9/11---Time Plus Distance

The following is an article I wrote for 9/11 in a law enforcement gazette. It is six years old, and I offer it as it was printed then. The feelings and emotions never diminish. What was true then is true still. God help us.
~ James


This post colors outside the lines for which this site was created. It is neither poetry nor prose. It is an artcle I was asked to write by Dr. Olivia Johnson, editor of a law enforcement journal, based near St. Louis. As a 20 year veteran of law enforcement I have often been tapped to provide either commentary or personal presentation on topics near and dear to the hearts of officers and citizens. What follows is the content of my submission to the journal. The format prohibits proper indentation, and that's frustrating. I hope you'll overlook that. Its focus is the 10th anniversary of the attacks on our country on September 11, 2001. I pray our country be granted victory over the evils of terrorism. I pray we be consoled in our national grief. I further pray we return to that image of a nation long-ago cast for us by our founding fathers. My article speaks for itself, and beside it I firmly stand.
~ James Woods

Nine Eleven
Time Plus Distance

A melon sun rises beyond the apron at Dover Air Force Base. A hushed detail somberly lifts a flag draped casket from a C-17 Globemaster. Silent salutes honor the slain warrior. The body is on its stateside journey to a devastated family. The detail does an about face and returns into the cavern of the C-17 for another casket. And another. And another.
America slogs through its longest war. It’s so long, fifth grade students don’t remember a time we were not at war. Nearly 4,500 Americans have died as a result of our action in the Middle East. The ally who has suffered the second most battle deaths is the UK, who’ve lost under 200. Each loss has a common genesis.
September 11, 2001 is engraved on the American soul. We all remember where we were when the jets struck the Towers. We viewed endless replays of our buildings collapsing in smoke and dust. We’ve seen that slash in the Pennsylvania soil, caused by the heroic tumble of United Flight 93. Our Pentagon was in flames, our people dead. We knew, instantly, we were at war. Nobody had to tell us. There was no “day that will live in infamy” speech. Our families huddled and wept. We joined in religious services and prayed. We fixed flags to our cars. We sang “God Bless America,” a bit more loudly than before. We sent our sons and daughters to places so strange our American tongues had difficulty pronouncing the names. We smiled at “Shock and Awe,” and distantly felt the thunder of our bombs and rockets lighting the skies over Baghdad. We cheered when an American soldier hung our flag from the stony statue of Saddam Hussein. There was no pretending. This was payback. Revenge. And it felt sweet. It was sweet…until that C-17 landed with a box for you. Then it was bitter and terrible. But we still believe.
When the sun set on September 11, I was in uniform, standing before hundreds of citizens from my city. The mayor asked me to pray and say some encouraging words. It’s been ten years. I don’t remember what I said. When I finished, a sea of small candles winked to life, in the hands of those standing along both banks of the DuPage River. Somebody started to sing “God Bless America.” The tune was joined by a swell of many voices. When the song ended, there came a hush. A holy hush.
A little boy walked up to me. Tugging my pant leg, his little face looked into mine. I bowed to hear him. He said, “Thank you for protecting us.” I had nothing to say. I am paid to say things, but there was nothing to say. Eventually I choked out, “You’re welcome.” He smiled, and trotted back to his mom.
I drove home in silence that night. I kept hearing the little boy. “Thank you for protecting us.” And I understood what I still understand. There is little I can do to protect anyone. Not because I’m a chaplain, and don’t wear a weapon. But because there is always evil out there, determined to destroy what is good and pure. We can fight. We send our most precious to stand in the breech, to protect us. And they do. But the fingers of evil are rough and strong. Insistent. We may protect our way of life, but always at an enormous cost.
I fear for my country. Not because of what the enemy may do, but because of what we are doing to ourselves. When I look out my window, I no longer see a country at war. I see a country at ease. Cars no longer fly flags on the antennae. Nobody cheers our colors. At parades, when the honor guard passes, and our flag flutters in the breeze, crowds remain seated on the curb. Hands no longer move to cover hearts. A few old men stand to salute, and I firmly believe every one of them are vets, who’ve been to war. They know the price demanded to give those seated on their collective butts the freedom to do so.
Nine Eleven. Those words changed us forever. It’s outrageous what four syllables are capable of doing. I have been at nine memorial services, and soon it will be ten. We are accustomed to think in blocks of ten. The tenth, for whatever reason, seems to carry more weight than the ninth, or any previous number. There will be more dignitaries this year wanting podium time to make their remarks. More banners than last year. More flags. But less emotion. The further from a tragedy the less we feel the pain. The old saying is that “Time plus distance equals comedy.” We now make jokes like, “Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how was the play?” Time plus distance. Someday, in the far future, a late night host will take a crack at 9/11. We won’t be around to hear it, but it’ll happen. I remember a song from my early years that whined, “Please Mr. Custer, I don’t wanna go!” followed by the thwack of an arrow. Time plus distance.
Last week I attended a funeral. Among the mourners was a young soldier awaiting his second deployment. He looked sharp in his army blues. Later, he sat across from me at dinner. A few old Vietnam vets were in the restaurant, at a table behind ours. Before they left each of them approached the young soldier, saying “Good luck son, and thank you for your service.” I noticed that no one other than those vets did the same. But I’m not surprised. They were the few who understood we are still at war. For the rest, time is becoming distance. What will it be like at nine eleven’s twentieth anniversary? By the thirtieth or fortieth there will be few to no memorial services. A news commentator will note the date’s passing in his newscast. And for many, that ambivalence is already here.
But the C-17’s are still coming. And for as long as they come, and maybe longer, America is at war. I despise that footage showing bright yellow and orange flame blossoming from the top of the World Trade Center. It grieves me and aggravates some deep place in my soul. It angers me. I am a chaplain. I’m supposed to be a man of God, but that footage makes me want to grab a weapon and take my place at the wall. Of course, there is no real wall at which I may take my place. And there’s no gun big enough to rewind time and make it all go away. What’s left me is to do the best I can for my fellow citizens, and my country, every day. It’s the small steps that make the journey. It’s the single brick that makes the wall. It’s vigilance and determination that wins the war.
On September 11 I will put on my uniform and join my city as we commemorate the anniversary of the attacks. We will bow our heads and pray. We will sing patriotic songs, and salute the flag. In our city lives the family of a naval officer who lost his life in the Pentagon. They will be there to honor their husband, father and son. While there, I will scan the crowd for the young boy that thanked me for keeping him safe. But I won’t find him. He’s ten years older now. He may be in uniform protecting me. I just hope to God he isn’t on a C-17.

