There Comes a Time

Her pale skin
Was as soft
As warm
As the spring grass
Upon which she lay.

The soft breeze
Rippling the waters
Beyond our patchwork quilt
Tossed her long brown hair
Tugged at the fabric
Of her sundress
Revealing the charm
Of her form.

I leaned against the rough bark
Of an old oak.
Dappled sunlight played upon her
The way children might frolic
Without care
On a bright noonday.

Her gaze held me
The way her arms might.

The corners of her mouth
Turned upward
Into an easy smile.
She was not speaking
Yet she communicated easily.
Her thoughts broadcast
The way Tibetan prayer flags
Summon attention
Calling for care.

Come to me
She was saying.
I am yours to love
Yours to explore
Yours to have
In the delight of the shimmering sun.
Yours.

There comes a time
Language is intrusive.
Words grow clumsy
Get in the way.

There comes a time
The entire universe collapses
And the only action appropriate
Is to reduce the space between
Until lips meet
And tongues express
Wordlessly
And the only reason the day
Holds charm and purpose
Is to introduce
One to another
Until there are no longer two
But one
Occupying two shadows
Indistinguishable
As separate forms.

There comes a time
All language
Is reduced to a sigh
And the only reason for memory
Is to return to one moment
Long ago.

Visiting Terra

The ground tilts
Dressing in strange color
And texture
As it rushes upward.

Grass is not as soft
As you imagine
And the impact is swift
Hard
Unforgiving.

But stay there.
Do not move
(As if that were possible)
And let the earth do its work.

It will tattoo you
With marks with which to remember
Your visit.
Blood and dirt
Have long been familiar
One with the other.

Someone will come.

When your awareness returns
They will bear you up
Will deposit you
In a soft place
And speak gently to you
When you are able
Once more
To hear
To understand.

I assure you
Following this unexpected visit
To Terra
You will learn just how short
Are your legs
And how unforgiving is the land.

Perhaps it is time to become
Kin to the cane.

An Oasis

Within the space
Of her arms
Is what little warmth
This life affords.

Therein a steady
Application of grace
And sweet safety
Sustains me.

Within the brackets
Of her heart of peace
I find an oasis
Amidst desert sands.

Her twin graceful fawns
Ever refresh me
My enduring solace
And my love.

The Labor Required

There comes a time
The working man
Pauses
To deeply breathe the
Warming air
Take a long pull
On a jug of cold water
Wipe his brow
With a worn cloth
And briefly lean
Upon his plow.

Such need is true
No matter the field of endeavor.

A husband stops
To refresh
By looking upon his wife
Breathing in her presence
Drinking in her devotion
Cooling his passion
By leaning upon the instrument
Of their union
And know the effort expended
Is worth the good of their field.

There is a time to stop
To appraise
And think
To consider
And refresh
To know
And appreciate
Not only the joy
But also the ache
And realize
It is satisfying
To be expended in the work
Of well-doing
In the knowledge there is coming
A reaping that will
Provide a rich store
For the winter to come.

He celebrates his tiredness
In realization that weariness
Is nothing less than satisfaction
In the knowledge progress
Has been made
Toward the building of concord
Between two whose love
Is worthy of the labor required
To sustain them.

In My Humble Opinion...

The most alluring perfume in the history of woman-kind is Victoria Secret's Vanilla Lace. Can I get a witness? That amazing scent is locked in my mind forever. I am dismayed to know it is no longer produced. (Naturally, it must be on the right woman).
~ James

The Secret

There is one strategic move
When a man loves a lass
That is most important
As that man makes his pass.

He must know just where
To touch his darling girl
That will make her body tingle
And cause her toes to curl.

The pressure of his hand
Must be just enough
To give her full assurance
That her man must know his stuff.

The technique must be sincere
If he is to prove his ardor
Because if it’s not done well
She may show him to the door.

Long before the romance
May lead them into bed
There is one thing necessary
That must be done instead.

Before their breath grows heavy
And their lips meet in kisses
A good lover knows well
How to please his misses.

To assure her of his kindness
There is one thing he must not lack.
That secret is to know just how
To place his hand upon her back.

Kansas

Buffalo once roamed
This prairie
So thick
It seemed the very land
Was alive in undulations
Of herds moving.

