B R I D G E S

She said I should be ashamed
That I am a foolish
Impossible man.

I listened.

She said I am utterly

Without feeling
And selfish beyond words.

It seemed she was having no trouble

Finding words.

She said I have no regard
For others
And all I think of is myself.

I thought about what she said.

Then she drummed her fingers
And finally said
There’d been a lot of water under the bridge.

I said nothing in reply.

But this is what I thought…

There is no water under bridges
I’ve burned.

Soil

Today I sat in the dirt.
I took a handful of soil
Raised it to my nostrils
And breathed the loam
Of life on this planet.
I am from that clay.

I filtered that soil

Through my fingers
Remembering that
My grandfather lost his life
For the loss of his soil.
My father fought across
Europe
To insure I would be
Born
Upon free soil.

Soil.

Dirt.
Clay.

That is what life is about.

We can engineer incredible
Vegetables and fruit
But we cannot create
Soil.

I am alive because of the
Soil
That rained from my fingers.

When I die

I will return to that
Soil.

We’ve got it wrong

My friend.
Terribly wrong.

It is not gold and silver

We should seek.
It is the rich
Luxurious
Stuff of life
The bed of all created things.

We should treasure that

Which we sweep away.
 
Life is in the soil.

Late Autumn Nights

Late Autumn Nights

She cupped the moon

High above the maple

That was slowly

Removing her gown

In that easy

Seductive dance

Of autumn.

She gained the advantage

Shaking loose

Her starry locks

Brushing them

Across my eyes

And those of the old

Barn owl

Patrolling the softly lit

Fields

Newly harvested.

She would remain with me

All the night

Taking me into the mystery

Of her marred features

Her throaty hum

Measured the passion

She shared with me

And any other

Willing to stay long enough

To dance the dark

And kiss away

The shadows and the freeze.

A Certain Place

A Certain Place

I thought I’d be there
Where the lines converged.
All my expectations were thus.
Even my baggage
And mail
Were forwarded
To that bright
And certain place.

Imagine my dismay

To find
I’d been left behind
In the shadows
Among the cobwebs
And dim memories
Reduced by time
And its affiliates.

Trying

She said
My shoes needed shinned
Missing completely
My smile
My eyes
Even my hand
Against her cheek
All trying to tell her
I loved her.

I nodded

And walked away.

A Cowboy

If sweaty cowboy hats
Wrinkled pearl button shirts
And old boots
Makes a man a
Cowboy
I am one.

If being dragged an acre
Through East Texas dirt
Wearing gravel like a smile
And standing up
To those
Who would stare me down
Makes a man a
Cowboy
I am one.

If clinging to the reins

And wind-blown mane
Of a charging mustang
And riding
Hell for leather
Down forested hills
Across rain-swollen streams
Makes a man a
Cowboy
I am one.

If eating unrecognizable chow

In a steady drizzle
After sleeping the night
On cold
Hard earth
And dreaming of a girl
With a narrow mind
And wide hips
Makes a man a cowboy
I am one.

But if a

Cowboy
Is that dandy
With a five hundred dollar
Stetson
And a thousand dollar grin...
Then, I aint.

The Pull of Gravity

As a younger man
And a dreamer
Before the world changed
I would go the airport
And sit at a random gate
To watch people scurry
For their flights
Talking hurriedly
Saying goodbyes
In anticipation of hellos.

Beyond the sheets

Of plate glass
Behemoths waited
Their wings wide
Ready for speed
And thin air.

I would sit and wonder

At the lives that would
Soon board
And the fragile tubes
That would carry them away
Imagining I were
Awaiting that flight
Inventing for myself
An alternate life
In San Francisco
Or even Toledo.

This I did for a few hours
Until the weight and
Pull of gravity
Returned me to Chicago
And its grim boulevards
And gritty alleyways
And a wife who saw
Everything

And wanted

Nothing
Especially from me.

Fire

Fully Consumed

You may not remember
I was on fire
When we met.

Flames leapt from my hair
And I was fully consumed.

You looked at me

Smiling

Not comprehending
My desperate state.

It was embarrassing

To be in such alarming
Condition.

I should have apologized

But it seemed
My throat had become
A smokestack
And I was incapable
Of uttering a word.

I have not seen you

In a long while.

But, I am still

A smoldering ruin.

Last Request

A hot cup of coffee
And sweet apple pie
That’s all I’ll ask
Before I die.

You can stand me up
Against a wall
And I reckon
I won’t mind at all.

I don’t much care
If I’m to be shot
So long as there’s pie
And the coffee is hot.

Just cut me a slice
And pour me a cup
I won’t even fight
I’ll give myself up! 
  

Caught in the Open

Once upon a time
I was caught in the open.
Three rounds passed
So close
I felt their heat
Upon my cheek.

Caught in a crossfire

I fell to the ground
Clawing
Willing myself to dig
A refuge
A place of safety.

The man in front of me was

Hit
And fell silently
To the soil.

The man behind me

Ran

Bullets tracing his path.

And then it was over.

Suddenly over.

But to this day

When I find myself
Caught in the open
I look for a place to fall
Wondering if the soil
Is soft enough to yield
To my desperate
Clawing fingers.

Dead Eyes

Grandpa shot a crow
From the tree
Outside my room.

It steals the food

Of other birds and animals
And has an annoying caw
Grandpa said.

It lay dead in the grass

Under the tree
Its black eyes open
Unseeing.
I bent over it
Mesmerized by its
Dead
Eyes.

That was sixty years ago
And I still see those
Dead
Eyes.

I have seen scores of
Dead
Eyes
Since.
Human
Eyes.

But the first

Dead
Eyes
I ever saw
Were a crow’s.

That dead crow

Is still taking things…
My shock over
Dead
Eyes.

