A Self Pat on the Back

My poem, "I Felt Nothing" has been picked up
by a national police gazette, called "The Journal
of Law Enforcement" for their summer issue.
Every writer's goal is publication, and to be printed
in such a fine and reputable journal is an honor. I am
proud to be thought useful. Their editor is
Dr. Olivia Johnson, who resides in Metro
St. Louis.

Not Enough Miles

I dreamed I was
On a wide open range
And the skies were
A translucent blue.
A mighty fine horse
With white socks and crown
Moved powerfully
Between my knees.

I smelled snow
On the wind
But it was a long way off
And it held no concern
For me.
The sun was high
The mountains were far
And I was as free
As a dying man might be.

Molly was my horse
But my name I forgot
Though that was of no matter to me.
There was plenty of jerky
Packed in my bag
And enough coffee
To last several days.

I tried to remember
Why I wanted to run
Why I had such a need
To make tracks.
There seemed no reason
Save a powerful desire
To not be found standing still.

In my breast pocket
Was a daguerreotype
Of a woman with long
Flowing hair.
Her eyes were half open
Mouth not quite closed
With some matter
Sure on her mind.

I knew she lay behind
I would ne'er see her again
And was why Mollie
Pressed hell for leather
In our run.

But it was only a dream
Mollie does not exist
And the snow may yet fall
Over me.
But the beautiful woman
With long flowing hair
With sleepy eyes and sensuous lips
Remains a daguerreotype in my breast.

And there are not enough miles
In God’s expansive heaven
That can rend her memory from me.

60 ! *

I have achieved a mile marker! I thought I’d share it with you,
as an achievement like this merits a declaration! So… how
shall I put this? Hmmm…okay, got it! By the standards of AARP,
I may now celebrate the 10th anniversary of qualification to be
included on their annoying rolls! Yep! I am now 60 years young!
And, I have now used 6 exclamation points in one paragraph,
including this one! That’s something I have not done
since 3rd grade! I am so happy! Why am I happy to be 60? Great
question! Here’s my list:
• I am no longer expected to run for any reason, except fire!
• I am not expected to stand at sporting events!
• I can eye a pretty girl without getting slapped!
• I can drive 55 and not get cussed!
• I am not expected to understand “computer-speak” (LOL!)
• I can crash into a public building with no other
reason, other than I'm a 60 year old driver!
• I am not required to change my grand daughter's diaper!
• I can smoke a cigar without getting a speech on the perils of smoking!
• I am no longer asked if I want to sit at the bar at Chili’s!
• I can use 30 exclamation points in one brief note and absolutely
NO ONE CARES!!!!!!!!!!!!

* This exclamation point does not count in the aggregate total!

Independence Day Lament

Where have you gone
My Fathers?
And where have you gone
My Mothers?

The land of our birth lies
Disfigured
Nearly unrecognizable
From that given
So precious
Long ago.

We have worn the uniform
Borne the battles
Shed the blood
And for this?

Where have you gone
My brothers?
And where have you gone
My sisters?

From coast to coast
From lofty mountain’s precipice
To tropic island sands
From golden wheat lands
To tundra prairies
We have traded our freedoms
For supposed securities
All unrealized and intangible.

Where have you gone
My uncles?
And where have you gone
My aunts?

Our hearthstones are shattered
And our ovens are cold
Our quilts are tattered
And our banners faded.

I fear we have strayed
So far from the hard-carved path
So far from the ink on that treasured parchment
We may never return.

I weep for my country.

My Fathers
Mothers
Brothers
Sisters
Aunts and Uncles
Have not left you
Our homeland…

How is it you have turned from us?

Thoughts While Walking Away *

I’ve packed my gear
It sits by the door.
My dog’s on his rug.
I can hear him snore.

The kids are in bed
My wife’s still asleep.
There’s nothing preventing
Me making this leap.

My nerves are steeled
It’s time that I go.
But the plan from here
God only knows.

So, pray for me.
Better yet, pray for them.
I don’t want’em thinking
I left on a whim.

If I stick around here
I’m likely to snap.
I see the pattern in me
Like roads on a map.

The violence done me
In a far away land
Will eventually come home
The way wind blows the sand.

Better it find me
When I’m all alone.
I’ll explain it to her later
When I call on the phone.

Maybe this’ll blow over
And I’ll find me some peace.
If not, I’ll have spared my family
At least.

* Again, not autobiographical, but
I deal with those for whom this is
very real, and sometimes tragic.
Freedom, as is said, is never free.
This 4th of July, thank a soldier.

PTSD or “Alphabet Soup” *

I have seen blood enough
Syrup thick
Warm
Stinking like copper.

I have seen brains exposed
Pale
The consistency of pasta
Splattered and smashed.
I have seen a beating heart
Cupped within a split chest
Ribs, like fingers
Stretching toward me.

