose
Beckoning the pilgrims on.
Always on.

Here
A broken wheel.
There
A discarded chest
And over there
The bleached skull
Of a dairy cow
Unable to take
One more step.

But they persevered.
They did the impossible
Leaving as their monuments
The jettison of treasures
And interment of love.

Perhaps
It is not as pathless
As it seems.

The way toward dreams
Is always marked
By sacrifice
And loss.

But the land beyond
The mountains
Beckon still.

My Old Steel Pot*

I cooked my meals in
My old steel pot.
Sometimes it was a helmet
Other times it was not.

On my head it weighed
A hundred pounds
But it protected my brains
And my coffee grounds.

I used it mornings
To lather and shave.
I’d take it everywhere
From the field to the grave.

In it I scrambled
Liberated eggs
Though that was a violation
Of Army regs.

I was supposed to turn it in
When I mustered out
But it was goin' with me
Beyond any doubt!

I still have that old pot
Somewhere in my attic.
If I lost that treasure
It’d be traumatic.

Those new Army helmets
Just ain’t the same…
Like kissin' a lady
Or a painted-up dame.

Take it from me
I know what I’m sayin’
That pot was worth every dime
Uncle Sam was payin’!


*I remember an old black and white photo of my dad, cooking a meal in his battered steel pot, somewhere in France. His track was hid under a camouflage net, under a tree...but he was obvious in his delight in whatever that old steel pot was cooking!