All Things Being Equal

I was a bored little boy
Playing at the feet of my parents
In my aunt and uncle’s Arkansas home.
They began their visit
About the same time
God made dirt.

Then I heard the words
I’d waited for.
My dad was the speaker
And he used
Southern Speak:

“Come, go with us.”

I waited for the proper reply.
And it came:

“Reckon we better not.”

With that said
I began looking for my shoes.

Then came the setback I’d feared:

“How’s old (insert name here)?”

This required a protracted ramble
Through family history
Which necessitated the insertion
Of any new information
Of all activity on the subject’s part
Since the Korean War.

Then dad said:

“Well, thanks for having us.”

To which my uncle had to say:

“Don’t see why you need to go so soon.”

This would cause my dad to look down
At my brother and me, saying:

“These boys are getting restless.”

Restless?
I was nearly comatose.

My parents helped us boys to the car
Only to be followed by my aunt and uncle.
Several additional parting ceremonies were conducted
But I had mercifully fallen asleep.

At breakfast the next morning
My father said to my mother:

"Boy those people sure can talk."

I mentioned that everything any person said
Was always followed
By a mandatory response
From the one being addressed.
Therefore
In any conversation
All things are equal.

Dad said:
"You sure gotta smart mouth on you, son."

To which I replied:
"Thank you, Dad!"

Mom always spanked with a switch
Dad with his hand.

All things are never equal

I am Sorry to Tell You

I am sorry to tell you
Your husband is dead.

Your wife
Your daughter
Your son
Is dead.

For twenty five years
I delivered tragic news.

They would open their door
See my uniform
And momentarily freeze
Unable
Unwilling to pronounce
The next reasonable utterance…
“What happened?”

They would moan.
They would fall down.
They would sometimes offer me coffee.
They would cry and wail.
They would ask me
To tell them again
To tell them precisely what happened.
They would ask if I were sure.

I always was sure.

They would ask
Was alcohol involved? Usually.
Was the death instantaneous? Lie. Say it was.
Where was the body? At the Coroner’s Office. Never say “morgue.”
Could they see it? They shouldn’t.
Would I take them there? Yes.
Maybe it was somebody else
With the same name? Never.

I would ask to enter their home.
I would ask to sit down.
I would tell them what happened.
I would offer comfort and prayer.
I would call their family and friends.
I would leave.

But the experience never left me.
After twenty five years
I continue to see their wide-eyed misery
The moment I shattered their lives.

The hardest thing is not death.
The hardest thing
Is telling the ones remaining
Their loved one has died.

Were I to compress the number
Of death visits I’ve made
Over twenty five years
Into one visit a day
Until they all were made
It would require
One visit every day
For five months.

I have seen death
Close up and personal
In all it's raw detail.

I do not cry much any more.
But I do not laugh much either.

Sweet Strings

Sweet Strings

Softly weave your spell
Sweet strings.

Charm me in rapturous rhythms.

Shimmer your magical melodies.

Dance across my spirit
Like candlelight on stone.

Release your notes
Like arrows
To penetrate my aching
Heart.

Envelope me
In arms of care.

Soothe my sorrow
In arias of grace.

Softly weave your spell
Sweet strings.

I Followed

She wore my white shirt
Open to the navel
And nothing else.

Morning light streamed
Through the window
Silhouetting her body
While she leaned
Against the doorpost
Arms folded beneath
Her breasts.
I don’t remember breathing.

There are moments
Requiring no conversation.

This was one of those moments.

Time slowed.
There is not one thing
In all of creation
More beautiful than her.

Ever.

She allowed me a long
A very long
Look.

Saying nothing
She slowly turned
And walked into the bedroom.

I guess you know
I followed.

In the Light of the Dark

We slow
danced
in the fading

L
i
g
h
t.

It was not much of
a dance.
We simply

held on
as though
there was no
other

way

to find
a safe place
a soft place
a place of

welcome.

We held one
another
until full

D
a
r
k.


Her
cheek rested
upon my
shoulder
her breath

a steady sigh
in my
ear.

I have
no memory
of
letting
go

dis-
connecting.