* Two days following the writing of this article a Chinook helicopter, with its crew, and servicemen including a compliment of Navy SEALS was shot down by Taliban insurgents in Afghanistan, as they came to the assistance of Army Rangers, who were taking fire. It is to their memory, and faithful service this article is dedicated. May God comfort their families, and their memory ever live among us in honored glory.

How Swift the Arrow

How Swift the Arrow

You have no idea
How swift the arrow flies.
You think there’s time
To do what you’ve
Always intended.

The lie is
There’s time.

Wait to caress her
Take in
Her scent
Count the freckles
Across her breasts
Feel the ivory
Of her skin
The delicate shell
Of her ear
The way the pupil
Of her eye
Contracts with light
Feel
The blades of her shoulders
Working under her flesh
The sinew of her
Body and soul.

...Wait...

There’s yet time
To lie in the dark
Listening to her
Breathe.

...Wait...

Plenty of time
To learn her
Rhythm
Her shudder and gasp.

Just do what you feel.
There’s yet time
For tender.

But time is deceptive...

What you can’t understand
Is how swift the arrow flies.

Talk to Me

Talk to me.
Tell me your story
Your ragged tale
Of gain and loss.

Show me your wounds
Those angry slashes
On your soul
Untended and unhealed.

What beach sands 
Swallowed your blood?

Into whose arms did you fall
When pelted by stones?

Talk to me
So I understand.

People like us
Are known by our scars.

Like Chaff

There is wind at my back
I have not seen
Though I have felt
Its irresistible blow.

I cling to places
And people
But the force is stronger
Than my desire to stay.

Sometimes it keens
Other times it moans
But is always consistent
In its purpose to push me on.

