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!

Doctor Hooker’s Elixir of Life

Step right up!
Don’t be bashful, sir!
Doctor Hooker’s Elixir of Life
Is the Balm of Gilead!
It’s good for every ailment
Common to man!
It restores hair to the balding head!
Regenerates the liver!
Cures gastric maladies!
Steadies the pulse!
Promotes good digestion!
And invigorates the love life!

Sir, there are diseases this elixir will cure
That have yet to be invented!
It is simply that good!

Made from the purest elements
Of God’s amazing universe
Doctor Hooker’s Elixir of Life
Is the very nectar of the gods, sir!

You need a bottle, sir!
Buy one, get one!
Buy three, get six!
And I can see you are a prudent man, sir...
I can let you have an entire case
Of Doctor Hooker’s Elixir of Life
For the paltry sum of half off the whole lot, sir!

You want it!
You need it!
You simply must take
Doctor Hooker’s Elixir of Life
Home today, sir!
The little lady will be glad you did, sir!
Yes, sir.
Very glad, indeed!

And she was.
The funeral is Friday at noon.

Confession's Lament

Were you to trace my path
Were you to do the bitter math
You’d find me to not be the man
Everybody thinks I am.

It’s an embarrassing truth
An eye for eye, tooth for tooth
Testify I was as wrong
As a winter's night is long.

I gotta come clean here to you.
I guess it’s the right thing to do.
I was so smart, but didn’t have a clue.
My story’s an ugly one, but it’s true.

I want to be an decent man
I’d like to say I took a stand
But when push came to shove
I did only what I love.

Forgive me, young child
For my bent to the careless wild
And the reckless way I act
The way I substitute lies and fact.

I gotta come clean here to you.
I guess it’s the right thing to do.
I was so smart, but didn’t have a clue.
My story’s an ugly one, but it’s true.

Find another path to go
And don’t think I’d ever know
The right way from wrong
Because, for me, it was just a song.

I apologize for the man I am
I guess I didn’t much give a damn
About leaving a decent legacy for you.
It isn’t right, but God help me, it’s true.

I gotta come clean here to you.
I guess it’s the right thing to do.
I was so smart, but didn’t have a clue.
My story’s an ugly one, but it’s true.

The Kid in the Cardinal Cap*

The old banner
Caught the breeze
Responding to the mild
Summer morning.

It might have gone unnoticed
But for the young boy
Gazing at it
Beneath the visor
Of his Cardinals ball cap.

What kinda flag is that?
He queried his grandfather.

That’s the rebel flag, boy
Granddad answered.
Pretty, ain’t it?

I guess
Said the boy.
What’s a rebel?

A rebel’s someone
That gets angry with the way
Things are
Said granddad.

What way?

Well, f’instance
The government said federal law
Trumps state law.

Doesn’t it trump state law, Pap?

Whataya mean?
Granddad asked.

Well, Pap
If the government says a man’s guilty
Of murder
And the state says it don’t matter
Isn’t the person he killed
Still dead?

Well, yeah…but...

And if a man’s a spy
But the state says he isn’t
Weren’t secrets still stolen?

Well, yeah…but...

Then I don’t understand
The boy said.

But it was all about owning slaves
Explained granddad.

You’re telling me
That the state said it was okay
To own another human being
Even though God and the government said
It wasn’t?

But ain’t it a right pretty flag, boy?

The kid in the Cardinal cap shrugged.

Not so much
He said
Walking away to find anything
Better to do.


*For the record, I'm the great grandson of a rebel soldier. I honor my great granddad, and I love the south. I love my heritage...but that flag needs to be a museum relic.

The Spot She Put Me In

She turned away
Smiling
Before I could properly
Respond
To what she’d said.

It wasn’t outrageous.
But coming from her
It was unexpected.
Surprising.

I do not like
Not knowing what to say.
But that was precisely
The spot she put me in.

And she knew it.
And she enjoyed it.
And she was savoring the moment.

So, I did what seemed right
At the time.

I said nothing.

She liked that even more.
Looking over her shoulder
She said something about
Cats and tongues.

I stood there
Looking at her.
I had to give her this one.
She deserved it.

Then it dawned on me…
Sometimes the best thing a man
Ought to do
Is exactly nothing.

Because if she was true to her word
I was going to enjoy her little victory.

Very much.

Drums

In the western sky
The setting sun
Was an apricot blush
The last of its furnace
In full retreat.

Beyond my rear window
A three-quarter moon
Cast a pale luminescence
Upon cap rocks
And wild terrain
Of northeast New Mexico.

I turned off my stereo
Allowing an ageless temper
To wash over me.

