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