Were it a sentient being
I would try reason
Anything to create dialogue
But it is a powerful, controlling force.

It moved me beyond you
Out of range of your arms
Your kiss
Your sweet voice.

It blows through the craggy places
In my soul
And the howling you hear is not the wind
But the sorrow that sifts me like chaff.

Between the Minutes

When I go to slumber
In the evening’s first stillness
You are there
Waiting
Your smile an inquiry
And I assure you
I am now with you.

All is as it should be.

Tell me please
How is it
I still smell the sweetness
Of your perfume
Take in the fragrance
I have never known
From any other’s body
But yours?

You're only seen
With eyes wide shut
Perceived as a ghost
An ethereal image
Haunting my silent world
A memory of times ago
The life left me
After goodbye.

So I hurry to sleep
Hoping to find you
Between the minutes
As one might hide
In gangways
Waiting.

Waiting.

And so you linger
Secreted between the minutes
Of darkness and dawn.

Maybe...

.....perhaps it's time to step back a bit. Refresh. Get a new perspective. Just thinkin'. 

james

Seriously....

Is anybody really reading this stuff? I gotta wonder. (It's been a hard day).

james

Perceptions

Strange how shifting light
Alters the world
And it’s never the same.
Every moment
Presents a new observation
On an old theme.

Subtle refractions
Of light
And shadow
Change everything.

If you’re not looking
You’ll miss it.

You handed me coffee
This morning
Smiling
But the slightest curl
On your lip
Was a new take
On an old message.

I saw it.

How many things
Of great importance
Have I missed
Because I wasn’t looking?

Light alters perceptions
Constantly
Scrambling everything
From my environment
To matters of the heart.

I miss
What I swore I never would.

At day's end
The parade will have
Passed
While I was gazing at
Debris
In the gutter.

Sanded Teak

Sanded Teak

Your legs curl beneath you
And I imagine roots
Anchored in the banks of the Nile
Firm
Luxurious.

My hands glide your thigh
Smooth
Like teak
Planed, sanded
Oiled with touch
An anointing
Sanctified
Redemptive.

You smell of earth.
The tangy scent of growing things
Of the Africa I will never know
The Serengeti’s wild heat
Growling in hunger and pleasure.

Reclining, I map your face
In rays dappled, through palm fronds
I see the glory of the lioness
Proud
Untamed.

I cannot stay.
I am not equal to your heart
No match for your fire
Though I want to be.

I lay in your lap

Admiring the craft

Of your form...
Full of promise
With legs of sanded teak.

Asleep in the Valley

Sleeping Wolf

Snows drifted, swirling 
With winter's breath
Piling against the trunks
Of ancient birches
And gathering 
In the black-tipped
Sandy coat
Of a sleeping wolf.

Star streamed eyes dreamed
Behind his lids
A slash of black
Either side
Of his dark 
Glistening nose.
His body curled in a crescent. 

Never have I seen 
A wolf 
So detached from his truth
Resting in winter's cruel hold.

He
At any moment
May awaken
And regain his vicious nature.

I stepped softly
The snow parting 
Against the shaft of my boots.

Time was of no consequence.
Light dulled and faded to dusk.

I reached out and touched 
The beast
The animal
The creature

Like an Indian Warrior

Counting Coup
And discovered him to be 
Like me.

Asleep 
In the valley of dreams
In the embrace of snows. 

 

Spider-Bit

I got spider-bit.
She tagged me
Close to a vein.
Her venom nearly
Went to my heart
But stopped short.

Her poison was enough

To complicate matters
And leave a talisman
Reminding me 
How close I came
To sorrow.

She left a bloody blister

That I regularly attack
With the blade
Of a knife I secret
At my bedside.

For a time my blood

Will flow.

Crimson will stream my flesh
To be staunched
By pressure and bandage.

I’ve been spider-bit before.

They all left
A souvenir
Of their silent visitations
But my knife only slices
The one most recent.
All others remain scars.

If you think

I am referring merely to an  
Inconsequential
Spider bite…

....Well
Dear Reader….

...You have never
Loved a woman.