Life is in the blood
Knowledge in the brain
The memory of times
Making love
Flying
Running
Every past breath
And the whole of a man
Friend or foe
Stripped and lain
Across place and time.

What is man
O, Lord
That thou art mindful
Of him?

Long after the removal
Tagged
Bagged
And dragged
In the snarl of cops
Death remains my partner.

I sleep with grisly dreams
Freely roaming my unconscious self.
I limp with memories
No man should share.
I breathe death
And am acquainted with its coarse ways.

How, then, am I to live
And what may become
Of him
Who has borne the wounded
And buried the dead?

Time
Inexorable
Will tell.

*Recently I was diagnosed with Complex PTSD.
I promise you, there is more encapsulated in
four letters of the alphabet than poetry can
possibly detail. I hope you, who know those
who suffer with this “alphabet soup” will
show them the kindness their own souls
cannot.

I Felt Nothing*

When I shot him
I felt nothing.
He fell in a lifeless heap
And did not move.

I remember everything
About that night.

I remember
The street light sparking
Off the cheap gun in his hand
The tang of gunpowder in the air
The loud pipes on a motorcycle
A block away
And my partner running past me
As I holstered my weapon.

But I felt nothing.

Squads with flaring strobes
Closed on the scene.
The EMT’s arrived.
Investigators placed numbered signs
To detail the spread of spent shells.

But I felt nothing.

I was interviewed by Internal Affairs
By detectives
By my sergeant
And I answered the same
Every time.

But I felt nothing.

I did not discuss it with my wife
But the recurring nightmare
Was a continual loop
Every damn night.
So I slept less and less.

When I returned to duty
I was easily angered
Jittery
Prone to check
And recheck my weapon.

My home life imploded.
My wife left
Taking the kids
And when the bottle became my solace
I felt nothing.

I was placed on administrative leave.
My friends stopped coming around
My anger consumed me
But I insisted I felt nothing.

Then came the night
I went to the park by the river walk
And in the dark
Outside and inside
I placed a 9mm to my head
And pulled the trigger.

After that
I felt nothing.

*Obviously, this is not autobiographical.
But this does reflect my experience after
22 years in law enforcement, and the loss
of more than one friend and officer.
Police Suicide is not widely discussed
But within the “Thin Blue Line"
it is deeply felt. But the duty
continues its demand every shift.

Reply to Comment on "After Goodbye"

Dear Reader,
Thank you for your comment. You are very insightful. Maybe I can provide a glimpse into the Monarch matter. I have had loves since she left. All love, of any variety (pets, kids and grandkids, etc.) bring a variety of joys and heartbreaks. I don't know why, but when there's a full moon, or a particularly rainy day, my heart looks to its aches before its joys. Most days are laden with all the pleasures of life. But there are those seasons when the heart looks back, and that's when my Monarch flies. I will never get past her, because her memory centers me, mellows me, and causes me to better appreciate the good that remains. A Monarch butterfly flew past the windshield of my truck yesterday, and I nearly missed the light turning green...my mind went to my Monarch. Crazy? Yes. Absolutely. Maybe I'm like the fisherman, who always laments the "one that got away." On the other hand, isn't that one of the virtues of poetry? To give readers a boxcar to hobo on as we look to our past pain? But pity me? Please don't do that. I was given the rarity of her love, even though briefly. I suggest that anyone who was loved like that be envied. At least, that's my story, and I'm stickin' to it!
I sincerely appreciate your comment, and hope you'll keep on reading.
Thanks.....James

After Goodbye

I did not touch her
After goodbye.

The door had closed.

No matter my desire
No matter our history
The door had closed
And I walked away.

These years later
I rethink my choice.
Perhaps I should have fought
To hold her
To keep her
But we both walked away.

I wonder
If she wonders.
Does she regret the goodbye?
Does she feel the pain I feel?
Is she as full of conflict as I?

My ears miss her voice.
My lips miss her kiss.
My eyes miss her presence.
My fingers miss her skin.

But I did not touch her
After goodbye.

Come To Me Again

Her hands were small
Almost tiny in mine.
When they moved on me
I was a man transfixed
In that moment.

Her eyes were flame
But not in a searing way.
They burned as does the sun
In a September sky
Generous and filled with promise.

Her lips were soft and gentle
Warm
Open
When I leaned into her.
Her mouth nourished me
With the passions of life.

Her long, auburn hair was a banner
And would shine
In the morning sun
Would luster by moonlight.
Her tresses
Would mantle me in each embrace.

To touch her was to know
The firmament of heaven
The tides of seas
The lofty climes of rare air
The purity of snows
And the musk of earth.

A man may no more keep her
As he might catch the breath of butterflies
Or the majesty of lions.

She is singular.
There is no other.
And like the amazement that comes
With undulating Auroras
I may only dream
She might come to me
Again.