Thank You!

Dear Readers...
As we soon turn the page on our calendar to November, we must start
to think of our many blessings. I want to jump on that cart early and thank
you for reading my poetry. I never imagined the draw poetry continues to
enjoy among the most thoughtful (and intelligent) readers. You honor
and humble me by your readership. "Thank you" especially to those who leave
comments. They are all read, and serve to grow me both as a writer and a
human being. I will continue to write...because writers shrivel when they
stop doing so. I hope you will continue to read, and come back again, and
again! I know it sounds silly, but I think of this site as a log cabin front
porch, with plenty of rocking chairs, gallons of sweet tea, and the buzz of
cicadas to grace our time together. I hope you feel a bit better, and maybe
a little more thoughtful when you visit. I can't promise my work will be in
the Helen Steiner Rice category...but at least we'll have something to
think about.After all, we're all in this together!
Thanks...James
PS...don't you just love this new "paragraphing" style? My Lit Prof would
kick my butt. But he probably died 30 years ago.

No Man’s Land

Earth geysers in fire
Smoke
And rage
Like hell itself
Clawing
To get out.
Rock and clods of earth rain
With a hail of metal shards
Powder and cordite.

The ground tastes sweet
The grass delicate
Trapped
In no man’s land.
But terror rises like bile
At the back of my throat
And I would trade places
With the poorest beggar
The most afflicted leper
For five minutes
Away from this living grave.
My fingernails scratch
The earth
In a vain effort
To stay attached to the planet.
My body rises with every
Concussive blast.

Zipping above
Ballistic bees
Buzz from behind and ahead.
If I wished to die
I had but to raise my head.

No man’s land
Is not the place for
Any man.

No man’s land
Is a place
Where a man loses control
Of his bowels
His mind
And heart.

No man’s land
Is a place
Where a man screams
For his mother
And promises God anything
For one more moonrise
One more sunrise

One more heartbeat.

Be content to be anywhere
The coldest tundra
The lip of the hottest volcano
Be extremely happy to be anywhere
Other than
No man’s land.

Every Good Thing

When you’ve held a woman…
Held her so well
The scent of her hair
Is imprinted upon your brain
And your hands understand
Her intimate terrain…
There is no return
To the artless
Life before her.

When you’ve kissed your woman…
Kissed her so passionately
Your hearts thrum as twins
And any map you’ve made
Of the future
Surely includes her…
All your hopes
For all your life
Wrap around her
The way ocean currents
Trace deep water canyons.

When you love your woman…
Love her so keenly
You would gladly die
To assure her safety
And provide her the surety
Of every terrestrial
And celestial treasure…
Meaning and significance
Fix to your soul
Like dew to a petal.

When you receive your woman…
As the early sky
Greets the rising sun
As the songbird welcomes
Her cheerful tune
As the hearth salutes
Its roaring blaze…
Every good and precious gift
Are yours in her arms.

The matchless love of a woman
Is of inestimable worth
And every good thing
Is in her arms
Her kiss
Her warmth.

The treasure beyond pearls
Silver and gold
Is in the soul and flesh
The glint of her eyes
And the softness
Of her breath
Awaiting your ready heart.

The Danger of Love

I try not to think
To revisit memories
Inspired by
Fallen leaves
And crisp air.

Why incite pain?

It’s better to
Drink stout coffee
Allow hunger
To occupy my thoughts
Or absorb myself in books
Devoid of romance.

Still…
The decision to engage
In a fast
From memory
Is never completely effective.

Yesterday
A little red Pathfinder
Like she drove
Turned a corner
In front of me
And I was taken back
To moments within that vehicle
Whose steamed windows
Veiled our embrace.

A scent in the fall air
Reminded me of an afternoon
Walking with her by the university.

There are too many hidden mines
That explode reminders of her
All over my mind and heart.

That is the danger of love.

It never ends.
Even when it does.

Under the Canopy

The sky silvers
Into an autumn blanket
Frigid at altitude
But tolerable under the canopy
Of oak and maple.

I sit on the page
Of an aging day
On a tick of the clock.

The insistent chill
In the afternoon breeze
Scatters brittle brown leaves
Lying like fallen warriors
Of a warmer clime
Now living but in memory.

Soon, this year
Will be catalogued
With a four digit number
Shoved onto a dusty shelf
Unspectacular
Forgotten
Chiseled onto memory marble
In gardens of stone.