I Don't Remember

What’s that you’re telling me?
That you and I were close?
That comes as a surprise, girl
It can’t be as you suppose.

I don’t remember loving you.
I can’t remember why
Though you said I told you once
I’d love you till I die.

You don’t seem too familiar.
I don’t recall your face.
If you were someone I loved once
I’d run to your embrace.

I’m really very sorry, girl
I don’t recall your name.
If I did I'd sure tell you.
Now, isn’t that a shame?

You must have me confused
With one who looks like me.
If I were the man who loved you
I’d remember, don’t you see?

I really must be going now.
I have lots of things to do.
There are some folks that I must see
But I don’t remember you.

A Reasonable Death

I did not know him
A stranger to me
Yet a brother.
Now he lies
An empty vessel
Poured out
Upon the cave floor
Of Abdullam.

The scent of gunfire
And blood
Come to me
Stinging the air
More with sorrow
Than acrid powder.

We are beyond
Searching reason.
We know the reason.
The question rather
Is how we go gently
Into the silence
Of the earth
Happy to die
For so powerful
A compulsion.

Tomorrow
Or the day after that
The muzzle may point toward me.
I hope to
Smile at eternity
In a way
That brings skeptics
To puzzle
Over such
A reasonable death.

I Wish I'd Said That # 12....

A fact is not a truth until you love it.

~ Shelby Dade Foote 

Champion Hill

Where cannonballs flew

Dragonflies flit

Above thick, green-standing water.
Where American boys
Were dismembered and died
Now ancient trees have fallen
Toppling the ground
The way their corpses did
More than a century and a half past.

I am not certain

What I came to see.
Perhaps I was seeking
A rend in the fabric of time
To glimpse the obscene carnage
And hear the fading echoes
Of dying men.
In retrospect
I would have felt
Pungent shame and
Puerile embarrassment.
The death of any man
Especially in war
Is a very private thing
Though it be on the most public forum.

All I saw

Was a lonely
Broken asphalt road
Bracketed by telephone poles
And trees
All smothered
In Spanish Moss.

All I heard
Was playing children
In the yards of double-wides
Set far off the road
Accompanied by cicadas
And barking yard dogs. 

No one but I remembered

That this seemingly innocent geography
Was guilty as hell
Or that, with little effort
One might unearth war’s accoutrements
Including human remains.

I came to see Champion Hill

But discovered
No champions
No hill.

I came 
A voyeur
And returned
A penitent.

Getting Older by the Day

Today is my birthday. As a young child I watched this day approach with all the anticipation of awaiting a circus train. But as a much older man, the day is a curiosity; a thing at which to wonder. I think I will celebrate by getting my long-ish hair shorn closer to my scalp. Perhaps then I will be less attractive to the blade of the young bucks, seeking a trophy for their lodge poles....oops. Wrong century.

James

By the Memory and by the Minute

By the Memory and by the Minute

Darkness mocks me

Stares back into my
Wide open eyes.

The hell with digital clocks
Is they
Flash time precisely
Unlike the grace of
Sweep second hands.

So I dance
With my demons

By the memory and

By the minute
Wondering endlessly
At the why's
And where-of's
Of this too-brief
Life.

Had I stood

A half inch to the left
Those bullets
Would have killed me.

Had I have been 

A bit more kind
She would have stayed.

Had I stopped

For coffee
Or had I not
Taken that call
Pivotal elements of my life
Would not have

Happened.

Life is the construct

Of choices made

In a single second.

I tease
At life’s frayed edges
Unraveling the moments
In the dark.

The void stares back at me

And I know...

Sleep is paper
Memory fuel
And time fire.

Secrets

Secrets may bind hearts
As surely as love.

Secrets shared
Are secrets compounded.

It is no longer the secret
But the secret that there are secrets
That knot the attachment.

Quietly held
The way evening holds shadows
Unspoken mysteries
Like darkening hues
Grow more potent
As time passes.

At an undetermined point
Parallel lines converge at infinity.
The secret
And those who held the secret
Become known.

The secret dissolves
And loses its mystery.
The power that bound the two
Instantly disappears
And its particle remnant
Is known as shame.