Buffalo hunters
Cattle drovers and soldiers
Arrived
Followed by pioneer families
Who built crude soddies.

This land is virtually soaked
With the blood
Of animals and men
Choked with shock
Grief and despair.

Civilization
Requires a hefty deposit
In blood.

Every sunrise
Dawns upon improvement.
Every new day arrives
With expanded hope.
Progress comes in pockets
Not shovels.

Long ago
I would have squatted this patch
Of chance
With a Henry rifle
And sharp knife
To earn the three dollar price
Of a buffalo hide.
I would have stank of sweat
And coppery blood
Slathered in guts
Meat and tendon.

Today this same land
Is crossed with utility lines
Telephone poles
And highways.
It has been sterilized
Even gentrified
And its gory history polished
Until gleaming with myth.

But if you care
You may softly caress the earth
To feel ancient reverberations
Of pounding hooves.
You may smell the rancid piles
Of hides rotting in the heat.

I caution you…
The past is hardly past.
Just beyond the rise
It waits to join you
In a new blood-letting.

Dear Anonymous Commentator,
Thank you for your kind words, and for reading The Ice Queen (March 12, 2014).. To answer your questions, the woman I wrote about was a true love, whom I have not seen in many, many years. She is the subject of an imaginary reunion, in which she cannot show me the love she once so freely shared. She is the "Ice Queen." In time past, she was everything but that. Of course, I miss her very much. But time goes on for all of us. It changes us at our core. But the old passions remain sweet, and cherished in memory.
I would love to see her again, but cannot actively seek her out. I've learned to not kick down doors time has wisely sealed. Although, to be honest, to learn of her life these years later would be wonderful. Memory is an incredible thing, isn't it? In my memory she's still here, and always will be. I hope she reads my poetry, but unless she tells me, I'll never know. One can hope.
You suggested I have had many loves. Well, a gentleman can't rightly affirm, nor deny that, can he? It's the old "kiss and tell" rule. She was an amazing lady, and I'm certain still is. I hope she still thinks well of me.
Thanks again for reading. I hope you'll come again.
~ James

Eggs and the Cardinal

A cardinal
Clad in bright
Scarlet feathers
Perched on a rail
This morning
Beyond my kitchen window.

His sharp singular chirp
Followed by another
Another
Then a successive chain
Of others
Drilled my brain
As an awakener
Forcing me to look beyond
My morning coffee
And the eggs frying in the skillet.

His Mohawk-trimmed head
Turned in quick jerks
Until a tiny black eye
Seemed to connect
With my own eyes.
We studied each other
For several moments.
Maybe he thought my actions
Strange
When understood against
The context of
Cardinal mannerisms.

It is not necessary
To understand
That which is simply meant
As marvelous.

The cardinal hopped a bit
Along the fence rail
A light wind playing
Along the layers
Of his crimson feathers.

He seemed to nod
As though to wish me well
(Though I know that is just my opinion)
Then he took flight
Seeking anything
More interesting.

Perhaps he was disturbed
By my choice
Of eggs
For breakfast.
Or maybe he was showing off
His ability to fly.
Or he may have been embarrassed
Strutting
For an old guy
In boxer shorts and a tee shirt.

His gallant red slash
Against a blue denim sky
Was breakfast for my soul.

Nevertheless
I ate the eggs.

Without a Bookmark

She was like a book.
A freshly printed edition
Of fine literature.
An amazing story
That stirred
And riveted my attention.

Every turn of the page
Was a gain
And a loss
Of equal proportion.

She was a story
That brought great pleasure
And deep sorrow
In the realization
She was slipping from me
With the turn of every page.

Her scent was papery pure
Her body as white as the open pages
Seemingly aglow in the window's
Bright light.

The ink of her story was indelible
And black as midnight against the page
A story of amazement and passion
A story of bittersweet romance
And tender expression.

Her very touch was a new chapter
An escalation of promise
But also a drifting away of her presence.

Her story was bound in the finest cover
Her title scribed in flecks of gold.

All her edition lacked
Was a bookmark
To remind me
Where I was in the unraveling.

Years later
Her book rests
In the library of my heart.
I rarely retrieve it
Because the tale
Is too painful.

Her's is
After all
A narrative
And without a bookmark
I loose myself in the account.

But the truth is…
I simply love the weight of it
When it rests
Open in my hands.