Sounds

It’s the sounds I miss.
The sure metallic scrape
Of her key
Opening the lock
On the kitchen door.
The gentle scuffing
Of her shoes on the tile
Floor.

I miss the shuffle

Of her purse settling

In a chair by the table.

The light-hearted hum
Of a song
Only she hears.

I miss the slow

Warm sound

Of her brush
Swimming through
The river of her long hair.
Of her body moving
Against fresh cotton
Bed sheets.

I miss the rhythmic sound
Of her deep-sleep breath.
The sound of her arms
Her legs moving naturally
Against the blanket.
The soft click
At the back of her throat
As she dreams of mystery
And marvel.

I miss the sound

Of her easy
Morning yawn
And the wakening move
Of her body
Stretching
In the golden morning
Light
Flooding our window.

I miss the sounds.

Perspective and Time

The Hunter
Appears as
The Hunter
The Scorpion
As The Scorpion
Orion
As Orion
And The Dipper
As such
Because we say they do.

Perspective and time
Account for everything.

In fact
Perspective and time
Coupled with the keen eye
Of the observer
Assume responsibility for every detail
Reported by the eye of man.

Return to your telescope in a million years

And the universe will have scattered
Like dice
Tossed in a back alley.

She said she loved me

But that was when the universe
Perspective and time
Joined together
For a temporary alignment
Causing the appearance
Of love…

…if you squinted hard
And held your mouth just right.

Collectively

People walk before city shops 
Bus stops, aprons to alleyways

Heads down

Thumbs blurring

Above digital letters

On bright screens.

They

Collectively

Have no expressions

They, collectively

Have no visible emotion.

I lean against the brick front

Of a shoe store.

At the counter a woman taps a tablet.

A co-worker pauses in the doorway

To the back room

Bent over a device.

They

Collectively

Attend to business elsewhere

It having nothing to do

With shoes.

Traffic stops at the corner.

A teen driver in a new Ford

Brakes hard

Retrieving her cell phone

Upon which she quickly taps

A message

Exactly like the approaching bus

In which passengers

Collectively

Do the same.

Across the boulevard

Pedestrians mimic the actions 

Of others

Afflicted with the same virus.

They

Collectively

Submerge themselves in

Digital dialogues

The whole of which

Are shallow and meaningless.

Thousands

Millions of tap-tap-taps

All furious

Collectively

Vacuous.

Information is making us stupid

Rather than intelligent.

We

Collectively

Have turned our thumbs

Into the principal instrument

Of inquiry

Into a world meant for immersion

In things

Other than digital.

We are digging our graves with our thumbs.

Corn

She came out of the cornfield
The way she went in

Head bowed

Collar up

As though the blades of stalks

Were rain

And she must fend off the spray.

As she exited the long

Narrow row

Her eyes rose to mine

Where I leaned against the fender

Waiting her to finish her crazy need

To investigate field corn.

Between her lips

White teeth shone

As straight as the corn rows

She’d explored.

What? No corn?

Of course not.

They aren’t ours, goofy.

I already knew her answer

But asked just the same.

Then let’s go buy some.

She smelled like green things

As she got in the car.

Like fresh soil.

Like earth.

Her smile remained

As we hunted a farm stand

For corn.

Years later, that morning

Returns her to me

Bracketed in corn

And smiling like the sun.

I See You

I See You

You stand so still
Before me.

My hand stretches

Toward your face.

Lightly

Slowly

I trace my fingertips
Down
From your hairline
Brow
Over your closed eyelids
Down
The flaring of your nostrils
The valley between your lips
Down
Your chin
To your throat
Ending in the hollow
At the base of your neck.

I take much time
Gathering your contours
The way snow lightly falls
Pooling in secret corners. 

I see you

Requires no vocabulary
Save that of my fingers
Navigating your face
Assuring you are forever mapped
Known
Understood.

I see you.


 

Night Terror

I saw a deep craggy cave
In a tall rocky wall
In a forgotten canyon
A thousand feet tall.

All manner of evil

Every fevered child’s dream
Clung to the rocks
Like the bile in a scream.

The cavern yawned wide

Like the entrance to hell
Like the entry to perdition
In a molten red well.

Or, was it but a vision

Of all I once craved
All packed in a dank hole
In a bottomless cave?

No matter, dear friend.

I know it was real.
And I will not return
To a grave I did seal.

Patiently Wait

If you patiently wait
Just before the tawny sun
Dawns
You may kneel upon the shore
And listen to the
Surf
Sing his love song to
The waning moon.

If you patiently wait

In the blush of ochre
Light
You may cast your eyes
Upon the bashful
Moon
And behold her pale
Receding gaze.

If you patiently wait

The shameless orb will
Wake
Beyond the eastern sky
And chase the virgin
Moon
Into her dark and
Distant bed.

No Images

No Images

I have no images of her.
They simply record a fragment
Of an instant
But fail to notice
The fierceness of life
Sparking in her eyes.

What can a matrix of print do

To capture
What she expressed
Beyond any artificial recording?

Her life was

Edged
Like the blade of a sword
Was passionate
Like the mother of a cub
Was extreme
Like torrents of rain
But was also
Exceedingly gentle
With a feather touch
A tender tear
And a whispered pledge.

No image can compete

With the memory of a woman
Whose presence lives
Beyond the technology of time.

Never*

The volley of rifles
Over the gravesite
Made me involuntarily
Jump.
I wanted to comport myself
Like the law enforcement professional
I was
And I was embarrassed
At my response.

Then I understood that flinching

Was precisely the proper response.

We must never grow accustomed

To the raw edge
Of unnecessary death
Among the many
Or the one.

Years have passed

And gunfire has become familiar.
It rings down the boulevards
Then above the graves
Echoing forever
In the hearts of the bereaved.

Years have passed

And my badge now rests
Along with all the accoutrements
Of the profession.

But there is no retirement

From the blue fraternity.
My brothers and sisters
Unknown to me by name
Are intimates
By the connection of brotherhood.

Dallas will long be remembered
As will Brooklyn
New York
Chicago
Los Angeles
And every City
Town and Village
Every Federal, State
And County department
Who has inscribed the names
Of their fallen
Upon the memorial wall.

Years have passed

But the sharp pang of loss
Never recedes.

Never.

 

 

 

*This is not an effort to wax poetic. It is, rather, an expression of the dismay that ought to afflict every true heart, at the loss of five Dallas police officers killed in the performance of their duties. In the last 24 hours several other officers have been shot, and at least one (from a small Missouri department) remains in critical condition. Seven other Dallas officers are hospitalized following the horrific event is Texas.

 

The deaths of African American males at the hands of poorly disciplined officers are equally abhorrant, but this must not be understood as one death in answer for another. Every life is precious.

 

As for me, I am not a white man. I am blue.

The Rider and the Writer

I have taken my quill
And blunted
Its sharp point
Shredded its feathers
And drained the ink well.

Words stutter

In my mind.
They blur upon the page
And mastery of structure
Meter and meaning
Evade me.

It is as though

I have been thrown from the saddle.
But I am a rider and a writer.

Restoration requires

I sit the saddle.
Requires
I fashion a new quill.
Requires
I refresh the ink well.

Both the rider and the writer

Need not speed to return.
All of life is a walk
Before it is a run
And a word
Before it is a sentence.