The two secret keepers
Once fast friends and collaborators
Now cannot tolerate the presence
Of one another

The world clicks
Its collective tongue
And a new secret is born.

The new secret is
That secrets themselves
Are not based in love
But desperation.

Desert Thunder

Desert Thunder

I live on earth
Lightly.

I make no footprint
Take nothing with me
Leave nothing behind.

My breath dissipates
Wispy as mist.

What few words I speak
Are as a turtle song
The coo of a dove
The thought of a dream.

The boldest of my speech
Is desert thunder...
Rumble without echo.

]My shadow shrugs off the soil
Like an old coat.

I am unencumbered
Of this shrink-wrapped
Pre-packaged
Tawdry and cheap facsimile
Of what passes for life
In this sad age.

I live on earth
Lightly.

Lazy 8's

Lazy 8's

Isn’t it strange
This turning of the wheel
Drawn on the sky?
Like lazy eights
And the breathless way I feel
As I watch the biplane fly.

What a turning we have been
Twisting in the air
End falling over end
Coming back to earth
Devil may care
Without wingman or friend.

Would that daring flamed you
As it did my soul
Weightless tossing of the heart
Horizons lost
Craft falling in a long, slow roll
Nearly tearing me apart.

You flew one way
I another.
In time, our time had passed.
Any heat I feel, I vent
The breath I have, I smother
Knowing nothing ever lasts.

So, pardon this sense of awe
And how I seem to reel.
It’s bent within my frame
And the nature of my flaw
To act on what I feel
And play my token in this game.

It’s like lazy eights
Etched upon the blue
Stark white, and strong
A testament to fates
The old becoming new
No matter right or wrong.

Write this on the sky
Let the Ariel song be sung
In verse bright and bold:
Let us live before we die
And be young
Before we’re old!

Wondering

How strange it seems
You should be where we last sat
In the dappled sun
Of late afternoon.

Cars moved slowly down the boulevard
Headed to suburban homes
While we leaned against the Parthenon
Home to Athena, and memories
Of whispers and glances.
We were like school children
Bashful and hesitant.

You wrote
You had returned
You were leaning against our wall
You missed me
You said.

Tell me
Was my shadow
Lingering in golden light?

I was wondering.
I have not cast one since.

No Citizen

My birthplace is not my home.
I came from here
But my identity is not here.
I have no blood here
And I've shed no blood here.
This is a dot on the map
And is incidental to
My identity.

My home is a few hundred miles
Down this red rock road.
I come from these dusty cotton fields.
My people wore home spun.
My grandma labored in her hot kitchen
Snapped beans on the front porch
And drank Dr. Pepper at 10, 2 and 4.
My grandpa teamed dray mules
In pole barns
And turned these clods into crops.
He fished in the St. Francis
And cooled watermelons in its stream.

My dad went to war from the depot
In this town
Came home three years later
And married my mom
After getting the blessing from 
Grandpa.
That's how we do things down here.
 
The bodies and bones of my kin
Rest here
And a few still clutch the Stars and Bars
In their bony grip.

So when you ask me where I'm from
I'll tell you quick.
No, sir. 
I'm no citizen there.
 



 
 

Background Noise

So much time
So many things
Between us.
You are background noise
And the static of
Things lost.

Pain seems to come from
My fingertips
Like electricity
Sparking and lighting
This unfamiliar path
And all I know
Is the keening ache
Of realizing you
Are past knowing
Are irretrievable
And I will not see you
Cannot take you into my arms
Again.

We are citizens of different times.

The Package

I couldn't see this coming
This inner security
And sense of control.
It arrived in a 
Plain brown wrapper
Addressed to 'Occupant.'

I opened the package.
It leapt from the table
Into my chest
And fit as though it were
Custom made.
  
It cleared my bleary eyes
Sharpened my hearing
My sense of smell and touch.

The only thing remaining
Is my sense of taste.
I'm looking for something
Appetizing.

And that seems to be 
More difficult than I imagined.

I don't need sweet
And don't want sour.
What's between?

Maybe that package
Has yet to arrive.  

I Am Coming*

Those with a noble
Pure Heart
Will Forgive you.