But there is time
To ponder what is
What was
And what will never be.

I quiet my spirit
Letting the waning sun
Gentle me
In October arms.

An Aging Shadow

Years pile like dust
And I slow
To time's
Steady rhythm .

It is not quite wine
But sweeter than rain
Falling on my weary frame.

Like a boxer
Answering the bell
I am too early for wisdom
But too late for the joy
Set before me.

Staring into the sun
Since squaring my shoulders
Against the flare and sizzle
Has blinded me
And deafened
By the lunar siren song
I am uncertain
Of my place in this
Expanding cosmos.

As a child
I thought myself
The center.
Now an aging shadow
I am only sure
The center
Is far from me.

I am tangled
In the web
Of electric lines
Telephone lines
Checkout lines
Bottom lines
And come-on lines.

Tonight I sit
In the cold distant
Flare of stars
Amid the clutter of questions
Too weighty for me
Hoping only for mercy.

That Which Defines Us

Come into the silence
Without speech
Without thought
Without rambling conversation.

Neither will I speak.
We will sit
In stillness
And each know
The other
By the accord
Of minds and hearts.

I want to comprehend
Your intangibles
By how acquainted you are
With peace.

Outside
The world grinds to powder
Its own children
The manufacture
Of its self-importance.

Life turns up the volume
On every molecule
Of things produced
By its wisdom
And expertise.

But, come with me.
We will hush the noise
The blare of that lost
In the spin of time.

Then, my love
We will touch one another
Not in desperation
But in the fullness
Of that which defines us…
The tranquility
Of kindred hearts.

Say On

Words spill over her lips
In a wild waterfall
Of strange phonics
Alien to my ears.

They seem to weep
Over her tongue
In syllables of honey.

She may be cursing me
In viper venom
But the sound is melodic
And charming.
If it be curses she utters
I want to be cursed
Always
In her enchanting muse.

Under her tongue
Rests the honeycomb
From her mouth
Flow rivers of joy
Never navigated by explorer
Or valiant oarsman.

Say on, sweet miss.
I grow younger
With each new phrase.

Narcotic Rain

The rains began Friday
And fell in a steady soaker
All day
And into the next.
It was a slow drench
Doing no damage to the land.

Rain intoxicates me
Gentles me
Into lethargy
Draining my pain
In a steady flow
To the sea.

My spirit
Rises like mist
From the grasslands
Into a heavy
Thick air.
I bracket all my life
Everything that hurt me
Cut and sliced me
Between the drops
Of cool downpour.

I do not understand more
Than before
But once filled with narcotic rain
The opium of atmosphere
I realize that whatever tore at me
Is no longer important.
Those felons of the heart
Become absent of meaning
Devoid of further ability
To maim and destroy
To distort my life
From reason.

I stand below
The weeping sky
Face upturned
Mouth open to receive
And sate my relief.
It is my baptism
And communion
It is my biology
Cosmology
It is redemption.

For as long as it rains
My life is not in contest.
I have no compulsion
To win
To rise victorious
Above a struggle
I never wanted.

Let the rains come.
Let the rivers fill.
Let the sweet earth wash
And let the waters of heaven
Fall fresh on me.

Tamped and Banked

Tamping the fire
I banked it
Against the stone
Of the old fireplace
Then sat to admire
The dimming glow.

Somewhere in the night
I would check the embers
Insuring there would remain
Sufficient heat
To restore the flame
Come morning.

For now I visited ghosts.

Ghosts hold an inner heat
Tamped and banked
By time
And restlessness.

In that receding golden glow
She appeared
Clad in the dark blue dress
I always admired
The one with white polka dots.
Long hair swept
Behind shell-like ears
A smile played
At the corners of her mouth.
We never required much conversation
Finding better use for lips.

How real are phantoms!
Hands gentle on my flesh
Her long auburn hair
Spilled around me.
Her body moved gently
Beneath the silky fabric
Undulating and insistent.
The vanilla aroma
Of her favorite perfume
Aroused me still
Though I’ve not experienced
Its seduction in years.

Perhaps she came through
Dream portals
Or maybe ghosts are real
Unbidden or summoned
By flagrant desire
An unsatisfied compulsion.

Whatever space she attends
Perhaps she manages a fire of her own
Tamped and banked
Patiently awaiting a renewed blaze
When the rose of dawn
Blushes the eastern sky.