Her Cowboy

Her Cowboy

She called me her cowboy
as we stood in that Tulsa rain
but I was unsure we ever could
get past the anger and the pain.

I knew she was trying to
ease the tension and trouble
but for all her trying
the distance just seemed to double.

Some things can't be diffused.
Some things are sure to explode
here in this midnight rain
or a little further on down the road.

I guess I am her cowboy at that.
Guess she knows I will not stay.
By now she knows this is the scene
Where the cowboy rides away.

The Angel's Road

I'm your guide up this dusty road.
I know its ruts
I know its ditches
I know its hungers
And I know it riches.

This old road and I aren't friends.
I know its falls
And I know its rises
I've seen its poverty
And I know its prizes.

Hopes are born on this dusty road.
Losses are suffered too.
Travelers grow weary here.
Some lose their heart
And all they hold dear.

This gritty road climbs upward.
Most slow down near the crest.
Some think joy's around the next bend.
But for every sojourner's journey
Is a sojourner's end.

I'll be your escort on this road.
Sometimes you'll see me.
Often times you'll not.
But be assured I'm always near.
Never believe I've forgot. 

Appalachian Parting

Appalachian Parting 

I stood before the skies
and listened to your lies
so your testament of love
means nothing.

Oh, but lover, can’t you see

that never would I deceive
and thou art in error believing
I could do you wrong.

These mountains of smoke
know the heartache you wrote
and I am leaving here tomorrow
to return never.

Please lover, act not in haste
for it would be a waste
to burn to ashes
the passion we once knew.

Say no more, my one-time love

I am taking boots, hat and gloves
and will ne’er see you more
until that Resurrection Morning.

My heart is sure to ache

in the error that you make.
Please, let us reason together
and find some margin of truth.

I’ve nothing now to speak

toward the agreement that you seek.
Our time spent is as nightfall
and our loving as the snows.

Dance of the Dolphins

Dance of the Dolphins

My spirit leapt with the dolphins

off the starboard side of my boat.
Their song was crystal music
and the symphony they wrote.

Above us stretched the heavens
dense with starry host
and I felt with me the company
of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost.

I felt no need for fellowship

of people, female or male.
I had everything I needed
in both sea breeze and my sail.

My journey could not be measured

with a timepiece, sextant or chart.
It had little to do with travel.
It had no ending, as it had no start.

Perhaps it was dreamlike.

Maybe it was all just in my head.

It may have really happened

or came as I lay sleeping in my bed.

But I long to sail one more time

and watch the dolphins dance.
The destination, you see, is pointless.
I simply need a second chance.

Tangled, Knotted Pieces

You tugged at the frayed end

Knowing what damage you were causing.

I had not the knowledge of repair.

Some things are beyond a simple fix.

Everybody saw you.

You destroyed the fabric publicly

While I stood by in a stupid stare

Of unbelief this could happen to us.

Ultimately, the many-colored strings

Lay in a clumped heap on the floor.

Everybody walked away in a hush

Until I stood alone, gathering the remains.

But there is no repository for such material.

Some return to offer consolation

But all they really want is to enjoy my pain

Hoping I will weave a new fabric of bitterness.

One day you will suffer in the knowledge 

It was by your own hand you caused this misery.

By your own device you crafted this contempt.

You swallowed pain like bread that day.

I will burn these tangled, knotted pieces.

The bright conflagration will be intense but brief.

In a moment all will be grey and cooling ash.

You will travel the long path, in festering sorrow.

All else will have their memories cleansed. 

Even me.

Talisman

it was nothing
but a chunk of wood
no bigger than a cell phone.
turning it in my hand
it had clearly been baked
by more than a century
of Arkansas river bottom suns.

my knife carved it from the remains
of my great grandfather's pole barn.
half way up its length
was the mark of an axe slash.

my dad's dad's dad left that mark
back in the 1870's
when he came to this remote
river edge, lifetime's ago.

i freed the axe slash
from among its brother's
without much thought.
it was as if it simply appeared
in my palm.

that insignificant piece of wood
was my only connection to the man.

how transient is the past!
always moving further away
like the stream surging beyond 
the remains of that old pole barn
the river always similar but never the same.
some sage remarked that
you never step in the same river twice.

i kept that tangible link
to my intangible past
for more than twenty years
until it failed to make
my last move.

what might my great grandson
one day slice from my leavings?
some yellowed script
from a passage i wrote
but never liked?

better i should offer him
the slashing from a hickory stump
as my talisman to time.

Beside Your Fire

Sit me in an old chair
With an hour’s worth of peace
And I’ll return to you a story
Of love and mercy
And comfort that doesn’t cease.

Pour me a warm drink

For the chill deep in my bones
And I’ll make you a present
Of joy, unmingled with sorrow
A free heart, undamaged by angry stones.

All I need for you to do

Is grant me this time beside your fire

And I’ll weave my tale
Of war and peace
That’s all I need and require.

And when the time is spent

I will walk softly to your door
Leaving you to think on things
That trace your footsteps
And will do so forevermore.

the precipice

journeys to the precipice
have become familiar to me.
i have mapped every avenue 
to the edge
to the raw 
unwavering light
beyond what we know
the very brink of
beginning and end.

i go there
and come home again.

i accompany souls
but i return alone.
it is a terribly good endeavor
that blesses 
those with whom i walk
but bleeds me 
time and again.

i sit in silence
when comes the urgency
to go to the border 
one more time.

teach me how to die
she said
more a command
than request.
for a little less
than a year
i taught her all i know.
then she departed
and i waited for
the inevitable other
and the renewal of the teaching time.

they come endlessly
some with pain in their eyes
others come maimed, scarred
disabled
and desperate.
i abide daily with these. 

but this truth i have not disclosed...

every journey to the border
leaves me the less
until my time comes
and i also
do not return
on the morning of the good
pure
and loving 
Light.

The Worst Kind of Liar

The Worst Kind of Liar

Early winter snows pile and gather
Hushing Chicago
The way a mother hushes her baby.

The buses will still
Belch diesel 
Groaning at every corner.

Tomorrow
The steady tramp 
Of thousands of cold and wet feet
Will again beat
As any army 
In route step
Up and down State Street
And Lower Wacker.

But this morning
The skies are butter milk

And the buildings
Boulevards 
And avenues
Are comely in their blazing
Gowns of pretended purity.

They are all
Whitewashed sepulchres.

What lies beneath
Are worn salt boxes
Drained whiskey bottles
That have one remaining swallow
Of lies and broken promises.

Sleeping in the snow      
Are the bodies
Of the dying
Their breath so shallow.

The death rattle begins for those
Who will go unremembered 
And unmourned
Some only fifty feet
From a rescue mission
Or emergency room.

The snow is beautiful this morning.
But do not buy its promises.
Fresh snows are the worst kind of liar.

Anam Cara

Anam Cara

She would sing
With eyes closed
And her body undulate
Like growing things
In a shallow river bed
Below clean water.

She spoke more to me
With her eyes
Than she ever did
Through language.

Her touch was ethereal
And though years
Have spun me away
Seems I feel her hand
Yet in mine.

She invited me
To sunsets
Thunderheads
And snowy village walks.

She was scented in vanilla
And, below her tongue, was the honeycomb.

She was just here
A moment ago.

She never left
But gave so much
Of herself
I live off the excess
Of her grace 

Soulful beauty
Charm
And lingering shadow.

True lovers never leave.

Even their absence
Is occupied with the presence.