How they may stand
Beside the blood splattered
Wreckage
Remaining of the structure
In which their children and wives
Were butchered 
And extend to your savage claw
A redemption that continues 
To elude you
Is beyond my imagination.

No.

They may humbly
And righteously forgive you.
But I will not.

I am coming for you.
Directly at your front.
From the shadows at your back
Or quarter.
I am coming from below.
I am coming silently from above.

I will allow you just time enough
To recognize me
And the colors I wear.
And then you will
Die.

Because I am coming for you.


* "Thank you" to our sons and daughters that wear the uniform of our allied nations and provide that hard wall that protects us. Sometimes evil penetrates, but where are we without our military, and our law enforcement? Bless them!

To My UK Readers....

I wish words had healing power, sufficient to provide new, perfectly fashioned flesh, and blood enough for resurrection. I would give my own life, were it possible, to restore breath, pulse and restoration for your children's broken, young bodies. But these words limply hang in view of the cowardly, savage attack in Manchester. I grieve at your side, and with you, mourn your unimaginable loss.

May God comfort you always.

~~ James

Patron

Stand in the light.
Do nothing.
Let the morning sun
Bathe you
In flashing brilliance.

I orbit you
Enraptured by your art.

Michelangelo could not capture
Your loveliness
Nor Monet
Your soft beauty.
Raphael would marvel
At your countenance.

Yet only I
Am privileged
To behold your charm.

Your rose-washed hue
The soft hair at the nape
Of your neck
Your tresses falling
Like a shinning waterfall
Spills across your round breasts
And I cannot turn away.

Shadows merge with shadow
Along the pike ways
Of your graceful hips and legs.

Let the morning sun sculpt you
And I alone remain
The patron
Of your art.

Before the War

I am full of memory
As evening is full of mist
Gleaming in bright cones
Beneath the corner lamp.

My hollow footsteps
Bound from stone and brick
Pauses and apostrophes
Measures of moments.

Where went the days
The seamless nights
Of childhood
The womb of our hopes?

From the highway, traffic sighs
Golden bright in vapor lights.
Sidewalks of the marketplace
Orbit shops and bistros
Where we shared coffee kisses
In darkened doorways.

We were immortal.
Days endless
Drifting on a sea of innocence.
Our hearts pounded like jackhammers
In our chests
Marking the days
And velvet nights
Of youth.

But that was long ago
Before the war
When we wore our hair long
And laughed at old men
Who sneered at our passing.

Now, I am becoming an old man
Lingering under the same corner lamp
Collar and heart turned against the rain
Through which we once ran, laughing.

A Lamentation

Shall I tell the trees you’ve gone?
They commune with the night sky
Singing mournfully.
Stars and comets serve as choir
Bringing forests to weep.

Maple, poplar, pine and ash
Sway like bodies grieving
Oak, walnut and hickory
Lift their arms
Sorrowing
Clouds canopy; tents of solace.

I shall tell the trees.
Sister willow will shake
Her long hair.
Father birch
Presides over my sorrow
Priestly, robed in white.

Without you
I wander as a child
Of storms
Suckled by wind
Brother to lonely woodlands.

Until you return to this valley
All nature laments.

I must tell the trees you’ve gone.

The Iris of God

The Iris of God

Midnight glistens.
I gaze deep stars
Pulsing white and red
Starring into
The iris of God.

Some say He speaks
In thunders
The sound of many waters.
I say He is silent.

As silent as my father
Smoking in the kitchen
In the early hours
Smoke wafting in the dark
His cigarette tip glowing.

I watch the ash burn
Red and magnificent.
The iris of God.

Greyhound

I rode Greyhound
Heavy tires slapping broken concrete
Farms and villages sliding away
Fields in brown stubble
Furrowed in rows.

Conversation muted
Cool air seeping from vents
Mixing the faint odor of diesel
And unwashed bodies.

The white-haired old woman beside me
Shows me pictures of her grandkids
Splashing in a hotel pool.
I have no picture of you.

