Without Merit

Memories without merit spool
Through my brain.
Things I’ve not done
Places I’ve never been
Breathe in and out
Like the air in my lungs

I remember the heavy

Coppery smell of
An  effusion of blood
And the gag of fear
At the back of my throat
Accompanied by the insistency
That I not demonstrate panic
To the boys I command.

I remember the deafening blast

And bird-like flight from the
Tarry soil
Realizing I had just stepped
Upon a landmine
Wondering that this must be
What it feels like to die
And time seems to slow
To a frame-by-frame
Eternal sequence.

Memories without merit.

You are strange

Says my friend.

You know too much of war
Yet you are a man of peace.
This is not good
He says.

I want to tell him

That I agree
That I do not want to think
These thoughts.
They are not my thoughts
And I want them purged.

I cannot say this.

He already thinks me crazy.
But I can describe in minute detail
The acrid smell of burnt powder
The spinning howl of howitzer shells
And the thrushing jet of bullets
Ripping the air
Sounding like the tearing of sheets.

I can hear the shocked protests
Of the newly wounded
And the gritting teeth of those
About to die.

Pass the cream, goofball
Says my friend.

A Dancing Dot

Watching the little boy struggle
Launching his kite
I considered lending
Some learned instruction.
But thought better of it
Remembering that any interaction
With a child
However innocent
Is an invitation to a lengthy
Prison stay.

So I settled to watch from a distance.

The boy ran with the kite

And every time it would nose

Into the ground.

After several such attempts
He suddenly decided to await
A good breeze
Paying out the line
Little by little.
Soon the bright orange kite took wings
And soared proudly
A dancing dot against the sky.

The boy learned to tug and encourage

His paper friend
And quickly he became an ace
Kite pilot.

After some time

I arose from my seat on the ground
Feeling the play of the wind
At my coat
And being tugged back to the office
I knew it was time to fly
Just a dancing dot in the city.

Tart Apples

How empty was the beach 
That November morning. 
She and I were the only ones 
Disturbing the wide sandy strand  
With our footprints.

The weary lighthouse

Stood as sentinel

On the promontory

Surrounded by a narrow railing

And concrete walkway.

Shielded from eyes

That were not there anyway

We walked to the far side

Of the lighthouse.

I leaned against the edifice

And she into me

Back to belly.

My arms secured her

While we watched the waves

Nip at the beach.

Her long hair caught the breeze

Like the unfurling of a bright banner.

She turned into me

With a laugh as clear as a bell

And she kissed me.

Her kiss was free and wanting.

The crisp air and rhythm of the waves

Disappeared.

The entire universe condensed

Into her searching kiss.

Eventually we walked back to my car

And found a small café

For coffee and Danish.

But my heart returns

To the lake side of that lighthouse

Remembering her kiss

That was like a bookmark

In a long novel.

A man may have hundreds

Perhaps thousands of kisses

In his life

Each categorized into some file

In his fading memory.

If lucky

He may have one kiss like hers

Innocent yet wanton

On a grey November morning

Standing on the weather side

Of a century-old lighthouse

Her kiss like tart apples

Upon lips of pearl.

A Fan

You have a Hollywood love

She said.

Then she explained that

She needed an

Everyday love.

The kind that hammers nails

Turns screws

Takes kids to soccer practice

And makes sure the oil’s changed

In the mini van.

Your love is

Big screen.
Bogart and Bacall

She said

And I need

Dick and Jane.

It never occurred to me

That one excluded the other.

Of all the turn downs

I’d ever received

Her's was the most creative.

But I must admit…

Until she said that

I’d never watched a Bogart movie.

Now I’m a fan.

I Was Sorta Wondering

Let’s say

Five or ten years ago

You thought you saw me

Walking past a drugstore

Where you were picking up

A prescription for this or that

Would you hurry from the store

To see if it really were me?

Or, let’s say

A couple years ago

You were getting all comfy

In first class

And you thought you saw me

Scrunched down in coach

Would you set aside

Your white wine

And shuffle down the aisle

Into the Land of the Forlorn

To see if it really were me?

