Called to Account

I am just a poor boy
With the outlook of one
Who has starred too long
Into the sun.

Perceptions become doctrine

And doctrine prescribes actions.
Actions, ultimately build a life.
Therefore, my life has been a construct
Of materials
(Often shoddy)
Reduced to things I thought I saw
Or believed to be true.

I am the prime character

In the drama of my tale.

I am the general
Commanding the army
Of my ideas
Whether poor or noble
But probably both.

I perceive I have been

For all my years
Too much on the offensive.
I have contested boundaries.
I have gained and yielded territory.

Someday

When called to account for my actions
And to answer 
For pain I have inflicted 
And for the blitzkrieg beyond my boarders
I shall have but one answer
Brutally true…

...I have attacked

Because I was too weak to defend.

Made of Stone

I keep my cards close to my vest
And hope nobody sees
The man I was or that I am
Or what I came to be.

I don’t make any contact
With my hands and never with my eyes.
I don’t tell the truth
Because I live inside my lies.

Don’t ask me my name

My age, or ask where I came from.
If you try I promise you
I’ll just play mute and dumb.

I ain’t worth your time

Or trouble; just leave me alone.
I ain’t a man, it’s God’s plain truth
My heart is made of stone.

Now turn around and walk away.

You don't want to place this bet.
'Cause If you do, I swear, little girl
You’ll curse the day we met.

They Just Don’ Care

Well, the kids put me here last September
And, tell the truth, I don’t remember
Just why it was they did.
But after all, they’re just kids.

I sit at my window, most every day

And I think of how it don’ pay
To take life too serious.
But, ain’t it sure mysterious.

I worked my fingers to the bone

Tryin’ to make my family a home
And now they put me here.
Not one of ‘em lives anywheres near.

My Emily died two years ago

But those kids of ours don’ know

Or even remember the night
She gave up her fight.

My birthday’s sometime next week

But I don’ reckon one of ‘em will seek
To sit by me an hour or two.
Hell, that’s what I would do.

I sure do miss my farm.

Would it have done ‘em any harm
To let me end things there?
But I guess they just don’ care.

Waist Gunner

Forty thousand feet over Berlin
Not one of us ever thought of sin.
All we knew was that when we fly
Some goddamn Kraut would die.

In the city, fire blossoms burst in view.

We’d wish there was more damage we could do.
Blazing ack ack burst all around
Trying to drive us to the ground.

Fighters closed with us at the suburbs of the city

And, to a man, we thought wouldn’t it be a pity
If, after this hard run
We’d fall before some lucky German’s gun.

Donald died, sitting in the glass

But I flamed the one that got him as he passed.
Captain Lewis feathered number three
And I reconciled what would be would be.

We trailed black smoke all across the channel.

The Krauts shredded our entire instrument panel.

Focke Wulf 190’s with large black crosses
Half way home piled up our losses.

Until you smell the stench of blood and cordite

Or freeze with forty thousand feet of frost bite
There ain’t no way I can explain it to you
Unless you’ve been where I been, and do what I do.

When we landed, they hosed Donald from the plane

And to this very day I can’t explain

How the hell it came to be
It was that poor kid and not me.

I’m ninety years old this next September.

I wish to God I couldn’t remember
The minutes, months and years of that war.
But I did what they sent me over there for.

* Every year I pen a Memorial Day poem. This is this year's contribution. This poem comes from the witness of an old B-17 waist gunner I met. He was a kid in '43. He could barely talk about it, but as he squeezed this story from between his pale lips, his eyes saw again the black-stained skies over Berlin. I don't use the profanity he used...but what is more profane than war?

Grandpa

I was just a kid
How could I know
The cessation of breath
Was the coming of death?

I was a child

When I saw him
In a box
That wild, cagey fox.

I was a baby boy

And I was not that far
From my mother’s breast
When I saw him at rest.

I‘ve always wondered

About the man.
Who he came to be
Was never mine to see.

I never knew my Grandpa.

I was just a little boy.
But when he left
I was introduced to death.

Sharecropper

I don’t know the heat of days
Plowing dirt and growing dust.
I can’t feel the light-headed fear
Of not growing what I must.

I’ve never strapped my body

To a worthless, tired mule
And tried to break the ground
With only beans for fuel.

Arkansas escapes my memory

But I feel it in my hands.
Hands that folded in cotton prayers
Then watched the empty land.