Just out of sight
A band of warriors
On painted ponies
And troop of cavalry
Thrust and parried
In a lethal contest of wills
Courage
And dare
Neither could fully win.

I smelled smoke
Blood
Fear
Just beyond the scrub brush.
It breathed through my air vents.
It was with me.
It crawled my spine
And sat beside me
For the next hundred miles.

Perhaps
What was never entirely leaves.
Maybe
The past is never really past.

Time is a river
Moving slowly on the surface
But running in swift currents
Just beneath what is seen.

Who can know?

I hear drums
And the shrill chant of warriors
Singing
“It is a good day to die.”

Let's Go!

Hurry up!
Let’s go!
Get this show on the road.

Can’t this fliver
Roll any faster?
Peddle to the boards
Buddy.

Let’s go!

On time is late
Pal!
Let’s do this thing!

Let's Go!

Wind this thing up, man!
If you can tell what’s beyond
The window
You’re going too slow.

Let’s go!

This thing only got reverse?
Drive this thing!

Let’s go!

Move over, buddy.
I can drive this cart.
Warp Drive's here somewhere!

Let’s go!

When the paint rolls back
When the tires melt
And the cam shaft
Jets through the firewall
We’re still going too slow.
Come on, dude...

Let’s go!

The Letter

I didn’t mail the letter.
It took hours to write
But was too damn honest.
Too direct.
It dripped hurt and poison
So I put it in a drawer
Took some time
Thought it over.

I didn’t mail the letter.

Maybe I should have.
Perhaps
Had I done so
You would understand.
Maybe you would have
Changed your mind.

Probably not.
But maybe.

After reading the letter
I learned something
About myself.

I discovered I am
An angry man
Struggling beneath the weight
Of too many regrets.

And baby
The truth is
You’re just the latest one.

Simple Rules

The corporal sat, eating a can of pears
As a sniper spied him, unawares.
The corporal’s mind drifted from war
Not imaging what may be in store.

The pears were good and very sweet
But in a moment’s time spilled at his feet.
A sniper smiled at his marksman skill.
It presented him a pleasant thrill.

But that sniper, for reasons we cannot know
Stood-up tall in the morning snow.
Across the field of no mans’ land
Another marksman saw him stand.

In a second’s time flew another dispatch
By way of bullet; a deadly match.
The latest sniper exhaled his freezing breath
Spied by yet a third, causing the second one’s death.

Before the third could drop below the fence
He realized he was without defense.
A single-shot rifle is of little use
Once its bullet’s shot, he did deduce.

A fourth soldier continued the bloody chain
Throwing grenades upon the third, like metal rain.
Bloody Bits of the third sniper were everywhere
In the snow, horse corpses, and freezing air.

And so the endless, brutal story unravels.
It’s told in trenches, shell holes; Lordy it travels
From 1915 unto this present day.
War stories just never will go away.

So, keep your head down when eating fruit
Standing tall, be warned, beyond dispute
Is something a soldier must never do
Or he will get a large caliber tattoo.

Never exhaust your breath upward into winter’s day
Or your buddies will carry you away.
Death comes by hand grenades, bullets and artillery
Whether standing, lying, or praying upon bended knee.

War is a tale told by fools
But is complete with some fairly simple rules.
All being equal, I’d rather go fishing
But that, my friend, is useless wishing.

The Old Road

It is a very long road
A weary
Dusty
Troubled
Often lonely way
And I am far from the end
Though I will surely expire
Before does the road.

An ancient road
Its surface is grooved
By wheels of carts
The countless steps
Of pilgrims preceding me.

Along the byway
Scatter dispossessed things
By other travelers before me.
Indeed
I have forsaken things
Once thought priceless
Now considered rubbish
In order to achieve the summit.

I have been a pilgrim
A very long time.
There were moments
I exulted in the fellowship
Of other travelers.
Some have concluded
Their journey.
Many sought
Diversions
Abandoning their trek.
A few walk beside me still
Though their numbers
Seem to wane
As the way grows
Dim
Upward
And perilous.

There have been opportunities
To join a broader way
A more easily traversed path
But I know
Those are ways to
Destruction
Traveled by wanderers
Whose god is their belly.

In the far distance
Glow the lights
Of a bright city.
Its gates always open.
Welcome waits
Every journeyer
Who completes his path.

Someday
I will walk
Into that city
Where a place for me
Has been prepared.

That knowledge
Lightens my load
Quickens my step
And encourages me.

Today my assignment
Is to walk the old road
The path of
Righteousness
The way of life.

Walk awhile
With me
My friend.
It is a good day
To trek.