Preparation for Goodbye

After sixty

Everything is preparation

For goodbye.

This came to me

While gazing at the lines

Of a fully restored ’40 Lincoln.

Thinking about it

It is not terribly old

Compared to Roman chariots

In the museum in London.

The magic is

That in such few years

We have streamlined

And techno-wizarded the hell

Out of our vehicles.

That gives the older ones a unique place

Behind velvet ropes.

My lines are not sweeping

And any chrome I had

Is long-ago busted and gone.

My beautiful interior

Is shabby, worn and faded.

I may deserve a rope

But I’ll never merit a velvet one.

Something about that ’40 Lincoln

Settles a sad note

In my heart and mind.

Seems

I’m learning

The language of goodbye.

The Shadow of Things Missing

The Shadow of Things Missing

We were like saddle bums

Horses hobbled

And our fire gazing back at us

Its crackling more like

The disapproval of old women

With clacking tongues.

We told each other

The same old stories

We’d rehearsed for years.

We politely laughed

Or grunted

At all the appropriate places.

We shared more than old tales.

We exposed our unhealed wounds

And the pain lifting from us

Like sparks rising relentlessly

Toward distant stars. 

We measured the

Shadows of things missing

For twenty

Thirty

Forty

Fifty years.

He told me about spinning

Helicopter blades

And I of shattering

Shards of glass

And midnight explosions.

Our fire has gone cold

The horses moved

To distant pastures.

We have both unburdened ourselves

Of softened butterscotch saddles.

Now, we tell our stories

To bare walls

And naked light bulbs.

We have learned

That without ears to hear

Tongues and lips

Are better mute.

Front Porch Fantasies

As a child I played pirate

Converting our front porch

To The Queen Anne’s Revenge

And I the notorious Black Beard.

Sometimes I was riding shotgun

From that same porch

For the Butterfield Line

Warding off bandits and Apaches.

Let’s pretend.

Perhaps the same child

I once was

Peers at you from these eyes.

You imagine you love me

And I’ll do the same for you.

From this bed

You be Cleopatra and I Marc Anthony.

We could control kingdoms

Braced against pillows and blankets

Paying no heed to

Arrows and asps. 

Or we could be Bonnie and Clyde.

You could write poetry

While I blister the asphalt

In our stolen ’32 Ford Coupe.

We could rob the world

Of all its froth and passion

Lawmen and banks

Be damned.   

But the best possible fantasy

Is that you care for me

And I for you.

But for that we'll need more than a front porch.

Think about it...

"What we do in life echoes through eternity."

Farewell to You, Itty Bitty Benny

Benny was my best friend. A little copper-colored "doxie," he was always amazed by acts of kindness, and readily available for all sorts of loving. But once he'd reached his full, he would slowly back away, like a vassal before his sovereign, and tunnel beneath the covers for a private sleep. He remained with me for 14 years. A few weeks ago he stopped eating. I spoon-fed Ben soft foods. Then he stopped drinking. I got a bulb syringe from the pharmacy, and gave him small amounts of water, at a slow-drip, as not to gag him. Then, little Bennie had an episode of bleeding from the mouth. I took him to the bathroom, and ministered all the care I knew, begging God to stop the bleeding. Within a minute of that prayer (I am entirely honest) his bleeding stopped. So I asked God for a favor. It was simply this: Lord, you made this little guy, and he has been an incredible dog, and a faithful friend. Please, do not let him end like this. If you must take him, please let it be painless, and without this bloody effusion. Around three this morning, my sweet friend left me. He passed in his sleep. No pain, or misery. He left us on Valentine's Day, a wonderful day. I know I'm projecting human emotions on an animal, but I'm going to make that rare error this morning. There could not have been a more appropriate day for his exit. He hung in there as long as possible, and made his exit in the hands of faithful love. How perfect. And no blood. I am thankful that I was allowed all these years with my amazing friend. I am thankful he left me on his own terms, gently, and in peace. My heart is in a strange place this morning. I am grieving my loss. But I am happy he was my little pal. We called him "Itty Bitty Benny". I will bury him in the back lot of my church. I do not think Jesus will mind. He made Benny. He called him home. I will see him again some day, and will not be surprised if he is the first to welcome me to our forever home, where he will always have a place before my fire, curled at my feet. Hail, and Farewell, Benjamin Franklin James Woods.

Thoughts Tied to Kites

Thoughts Tied to Kites

Smoke from my pipe

Sensually strands the ceiling

Playing at the corners

Before dissipating into night.

It lifted as do prayers

Or thoughts tied to kites

Pushing higher

Deeper

Into the veil

Transmitting new takes

On old cosmologies

Or keener expectations

Bound to ancient language.

How might I couple

This ascendancy?

I will secret myself into

The bowl

Become one with the leaves

Invite the flame into

My biology

And lift with the smoke

To caress the ceiling’s quarter round

And with it

Disappear with night's shade

Seeking new landings

Onto old worlds.

Sounds I Love

Sounds I Love...

·        The soft breathing of the one I love at 2am

·        Rain falling steadily

·        Sleet tapping at my midnight window panes

·        Coffee percolating in old-time coffee pots

·        The creak of saddle leather on a horse

·        The chains moving above an old-time front porch swing

·        The deep-throated growl of a stout small block Chevy

·        Genuine, unrestricted laughter

·        Children splashing in the front yard water hose

·        Dogs barking

·        Wind in the tree tops

·        Rivers moving over smooth stones

·        The call of migrating geese

·        The metallic slide of a gas nozzle entering my filling port

·        Far-off AM radios at the beach

·        The rhythmic lapping of the sea upon a deserted midnight beach

·        The song of my tires on a rain-slick street

·        The quiet hush of a woman’s dress falling to the floor

·        Boots kicking into the corner

·        An ice cream truck’s inviting ring

·        A child’s enchanted laughter

·        My truck gearing down for a stop

·        Thunder

·        The popping of a flag in the wind

·        The silence of a cemetery

·        The thrilling cheer at a baseball game (and the smack of a ball on wood)

·        Her satisfied sigh as she pulls away

·        The strike of a wooden match 

·        Cows lowing in a field

·        Horses hooves pounding the prairie at full gallop

·        The intake of air into my own lungs coming as exclamation 

·        The hush of midnight snow

Dark Corners

I hooked strong cables

Onto my sorrow

Slowly took up the slack

And gave the task

All the power I had

And maybe a little more.

Stay clear of cables

Under such stress

Lest they snap

And draw their pay

In bits of flesh

And oily red blood.

Any fool can tell you

In mocking laughter

That sorrow cannot be

So simply excised.

The job requires more

Than man has yet contrived.

So I sit on the stump

Of an old sycamore tree

And contemplate

What may move such sorrow

Whether by horsepower

Or blast.

Three little white pills

And one larger blue one

Defers the pain

Long enough

To allow the sun to slip

Below the horizon.

This warfare with sorrow

Can wait one more day

And maybe another.

Night is coming

And sorrow is content to peer from

The dark corners of my heart.

Searching for Words

Words get stuck in my brain

Like some old man

That hasn’t left his rented room

In ages.

Syllables stammer softly

In the drafty attic cold

Looking for a word

That matches a memory.

My eyes grow weak and pale

Stabbing into feeble dreams

Dismissed and disregarded

Long ago.

Remembering

Is as the frosty head

Of a lager beer

That settles into the dark brew.

I wish I had the phonics of love

Of adventure

Of dreams.

Perhaps longing alone will satisfy.