Gone

The snow softly falls
Coating awnings and sidewalks
With a fine powder.
Tires sigh on the boulevard
Much as do I.

There is no energy

This bleak Tuesday.
Hour piles upon hour
Falling like snow
Until all that remains                                 
Is time
Expended
Lost and gone.

Dust Devil

Dust Devil

She was a dust devil
Appearing suddenly in 

Blue prairie skies
Unexpected
Turbulent.

She lofted me
Into whirling debris
Into a confusion of danger
Into skies suddenly troubled
Unconcerned with any order
I enjoyed.

She was here
Then suddenly there
Going, then returning
Only to go again.

She spun and darted

Fast, then slow

Climbing, then falling
Kicking up dust
Coupling my calm with her rage.

She was a dust devil
In open prairie

From a distance, amusing
But up close a hazard.

When she finally lost energy
Spinning out into a gust
Both my eyes and heart
Were raw and burned.

It took time to restore order.
I vowed to never again surrender
So willingly
To one so ready
To inject chaos.

That must be why they're called
Devils.

Every Good Thing

She called to say thank you.
Her voice broke and faltered
The way clothes catch on a wire.
The way words scatter in wind.

I listened silently
Not knowing what to say
Or whether to answer at all.

Her son was dead.
She called to tell me
She appreciated all I had done for him.

For “Jimmy.”

But I could not think of a single
Thing
I had ever done for him
Or said to him
That had weight and substance.

Jimmy had been terribly ill for years.

His body seemingly melted into the sheets.

Linda and I spoke often
During that ordeal.
But last year she stopped calling.

I have no memory, or account
Of any substantial provision I made for them.
I don’t tally those things.

Linda continued saying
I had been the voice of comfort
That the aid I provided was meaningful
To both mother and son.

 

Her voice rose and fell.

Staccato.

I could taste her grief.

Unsure how to respond

I simply listened
Until her voice stumbled and hushed.

I heard my voice speaking
As from beyond
Apart from any wisdom
From which I was origin.

I told her every good thing
Comes from God
And from Him only.

She said God would reward me

For all I had done.

That is precisely what I fear.

Sustenance and Heat

Sustenance and Heat

The steaming water
Accepts the tea bag
As I accept her.
She settles beneath my surface
Slowly
Delicately flavoring
Coloring my life.

Purposefully
I stir her
Into every part of me
Until it becomes impossible
To determine
Were I end and she begins.

I allow her to steep

Awaiting the moment
I may taste the sweetness
Of her presence.

All I desire is her.

My need is her.
And she remains
For as long
As I provide the sustenance
And the heat.

A Razor Edge

The jagged peaks
Cresting the Sangre de Christos
Are the product
Of immense pressure
Caused by one massive slab
Of deep subterranean shelf
Heaved skyward by another
Of inestimable force
Into cold climes of southwestern sky.

But that does not define the view.

What sets the eyes alight
Is the palette of winter pastels
Rosy hues, deep blue, purples
And virginal white
Applied by knife edge
Onto the canvas of surprise
In serrated upward strokes
Into rare, frigid air
Capped by glazed peaks
Pure as a maiden’s dream.

At the foot of the range
The basin dots with mesquite
Stunted trees
And hard scrabble brush.

Nothing, at first
Suggests charm.
Personal insignificance is the lesson
In contemplation of such wild.
Left to the elements
Survival is, at best
Improbable
And, at worst
Impossible.

Winds sweep the slopes
Numbs the face
Braces the spine
And fixes the feet.
Life in such harsh truth
Teeters upon a razor edge.

The Certainty of Passion

The Certainty of Passion

Sitting intently before her mirror
Her freed dark hair tumbled
Like rivers
Cascading a fall.

Muted light
From the table lamp
Decorated her sweet form
And the smile in the parenthesis
Of her rosy cheeks.

Slowly she combed her thick locks
A soft “shushing"
Of the brush
The only sound
Save the quiet melody she hummed.