Thoughts, memories are deferred
Replaced by roadside curiosities
Gym shoes tied and slung over high lines
Shot gunned Coca Cola signs
And sad little towns with Pay Day Loan stores
Tattoo Parlors and Laundromats.
Sleep comes as a mercy.

I dream you are with me
Legs across my lap
The way you nap on Sundays.
I smell the shampoo fragrance in your hair
Listen to the rhythm of your breath
Watch your breasts rising and falling
Smile as I reckon myself your tourist
Grateful for every view of your wonders
Like the landscape beyond the tinted windows.

The bus sways gently
Rocking in the cross wind
Stirring reeds near the fence line
Beyond the shoulder of the road
Moving the way we did
Dancing in the dark
To songs from the radio
Pulling in distant signals.

Midnight static.

I awake to see a white barn
With bright, painted roof:
See Merrimac Cavern
And my stomach growls
Reminding me I have not eaten today.

But, I hunger for you
Hundreds of miles gone.

Long Grass

Easing back in the long grass
She propped on an elbow
Her eyes flecked with summer
And light flashing off the pond
Like dazzling diamonds.

I handed her a sandwich.
Peeling back the wrapper
She smiled
Savoring the flavor
Of turkey on white bread.

Need flamed my blood
Just watching her.
Everything she does draws me
Like a black hole
Relentlessly
Inhaling stars.

A summer afternoon
With her
Has its own soundtrack.
I listened to the inner concert
My eyes playing over her body.
Aware of my visual foreplay
She smiled
Tongue licking a bit of mayonnaise
From the corner of her lip.

She laughed.
Her eyes now dark slits.

“Are you going to be okay?” she asked.
It was my turn to smile.
“That all depends on you.”

She lay the sandwich down.

“Come here,” she said.
“Let me show you why God made long grass.”

Slow Dancing

Slow Dancing

Smoke from my pipe
Moves along the ceiling
Stirred by the blades of a slow fan.

Soft, watercolor shadows
Adorn plaster walls
Undulating like memories
Of lovers who joined here.

Silky saxophone from the radio returns me
To warm Carolina nights
Spent on the coast
Lights winking out to sea
Ships softly swaying
Almost still.

Slow dancing…
Like smoke from my pipe.

Dust Motes

Clad in a white robe
Standing before me
Nothing was between us
But dust motes
Floating in a shaft of
Morning sun.

Only I
Had knowledge of you
To see the faintest
Turn of a smile
Upon your lips
As you let the robe fall.

I might have moved
Toward you
Might have taken you
In my arms
Except dancing dust motes
Captured my attention
Taunting me
Suggesting it’s
The faint things
I fail to notice
That divides the hubris in me
From the passion in you.

Brilliant sunlight
Etching the pores of your skin
In bright relief
Aroused me
Though I am a frequent explorer
Of your terrain.

But dust motes
Transfixed me
Mesmerized me
Pirouetting in streams of light
Drawing me through its galaxy
To establish
My constant orbit around you.

Time Wolf

I never considered time
A process
A natural sequencing
Of events
That either ties
Or separates us
One from another.

From this perspective
My lack of understanding is
Catastrophic
A failure of massive proportion.

When I was with her
Time was nothing
But a theory
Better left in textbooks
And dry addresses
By preachers and professors.

Lying with her
There
Was
No
Time.

There was nothing but
The sweetness of her breath
Softness of her body
The intoxication
Of her arms.

Ask me now and I will tell you
Time is a wolf
Relentlessly pursuing
The prey of memory
Wrestling it to the hard
Cold soil
Savagely reducing it to
White bone and cartilage
Stripped of warm flesh
And drained of blood
That once was love.

No Trouble

I have built castles in the air
And I have built castles in the sand.
I have no trouble building castles
Except castles on the land.

I have dreams as large as oceans
And I have dreams as big as sky.
I have no trouble with dreaming
And I guess I'll be a dreamer 'til I die.

I am a man as large as a fly speck
And I'm no bigger than a minute.
I have no trouble with my biology
Except there's not much glory in it.

Soon

She offered me tea from Persia
And soup from Saigon.
She gave me bedding from Egypt
And sang to me all night long.

She presented me coffee from Arabia
And oils from the Chinese coast.
She whispered to me softly
Like I'm one who may boast.