Or, let’s say

Just now

You were reading a goofy poem

That made you think of me

Would you skip to the credit

To scan for the author’s name

Hoping to see

That I really wrote that poem

Because I was thinking about you

Because I’ll always love you

Because you are the center of

The greatest joy of my life

And when you discovered

It really was me writing about you…

Well…

What would you do then?

Everything's Okay

I watch the flash
And count the seconds
Before the rolling thunder
Washes over me
In the bracket
Between substance
And evidence.

Less than a mile away
Was the origin
Of that mighty bolt
Of white heat
Hotter
Than the sun’s surface.

How many thousands

Heard that same report?
Children crying
Dogs barking
Unnerved by celestial fire
The artillery of angels
Differing in caliber
But all electrifying the skies
In vivid purple
Blue and white blasts.

I pretend interest and amazement

But in truth
I am frightened
As I imagine a corner
In which to shelter
Fingers laced atop my head
As though that would protect me
From the devastation
Forking this three o’clock
In the morning
Barrage.
But I remain in my bed
From sheer will.

My little dog nudges my arm

And I open to him
As he wedges  
Between my body and the sheets
Thinking himself now safe.

I want what he wants.

I want safety
But not merely from
A bolt of lighting
And the howitzer of thunder.

I want protection

From every bolt
Whether meteorological
Or that generated
In my mind and heart.

Mama was either wrong

Or she was simply applying
Parental comfort
All those years ago
When she said
Everything will be okay.

Things do not work out.

All is not well.

Safety is a myth

Told by old women
And sea captains
Trapped in ice fields.
Protection is more hope
Than surety.

So, I count the seconds

Between substance and evidence
And pat the head
Of my shivering dog
Telling him to
Not be silly.

Everything’s okay.

Hmmmmm......

This evening I reread all the most recent posts on this page. I discovered something interesting; more to me than you. Nearly every post concerns the subject of patience and waiting for what is desired. As a younger man I had great difficulty waiting for anything. Now, it seems all I do is wait. "Patience is a virtue," declared a sage. It may be, but it's more a necessity!

Writing is therapy. It is also an amazingly uncomfortable way to peer deeply into one's soul. Every so often an intimate truth surfaces. I'd tell you more....but you'll have to wait.

~ James

A Dominate Theme*

As I age

I grow more familiar

With loss.

The departure of family

And friends

Into what appears

From this perspective

As a dense and impenetrable fog

Becomes  increasingly

A dominate theme.

I wonder whether tears

Is a fair measure of devotion.

You see

I no longer weep for the loss.

But I sigh.

Perhaps more is said in the sigh

That may ever be expressed in tears.

I now see I am also in the stream of time.

Soon

I will bobble toward the falls

And jet over the edge

Into the roiling mist.

When I do

Do not weep for me.

But you may sigh.

* Yesterday I lost a dear friend. Today another. Death is a formidable foe, and its wounds cut deeply. I have been doing much sighing of late.

Nothing is Assured

I search my path
Like a blind man
Tapping his white cane
For a way through time
Every step cautious
And tenuous.

Nothing is sure

In this life.

Everything

And anything is possible

But nothing is assured.

All is rickety

Like an ancient rope bridge

Beckoning

Daring my try.

And this is often

The only way to the other side.

But nothing is assured.

Do I go?

Yes!

I go!

There is no reward for the timid.

It is not only possible

That i perish

It is likely!

But the only thing to do

Is to swallow my fear

Offer my foot to the void

And trust in that which offers no trust.

Nothing is assured.

We Also Wait

Boughs of oak

Ash and maple

Strands of willow

Patiently await whispers

Of wind

To awake

To stir them once more.

The breath of earth

Is surely coming.

Soon it arrives.

When the leaves move

In shimmering light

When the birds of the air

Take to flight

From formerly sleepy branches

Joy will resound

From the valley.

It will sing from the hills.

It will dance down city streets

And swirl through school yards

To delight in the embrace of lovers

And rejoice in the innocence of children.

And so, we also wait.

Wait for the trees

The boughs

The leaves to awake

To the yawning of the earth.