Unmindful of the slow
Passing of time
She was a study
In gentle grace
Reserved beauty
And the certainty of passion
Lying just below the surface
Known but to the one
Who held her heart
The way she held the brush
Smoothing her long mane
A study of balance
Between control
And unreserved ardor.

When night falls
When her hair lets softly down
When the song is finished
When she eases into bed
Nothing remains
Except dreams
And the hopes
Of what tomorrow may be.

That Melody

That melody's name escapes me
The way good dogs
Sometimes go off the chain.

Searching for the tune’s name
Rummaging mental files
Humming it to friends
Absorbs much time
Requires great thought
And results in extreme frustration
When no successful conclusion is reached.

Recovering that melody's lost name
Is like attempting to recall
The craters of the moon
From sheer memory
Is as remembrances stored
Through no criteria but aroma
Like the leathery smell
Of your first baseball mitt
But whose manufacturer's name is forgotten.

What is the name off that melody?

I can recall the names
Of every player on the ’68 Cubs.
I remember phone numbers of friends
From fifty years ago.
I remember the numbers on the sides
Of school busses in which I rode home from fifth grade
And the pattern of freckles across the nose
Of the girl I took to homecoming in 1970.

But I cannot remember the name of that melody!

Perhaps I will be jolted awake at three in the morning
With a victorious Ah hah!
But I doubt it.

It goes something like this…
Dah Dah Dah…Dah Dee Dah
Lah De Do….Dee Do Dee.
Does that sound familiar?

The car in which my parents
After my birth
Carried me home from the hospital
Was a burgundy 1950 Ford Custom Coupe
With a ding in its right rear fender.

Go figure.

No-Show*

I waited for you
Drinking coffee
Cup after cup
Until it was obvious
You were not coming.

The walk to the car
Felt far longer
Than it really was.

I sat a few minutes
Before turning the key.
Passersby seemed gloomy
Although I was certain
I was transposing my melancholy
Onto them.

The radio was playing a happy song
Seeming to taunt me.
I turned the radio off
And drove home silently.

You owe me nothing.
No explanation.
No apology.
No rescheduling.
Nothing.

Not much of value
Ever begins in coffee shops.


* The only real coffee shop date I ever had was actually very pleasant and animated, and many years in the past. Writing verse is odd. Sometimes the work that is produced is surprisingly different from actual experience.

Empty Coal Cars

The Burlington was on time
Its bright light gleaming
Where the tracks
Distantly joined.

Resting my bike in the tall grass
I carefully placed a bright ‘64 penny
On the rail nearest the blacktop
And awaited its metamorphosis.

The Burlington arrived as a thundering storm
Of energy and hurry.
I counted eighty seven
Empty coal cars
Pressing their tonnage
Onto my copper penny.

As the caboose chased the train
I retrieved the copper
A penny no more.
In its transformation
It was warm to touch
A misshapen blob as thin as paper
Made into a talisman of childhood.
In the draining days of innocence
I fingered that copper slug along with pocket change
Until it disappeared in the tumult of years.

I continued to put pennies on rails.
But not real pennies
And not real rails.
Rather, I placed newly minted hopes
Onto tracks extending into the questions of tomorrow.

Pennies, when pressed, lose value.
Hopes also flatten into unexpected shapes
Surprisingly thin.

I have not returned to the Burlington
And any pennies I have
Reside atop my dresser
Among nickels, dimes and quarters.

I have retired magic talismans
And all remaining hope
Is carefully secreted and silent.
Call it a casualty of expended youth
But I no longer press my luck.

Especially beneath the weight
Of empty coal cars.

I Wonder

I wonder
If she held me
Would I still feel the same?
I wonder
If she kissed me
Would I still feel the flame?

I wonder
If I touched her
Would she desire more?
I wonder
If I held her
Would she feel it in her core?

I wonder
If the years rolled away
Could we begin again?
I wonder
If we had a chance
Could we have what we had then?

I wonder
Why I can’t let go
And just let passion die?
I wonder
If I am destined
To wonder till I die?