My eyes never stared at tin roofs

Awake the whole night long
Then crawled out from my bed
At the mourning dove’s song,

My gut never knew the fear

Of leaving my job undone
Of never doing what was needed
Before the setting sun.

I’ve never been a sharecropper

But their blood runs through my veins.
So I guess I have no idea
Or any reason to complain.

Jenny

Tie a string on the ground
Then as you fly all around
That string becomes highways
You may follow.

It will stretch end to end

Become your best friend
As long as you fly
In the daylight.

When the sun sets, rules change

So you’d better arrange
To set it down, eat dinner
And sleep under your wing.

You've set down in soft heather

And awake to good weather 

To continue your
Barnstorming journey.

The air is thinner and colder upstairs
So you’d better beware.
Have a good coat, warm gloves
And eye goggles.

I failed to mention one thing:

My plane’s open wing
It’s a biplane
With a windy open cockpit.

I don’t have a stereo, heater or radio

But it’s truly the way to go

For a fly-freak
And purist, like me.

If I see you, I’ll dip my wing

You may hear me sing
To the music of my century-old
Radial engine.

You may love your car or truck

But I consider it luck
That I’ve been blessed with
My old fashioned Curtiss Jenny!

The Wrong Thing Right*

I never said the right thing
But I said the wrong thing right.
I’d sleep the whole, entire day
Then I’d stay out all night.

She’d lean upon my shoulder
And cry for just awhile.
But I’d tell her to shut her mouth
And drive another mile.

All she ever asked me for
Was a little bit of love.
All I ever gave that girl
Was the fist inside my glove.

I can’t say what makes a woman

Love a fool like me.
She was just a tiny little boat
Swallowed by an empty sea.

Nights are long and lonely now

Ever since she run away.
I wonder where she went off to
But thoughts like that don’t pay.

It ain’t exactly pain I feel

‘Cause I don’t feel anything.
But if lies and hurt were castle walls
I’d be her lord and king.


*Nope. I have my own stories, but this tale isn't one of them.

Rich Killers

A few ounces of steel
Formed the poor kids last meal
And a bit of copper for his dessert.

Maybe he deserved it, they said.

Either way, the kid’s dead.
It's just one more sad tale, either way.

The gunman thought he was a cop

And it was his job to stop
Any kid of another skin color.

We all pretended we cared

When the whole episode was aired

Every night on all the news networks.

The jury let the pretend cop go
And made the whole world know
Killing is what we sometimes "get" to do.
'

So, the killer sold his gun

For a fantastic monetary sum
While we’ll sit back and scratch our collective heads.

Maybe we all should “weapon up”

And stir the poison in our cup.
Maybe someday we can be rich killers too.


* The gun George Zimmerman used to kill Trayvon Martin was auctioned today for $120,000. Some collector will display it as a piece of Americana, and loudly hail his Constitutional right to bear arms. Do not mistake me...I own a gun. It is secured and locked away. I think the degradation of our society makes self-preservation essential. I was trained by SWAT experts when I served law enforcement. But Zimmerman is far outside the framework of what our society was intended to be...will Texas now auction their death gurneys? Will Florida sell "Old Sparky"? God help our poor nation. They should melt every gun used to take a life.

Never Mind Her*

In a tenement home
She lives all alone
Where nobody
Seeks for to find her.

She has only bread

Maybe some soup to be fed
And goes to sleep hungry.
But, never mind her.

There are thousands like this

Perhaps millions on that list
But, no matter
Don’t think twice of her.

You’re going to be a star!

You’re bound to go far.
Tomorrow she dies
But forget her.

She’s an unfortunate lass

But your sorrow will pass
When you find you’re so much
Better than her.

Another will take her place
Another featureless face.
But you’re what’s important.
Never mind her.



* I suppose a few decades of working with tragic persons like the nameless woman in this poem has colored my perception of our "Great American Society." It has made me a cynic regarding our culture. But I know their names, the bridges they sleep beneath, and the hunger with which they live. You do no not have to cross oceans to find displaced, haunted and hungry people. Trust me on this. 

Time and Place

I was a willow
Planted by a great river.
My roots deep
And firm.
My branches combing
The current
Like long hair
Swept with wind.

I was a thunder head

Ignited with sun fire

Blazing western skies
Arching the whole earth
Dominating eagles and wren
Commanding any living thing
Beneath the tower of my span.