I don’t
remember how
long

we held

each other.

The mind is
not the
repository of tender

memory.

The
heart
is.

In my
heart
we

dance
still.

Years later
I hear
her

breath

in my
ear.

Her sighs

are the
music
to which we

dance
forever in the

L
i
g
h
t
of the
D
a
r
k.

Only the Living*

Sometimes you ought to run.
Sometimes you turn and fight.
Sometimes it’ll hurt like hell.
Sometimes it’ll surely bite.

Sometimes you find strength
Other times, you’re just tired.
You make choices in a moment
With knowledge you acquired.

There’s mystery in every fight.
That upon which it depends
Is that the fire remaining in you
Will decide where this battle ends.

Be determined to win this round
Though you know this bout will hurt.
You'll wrestle with the aching wound
As you brawl in the sand and dirt.

Only the living struggle.
Only the living bleed.
Only the living may know
That only the living succeed.


*I discovered this poem in a file I hadn't seen since 2008. It reflects a struggle I was in at the time. I suppose all of us have had times when we had to roll up our sleeves, ball up our fists, and either figuratively, or literally waded into the fray, come hell or high water. The victory was mine, that time. I "marked it on my hull" as a combat star. But the war continues. Be strong...and be careful out there.

A Letter

I never
Wrote her a letter.

I sighed out
My hopes
Teased with
My wants.

I communicated with
My eyes
My body
My heart.

But I never
Wrote her a letter.

I drew her to me.
I enfolded her in my arms.
I kissed her mouth.
I warmed her
Cherished her.
I loved her.

But I never
Wrote her a letter.

I held her hand.
I sat with her
Walked with her
Lay with her
Dreamed with her.

But I never
Wrote her a letter.

I wish I had it all
To do again.
I would change nothing.
Every day
Would be the way it was then.

But one thing I would not regret
Were it mine to do again.

Next time
I would not lament that
I never wrote her a letter.

On Her Way Down

The riggings
Shriek and moan
Of the hulk
Hurled by winds
By seas.

It is a shrill
Extended lament
Exceeding that
Of the most
Desperate widow.

It is the groan
Of lost souls
The siren of the seas
Rooting the mind
Never to leave.

It is the whine
Of tortured spirits
Climaxing
With decks awash
With creaking timbers
With brackish spray
With scorching jets
Salting the seafarer
With brimstone
From the shattered masts.

The devil takes those
Who cower ‘neath
The cry of the damned
From the rigging
Of the doomed
On her way down
Down
Down
Forever lost
And down.

It's Simple

When I was really thirsty
(And I have been)
It was water I craved.

Not soda.
Not coffee or tea.
Alcohol did not fuel
My passion.

Water.
I wanted water.
Cool
Clear
Clean
Water.

Flowing over my tongue
It splashed my throat
Swirled down my inner pipes
To chill the burn at my core
To satisfy the longing.

I can do without bread
Far longer
Than I can water.

The desert rarely blooms
But when it does
It’s because of rains
Because water
Works wonders
And brings even sands
To flourish.

The camel stores moisture
In its humps
As water
Not as Coke
Or Pepsi.

The Big Gulp is truly great
As two atoms of hydrogen
And one atom of oxygen.

Give me water.
Water.
Give me water
Or I die.

It’s simple.
^^^^^^^^^^^^

All I Can Tell You

Tragic
How the mind loosens
Its grasp
On memory.

It begins
With the blur
Of definition.

Details
Once crisp
Soften.

The firm grip
Of youth
Transits
To the gentle contact
Of advancing age.

I know
I spent days laboring
In the torrid heat
Of August noons.
But what I recall
Is simply
They were warm.

I’m certain
I gave much time
Shivering
In frigid Februarys.
But all I remember is
I was cold.

I know I tossed
Sleeplessly
In worried nights.
But all I recollect is
I was concerned.

I know
I thrilled
To passion’s touch.
But all I remember is
I was loved.

I know
Her eyes
Were the color
Of October’s leaves
But all I can imagine is
They were hazel.

I know
Age brings loss.
But all I can tell you is
I have already forgotten more
Than I ever really knew.