Maybe grandpa knew

Others were coming
So I needed to get used
To seeing so, so many
Dead
Eyes.

Panels

I shutter my life
With vented panels
To allow a little light
But no exterior vision.

Some light is necessary.

It tells the approximate
Time of day
And where I placed
Those damned cufflinks
I never wear.

But I need no vision

Beyond my room
Else I may see her
Strolling the street
And I explode from my door
Chasing her
Begging her
Come back to me
Or I die.

Listen

It is a universe of sound.

                

If you ride out an hour

Before dawn

You may even hear

The sun rise.

If you tune your hearing well

As you sip your coffee

You can hear sweat trickle

Down the skin

Of the bean gatherer.

Listen well

And you may hear

Electricity in the wires…

Flowers opening their petals…

Lips spreading in a smile…

Ants scaling blades of grass…

Shadows sliding across sidewalks…

Ideas forming in the minds of children…

Pupils dilating in the eyes of lovers…

Midnight dew gathering upon lawns.

But, for me

All that must be heard

Can be had

In the creak of saddle leather

And the silent song

Of my horse.

He Said He Knows Me

It is impossible

For one man to

Chart the course

Of another.

Winds blow

From every

Point of the compass.

Tides rise and fall.

Storms blow suddenly.

Masts snap.

Canvass rots.

A vessel may linger long

In the doldrums

Before gaining trade winds.

A man may examine the timber

Inspect the lines

Evaluate the worthiness

Of the ship.

A man might even hazard a guess

As to where the crew last moored.

But no man may know

The course

Of another.

Sugar Cube

Love me, please. Love me again.

The maple tree
Beneath whose canopy
She stood
Was a blaze of golden flame.
Leaves fell between us
And upon our shoulders
As I contemplated her plea.

I thought her sincere.

But there was far more

Between us
Than autumn leaves.

There was too little left

Of myself
And I feared that I
Like a sugar cube
Drenched with water
Yet maintaining its form
Was sure to crumble
To disassemble
Should the slightest bit more
Be inflicted.

I had no reply

Though
I am certain
My eyes told her
All.

Dear Readers...

I was asked about the sometimes vast difference in style and content contained in my posts. Some are heartfelt; intimate. Others, like the one posted next, are lighthearted, and silly. My answer? Life reflects the variance. One moment we cry. Wait an hour or two, and we'll smile, maybe laugh. But there's a further note...not every poem is autobiographical. Some are. Others are clear misses, complete fiction. Which are which? You tell me.

Sweet Wife

I’m plucking my bowstring

While she plucks her eyebrows.

She’s counting her wishes

While I’m out counting cows.

She talks to her girlfriends

While I talk to myself.

She values society

While I hide in stealth.

There seems no possible limit

That she would not go

While I’m all about stopping

Her long downward roll.

Don’t get me wrong here

I love my sweet wife

But I’m telling you, mister

She squeezes my life!

I guess that’s the way

It just seems to be.

But when you get right down to it

It’s probably just me.

Summer Storm

Summer Storm

In an early-summer storm
I sat beneath a wide porch roof
Much in need of repair.
Soon, the rains discovered
Their portals
Onto my shoulders
And I shuffled to better advantage.

The incessant downpour

Lulled me
Toward a brighter
Long-ago
Summer day
With bread and drink
In the tall grass
Near the university.

She was again there

Laughing musically
The full light of noon
Dancing from her hair.
She lay before me
More inviting than the food
We’d prepared.

The charm of memory
Soaked my heart
And I absorbed again
Her eyes
Scarlet lips
Her tender form
Sighs
And soft words.

How maddening

That summer storms
May wet the dreamer
But the fury of the heart
Leaves the lover
Awash
In tall grass
Beneath poor slates
In a dreary summer storm.

Inasmuch

I am not that
Which looks back
At me.

Those eyes, ears
That nose
Those lips 
That chin
Are not myself.

These are useful

But only as clay
To the pot
Whose purpose
Is to present the bloom.

These briefly remain

Until age or injury
Replaces them
With those of younger
Energetic
More appropriate hosts.

Until such time
I remember daily
That I am useful
Inasmuch
As I exalt the bloom.

Let the reader understand.

Amethyst and Flame

Leaves of green 
Rust away 
Like the hulls

Of neglected boats

Sleeping at their moors.

Along the quiet avenues

They skitter down

Loosing their bonds

Blanketing the swales

In auburn

Russet and gold.

Laughing children

Skip through them

Sounding as

Dry bones rattling

Or parchments rising

From dusty confines

Along the Dead Sea.

I haven’t the will

To rake them.

Why remove

The only color

This poor city ever sees

Besides the broken amber glass

Of whiskey bottles

Thrown against curbs?

Autumnal winds

Will soon gather them

To deposit

Along fence lines

And limestone foundations

As beds prepared

For virgin snows.

Before their going

I selected a single maple leaf

Amethyst and flame

To pin against my mirror

As reminder

That all creation

Is magnificent

In its spiraling

Final waltz.

The Trash Compound

I watched him

Turn the corner

At the edge of the building.

I knew this man.

I’d propped him up before

Removing his sodden boots

And socks

Cleaned his feet

Putting fresh socks on

His peeling feet.

But I wasn’t having this.

Walking into the trash compound

He tugged at his zipper.

Momentarily

A stream of fluid

That I guessed was

Mostly beer

Ran around his feet

Into the parking lot.

Before he could re-zip

I was out the door

Awaiting his emergence

From the trash compound.

Expecting renewed compassion

I disappointed the aging drunk

With scalding retribution

And harsh berating.

He acted more shocked than ashamed.

That fueled my anger

And he walked away

With his shaggy head down.

You can throw up in my arms

But you sure as hell

May not pee in my trash.