She lay beside my anxious body
And loved me, with passion and heat
Then slept, head on my chest
Yet I should have slept at her feet.

She remained at my side
Through the brightness of the moon.
She promised, one night to return
And please, God make it soon!

Parchment

She cuts.
She slices deeply into her
Flesh.

Her young body has become
Parchment for her pain.

Her scarlet life's stream has become
Ink for her wordless tale.

She sits in her florescent
Prison of expression
And she cuts.

Tomorrow
In the halls of learning
Her tormentors will laugh.

So, she will race home
To her florescent prison
And she will cut.

The Invisible Tiger*

I awoke this morning
To its familiar
Insistent
Guttural growl.
The invisible tiger
Lay heavily across
My lower body
Wanting me to feel
Its voracious appetite.
The first move
On my part
Would be countered
With brutal savagery.

I remained still.

The invisible tiger
Chewed on my
Lower right arm
Slowly
Deliberately
Wantonly.

I remained still.

The invisible tiger
Lay a heavy paw
On my sternum
Making it difficult
To breathe.

I moved slowly
Painfully
Trailing misery
Like great streams
Of oily blood.

The invisible tiger
Smiled.
How he loves the game.

I swung my legs
Over the edge of my bed.
The invisible tiger
Sunk its teeth
Into my right side.

I dragged the beast
To my medicine chest.
I fired into it using
Large caliber
Full metal jackets
Of pain killers.

The invisible tiger grinned.
I’ll be here
He said.
I will always be here.

And I will be hungry
Said the invisible tiger.


* This is how I spent last weekend. Pain is an amazing, brutal  companion.

Spin Cycle

It’s easy to fall in love
In this little piano bar
Her smoky voice worrying over
Till There Was You
Nursing a gin and tonic
Long, black tresses swept to one side
Like a tent flap
Open to her secret places.

Harder to find love
At the All-Nite Laundromat
Drums spinning
Soap and bleach stinging the moist air
Coat hangers tangled
Rattling in wire carts
Florescent lights pushing back the night. 

At the piano bar
I’d freshen her drink
Put on a crooked smile
Like a rumpled shirt.
Look at those long legs
Stretching like divided highways
Into the dark tunnel of that red skirt.
I’d ask her name
And she’d say
Call me what you want to, baby.

Her name’s Roxy
Her drink’s just fine
And those long legs have walked on
Better men than me.

But there’s no room for piano bars
At the All-Nite Laundromat
Where I have a date
With two weeks of laundry
And both my shirts and heart
Are on spin cycle.

All Hat

I watched him
Lean against a post.
I heard him lie
Brag and boast.

He chews toothpicks
And smokes see-gars.
Says he rides horses
Not cars.

He wears shirts
With pearl snaps.
Follows the stars
And not maps.

He stands tall
And walks straight
But he’s just
Catfish bait.

He’s all hat
And no cattle
All chaps
And no saddle.

The Weight of Absence *

It is her presence
I miss most.
I loved the weight
Of the air
When she was in the room.
The soft exhalation
Of her breath
Punctuated the passing
Of time.

She moved effortlessly
Through the day
As gentle and as quiet
As a butterfly
Dancing from blade to bloom.

It is remarkable 
That absence becomes a presence.
In strange ways
The memory of her
Casts more shadow
Than did her being in the room.

And thus will it ever be.


* For my Monarch, my Anam Cara

Observation....

Pain is the ink of the poet.

~ James

Wish I'd Said That # 11

There are no short-term solutions to long-term problems,

Lt. Gen. H. R. McMaster, United States Army

A Lesson I Did Not Have to Learn

There is no feeling
When you stand
Within the cross hair.
In a distant 
Dark place
A killer measures
His breath
Preparing to take
Yours.

All your yesterdays 
Are of no consequence.
All your tomorrows
Are unimportant.
The only weight of time
Is that which it takes
For his bullet
To close upon your
Chest.

The sound of the report
Will arrive
After the projectile
Takes your life
And before your body
Falls to the ground.

But you will feel
Nothing.
From the cross hairs
To the kill
You feel
Nothing.