I was a mountain

Piercing the thin air
Of marvelous heights
Casting shadows onto
Fertile farmlands
And lush valley floors.

I was an ocean

Yawning between continents
Hiding treasure galleons
And unimaginable behemoths
Capped by white-foamed waves
And heaving surf.

I was the sum of your desire

The heat of your fever

The ice of your chill
The weight of your mass.

I was the wish behind your dream...

And you will someday see
I once more shall be
When time and place agree.
  

What I Have

What I have for you
Darling
Requires a cup.

My pitcher overflows

With a most rare
And pure content.

But I will not allow

It be poured uselessly
Nor wantonly.

You must have a right spirit

And unalloyed chalice
For what I give.

Soon

Soon

It does not matter
What you have done.
I do not care
Where you have been.

Those things you imagine

Concern me
Do not.

None of that matters.

Sit with me.

Soon

The setting sun
Will flame the horizon
In exultant light.

Soon

A yellow moon
Will fill the night
With a soft glow.

Soon

We will find redemption
In the arms of the earth
And the embrace of tides.

Soon

All of creation will fill the night
With song.

What possible concern

Could whelm the scales
In dimensions
As grand as these?

Step. Drag. Step.

There had been no sun
The day long.
Dense storm clouds
Dominated.

Minutes before full dark
An old man
Trudged
The broken sidewalk
Before stores bright
In neon signs
And florescent lights.

He tottered along

Leaning upon his drugstore cane.
His image reflected
Upside down on the wet sidewalk
Rainbowed in neon beer
And lottery jackpot signs.  

He did not pause

To glance into shop windows.
Head into chest
Ragged hat tugged low
Jacket shrugged tightly
Around his frail form
He continued his path
In faltering tread.                                                                                                                                              .
He took one step.
Dragged the aluminum cane.
Took another.
Step. Drag. Step.

Nobody knew
About the Bronze Star
And Purple Heart
Tucked into the bottom
Of his sock drawer
In his one bedroom apartment.
Nobody would care.

Security cameras monitored

His slow progress
From several posts
Along his way.
But no one was watching
The old man.

The rain grew stronger.
The old man grew weaker.
Turning the corner at the light
He was swallowed in the gloom
Like he never existed.

But nobody cared.

 

 

Amazing Brew

I sit at my window
Cup of coffee in hand
Watching raindrops
Pelt sidewalks and street.

Coffee is magic.
It can transition the bleakest
Morning
Into one of possibility.

The brew flows into my body

On a mission.

Tiny caffeinated messengers

Fortifying
Flesh and spirit.

Coffee is faithful

When women are not
Is strong
When I am not
Is present
When friends are not

Is hot

When I am cold.

Let it rain the whole day.
Let the skies lower and fall.

I will make another pot.

Stand and See

Three minutes.

That’s all the time there is
For light like this.

Sunset rays

Filtering diagonally
Through cloud layers
And dense atmosphere
Light early springs’
Unplowed fields
With gold
Poured molten
From the surface of the sun.

Fence lines

Wrapping acres of dormant land
Gleam pristine
Against those astonishing rays.

Rusted tin roofs

And deep amber barn wood

Fire the edges of land

Before the tree line.

Three minutes.

Even now the light fades.

Quick.
Do not blink
Neither breathe.

Stand still.

Engrave this
Forever
In memory.

Moments like this

Rarely come
And you must
Stand and see.

Three minutes.

That’s all you have.

Silently

Comets and meteors
Stitch the heavens
In light.
Salted throughout the cosmos
Suns blaze brilliantly
Pinwheel galaxies
And expanding nebulas
Charm beholding eyes.

Silently.

A new mother

Gazes
At her sleeping child
Through eyes
Of amazed love.

Silently.

The morning dawns

In eastern skies

Slowly creeping
Beyond boundless seas
Rising above blue ridged mountains
Filtering through standing stalks
Of corn, wheat and barley.
Light splashes against
Steeples and stores
Cottages and mansions
Terraces and studios
Factories and farms.
It lusters and radiates.

Silently.

Clouds gather

Glowing incandescently
In reflection
Of the solar flare.
Tonight
Northern lights
Will shimmer and dance
In heavenly hues.

Silently.

My hand will find hers.

Our lips will meet
Our eyes connect
As we communicate
The litany of love.

Silently.

Every created thing will

Spin and soar
Blaze and flash
Ripple and frolic
Breathe and exhale
So softly.

Silently.