Old Men*

Old men are ascribed a nobility
Their eyes demand.
The lines on their faces
Are roadmaps of honor
Their thoughts imagined
To be ponderous.

But I am becoming an old man.
As such I want to bring clarity
To a subject given too much tribute.

Most of the time
Old men are not re-fighting old wars
Re-visiting lost loves
Or re-casting latent hopes.

Most of the time…
Hell, all the time…
Old men are just sleeping
Or wondering where
The bathroom is.

* Wink

Not Hamlet

You threatened me
So I am await.

You use silence
Like a blade
Its edge severe
Business precise.

When silence is a weapon
Every latent thing
Is imposing.

I feel you.
You have been long-coming.
Though I cannot see you
Your menace is present.
You seek to intimidate
And thereby disarm me.

But you cannot disarm one
Who is not armed.

I do not fear you.
Nor do I seek to cause you fear.
Pain is no longer my arsenal.

I do not desire to convince you
Of truths you will not accept.
I do not hope to befriend you
Though you will never
Be my enemy.

To defeat me
You will have to appear before me.
You’d rather not.

In the end
Your reticence
Will defeat you
And I will have done nothing
To contribute to your fall.

You will perish
By the poisoned blade
I did not wield.

When this drama is concluded
I will be the one
To draw the curtain.

But you are not Hamlet.
You are not a fallen warrior
And noble arms will not bear you away.

The Remnant

They cut their beloved banner
To scrap
Distributing the remnant
To those
Who would have died.

Not long before
That tattered cloth
Snapped like a cannonball
In the smoke and fury
The blood and moans of the dying.

Years and tears passed and fell
And as each old warrior
Went to his grave
The grieving families
Buried with him his torn rag.

Reduced now to dust and ash
Those shabby bits
Have become the grass and petal
The soil and memory
Of the Southland.

Remember her not
For her inglorious shame
For there was never a cause
As poor as that championed
By so brave a people.

Remember her colors
As the marrow
Bone and blood
The flesh and breath
Of her sons and daughters.

We cut them to pieces
Like they did their flags
Laying their bodies
And memory
In the dirt for which they fought.

And now we have a generation
Who has forgotten those
From whom they come.
They are now the remnant
The torn and forgotten flag.

Pity

I am three generations
From the Blue Ridge.

Those of my parentage
Had eyes of the hawk
And withers of the Elk Dog
People whose banner
Was the sky
And whose home
Was the earth.

Their nails were stained
With the dyes of their blankets
Their bodies hardened
By the demands of life
On the land they revered.

Most were displaced
At bayonet tip
And their Trail of Tears
Winding into Oklahoma
The dark of the moon.

It was not tragedy.
It was criminal.

Three generations is not far enough
To be numb to the insult.
It is not so distant
To be deaf to the cries
Or blind to the sorrow.

Pain rolls like a river
Widening its banks
And deepening its bed.

They took the land
And with it
The shock of what the land may exact.

I do not pity my people
For their loss.

I pity those that imagine
They took from us.

Chief Joseph

I have stopped counting scars.
There is no need
To catalogue pain
Or reference wrongs done.

I have committed to flame
Each offense.
My sword is sheathed
Its scabbard rusty and dull.

I was a student of conflict
A passionate learner
Of every nuance of battle
Disciplined in the art of hate.

Perhaps age dissuades me
Or the knowledge
That targets are more numerous
Than the ammunition allotted.

Odium is a no-win scenario.
Abhorrence a consuming fire
And the only winner of the game
Is one who does not play.

Like Chief Joseph
From where the sun now stands I will fight no more.

Symphonies

There are songs
I must not sing.

Verses shimmer
Like a mirage on a desert highway.
I see them waving
And imagine how they might feel
Urgent in my throat
Forming on my tongue
Birthing from my lips.

But I am not their singer.
They are greater than my flesh.

I yield the greater grace
Unwilling to suggest
I am match to the air.

The tempos are simple
Melodies clean
Every chorus uncomplicated
Building to effortless crescendo
Each verse an expression of fidelity.

Art is for performance
In the theater of the soul
And my soul is a careful performer.

My mind is a stadium
My heart the artist
Passion my spotlight
And God the audience.

Tears start from the eyelids
Streaming the cheeks
And unvoiced cantos
Are symphonies of silence.

Lightly

I live on earth
Lightly.

I make no footprint
Take nothing with me
Leave nothing behind.

My breath dissipates
Into vapor
Wispy as mist.

What few words I speak
Are as a turtle song
The coo of a dove
The thought of a dream.
The boldest of my speech
Is desert thunder...
Rumble without echo.

I use resources sparsely
Needing little to sustain my flesh.

Do not think me motivated
By agendas of conservation.
You would misunderstand.

I am free and able
To use all I want
But have no such want.

Everything I need is in me.

My shadow shrugs off the soil
Like an old coat
And I am unencumbered
Of this shrink-wrapped
Pre-packaged
Tawdry and cheap facsimile
Of what passes for life
In this sad age.

I live on earth
Lightly.

A Cowboy's Choice

A saddle ain’t a rocker
And a pony ain’t no truck
A cowboy ain’t nuthin’ fancy
And he never gets no luck.

A lady never loved me
And a girl never held my hand
Love never came near me
And I never bought a ‘lil band.

Whiskey ain’t no soft drink
And jerky ain’t no steak
A cowboy hardly eats well
And never gets no break.

I never seen no city
Bigger than a street or two
And I never got all gussied up
To do what gentlemen do.

I been watchin’ the south end
Of a herd of north bound beef
And I seen a few extry hard days
That brought us boys to grief.

But I seen my share of sunsets
And mornings fresh with dew
I seen a buncha rainbows
A whole lot more’n you.

I seen the swollen rivers
And the eagles circlin’ high
I felt the rain and snow
And know what it means to die.

But all in all, I’ll take it
This cowpoke life I chose
So you can take all your dandies
And jam ‘em up yer nose!

The Marker Stone

It was just an old stone
A Marker Stone
Set in place to remember
Property lines
Of old farms and fields.

Covered by leaves
I stumbled over it
And found it to be
A remembrance
Of long ago.

I did the same with you
Dear
Falling to my knees
Without noticing
Someone already placed his marker stone.

How I loved your fields
The fresh daylight
Upon your petals
And the grassy scent
Of you.

But your marker stone
Was secreted from me
Covered by the debris
Of hard years
And harder words.

When you revealed the stone
I crumbled to powder
To ash
Like the dryness
That consumed you.

But there was his marker stone…
On the third finger
Of your left hand.

The Dragon

Didn’t we wear our Blues
Like kings?
All dazzle and polish.

We were as flint
Uncompromising
Our eyes lanterns
Boots singing on pavement
Like jack hammers
In concert.

I’ve put away
Every remembrance
The chevrons and brass
Every device
I once so proudly wore.

There are fewer of us
Our ranks thinning
Like our hair.

I’ve grown my beard
Let my hair creep past my shoulders
That once wore sparkling pride.

I still believe.
But the man I was
Sleeps in a drawer
Beneath my socks.

To open it
Would be to loose
The Dragon.

And I am just too weary to ride.