A Terrible Teaching

Being wounded
Taught me much.

I learned
When wounded…

You stop.
You go no further
And often writhe
In your own blood.

You hate.
You despise who wounded you
The manner of your wound
And the place you were wounded.

You plan.
You form actions for retribution
The manner you will employ
And the fierceness in which you will apply it.

You act.
You do so stealthily.
You do so passionately.
And you withdraw quickly.

And finally, you regret.
You realize revenge is not sweet.
You understand vengeance was not yours.
And you discover you’ve hurt yourself
More than the one who first hurt you.

Being wounded by another
Is a tragic
Needless
Evil thing.

But wounding yourself further
In an empty bid for retribution
Is far more foolhardy
Pointless
And worthless
Than was the initial wounding.

Oh, the things pain will teach.

Buckets

I was wounded.
No one saw my injury.
I seemed
To them
Intact
Whole
And able.

So I tried to act
Unwounded.

I spoke as one
Able
To assure the world
I needed no help
And would be okay.

I was a healer
A wounded healer.

So I continued to heal.

But I also continued to
Bleed.
Buckets of blood
Which I emptied
So nobody would know
How grievously I was hurt.

A wounded healer
Would be disqualified
From healing.

I would rather die
Than be disqualified.

So I grit my teeth
Bit the bullet
And kept on
Keeping on.

Until I ran out of blood.

The Valley

The valley is low
Dark
Forbidding.
Sunlight hides its face
In the valley.

There are no travelers.

It is a bleak
Geography
And few that enter
Emerge.

Gentle slopes
Hide its nature.
There is no water
In the valley
No refreshment
Or places
One may rest.
Sulfur bubbles
In rivers of sorrow
There.

The valley’s shade
Is a living thing
That wraps about
One's mouth
Crawls down his throat
Sucking life
From his soul
Depositing the parched remains
Like carrion.

The gold sought
Crumbles to dust
In the valley.

You are warned
Do not go
In the valley.

It has a population
Of
One.

Open Country

There is
Somewhere
A level cliff shelf
Wide enough
For a campfire
And reclining body.

Before it
Stretches open country
Mostly barren
With only assorted vegetation
No higher
Than a horse’s belly
Distant mountains
Blue and plum
Between earth and sky.

In my saddle bag would be
Beans
Coffee
And salt pork
Enough for a few days.

Beyond that I’ve not thought.

There’s no need for travel.
No need for anything
Beyond time spent
Not worried about
What lies behind
Or either side.

Let me spend myself
Gazing at open country
And the phalanx
Of sky and scrub.
Let the smells
Of baked earth
Rock and sand
Fill my head.
Let day's lost breeze
Play upon my weary form.
Let me drink my coffee
Eat the last of my food
Then I will lay myself down
To dream of what was
And will never again be.

Then the gold and scarlet
Cords of dusk will descend
And I wake anew
On a better morn
With a fast horse
And upward trails.

But tonight
There is an ache
In the sunset
Equal to that
In my heart.

Both
Must come
To nothing
In open country.

And She Loved Me

She loved fresh snow
The crunch of it
Beneath her boots
Its frigid cling
Its brilliant purity
Decorating her dark lashes
And falling down
Her graceful form.

She loved hot chocolate
Its warmth
In a winter mug
Its molten trace
Over her tongue
And down her throat.

She loved sunlight
Glazed in orange and gold
Across fields
Corduroyed ankle-high
In remnants of corn stalks
And broken shoots
Of autumn wheat.

She loved the brace
Of frigid winds
When we walked
Over bridges
Beneath which
Broken ice flows
Patterned sleepy streams.

She love the mingle
Of our exhalations
Crystallizing
In arctic temperatures.

She loved the lure
Of warm blankets
Awaiting
In quiet hours
And tender arms
Devoted to her care.

And she loved me.

She loved that I loved her
That I studied
Every random thought
Half-smile
Soft sigh
And starlight
Dancing in her iris.

She loved that I understood
Her private musing
Knew her mind
Allowed her timidity
And celebrated her
Private wantonness.

She loved that I despised cold
Pretending to relish
The same snows
In which she rejoiced.

She was a mystery
A puzzle past solving
A rare treasure
A joy forever...

And she loved me.

Her Love

Her love is as the mountains
Eternal
Shaped by forces
External to her
Present
Even at great distances
Capped with snow
Frigid from afar
Yet soft and pure
By one willing
To adventure in her climate.

Her love endures
Regardless of weather
Of circumstance or season.

Her love is as the rarified air
Enveloping her summit.
A man unprepared
Will not survive
Will be forced to leave
Her far behind.

Her love has a timberline
Below which she is gracious.
But venture beyond the timber
And she becomes stark
And honest
Blunt and unveiled
Eyes only for the man prepared
For such harsh truth.

Her love is beautiful
And dangerous
Fit not for the random explorer.
But she generously
Gives her charm
To the man who comes as settler
Ready to remain
And fashion his life
To match the conditions
Of her altitude.

Messengers

They fell on my face
Fastened upon my lashes
A chilled embrace
The softest of kisses
A welcomed grace.

All around
The earth slept
As the white blanket
Settled upon
Yards and sidewalks
Streets and avenues.

They made no sound.
They were messengers
Of silence.
Emissaries of peace.

I paused
Beneath a street lamp.
Its cone of amber light
Seemed to ignite
Each crystal
In its downward journey.

I grew dizzy in the presence
Of the tiny invasion
Of flakes
Parachuting to earth.

Perhaps angels sometime come
In forms unthought
And unexpected
In visitations of serenity
Such as this.

Merry Christmas, Ya'll!

I wish ya'll a very Merry Christmas, and a warm and wonderful New Years! I'll be doing some relaxing through the end of December, and will return refreshed in the New Year, ready to roll. I truly hope ya'll can do the same.

~~ James

ps....a Tender, Merry Christmas, Monarch! (wherever you are)

Splendor

A cup of strong coffee
Fire crackling at my feet
Night falling around me
And a stump for my seat.

The woodlands in slumber
And a hoot owl near
The leaves softly stirring
With the North Star so clear.

A man is no man
Surrounded by walls
Framed in by paintings
Of nature lining his halls.

But let him breathe stars
Spangling the night
Let him make fire
To give him his light

And somewhere within
Deep in his breast
A warmth will begin
And spread through the rest.

I’ve no need for company
There’s communion for me
With this splendored creation
Around me I see.

The Bitter Root

I have quaked before danger
And survived.
Each trembling moment
Fashioned in my breast
A fierceness
A resolve
That is untaught.

Comes a time
When danger darkens
My sill
I greet it
As an old friend.

I know the bitter root
The sulfur
The tang
And heartbreak
Of fear.
I steep it as tea
Strong
Black and unsweetened
By lofty grit.
I drink its dregs
Without shying.

Comes a time
A man laces his boots
And walks to face his enemy
In open ground.

Comes a time
Going out
Doesn’t mean
Coming back.

But it’s the going out
That makes the man.