A Page Writer

Waiting

2012-02-04T16:42:00.003-05:00

Sleet, snow and rain appear to vie

for a special landing spot, each

slanting through my sight, changing

my view to one of raw cold from gray

sky. I watch in comfort, knowing my

protecting shell is all that keeps me

from joining nature in its unfeeling

torrents and tempers.

Inside, hugged by an easy chair,

I watch TV or surf the internet

for distractions, looking for comfort

in old movies and inevitable reports of doom.

The stored food and the closet of clothes

will not protect me forever, for there

is no such thing for anyone. Aromas

from the kitchen pull me away.

In weeks, the passing sun will drag

me out, closer to a world older than

any can remember, where I can lie

with it and rearrange the few things

surrounding my little claim on the world.

Perhaps I can bring wanted order to change

my view and attitude from close up.

Transport

2012-02-04T14:43:00.002-05:00

Protecting ridges are brown

through the drizzle, the scene

adding to my personal mental low.

I imagine water collecting on firs,

dripping to saturate the stony ground,

collecting, streaming to the river.

Were I there, survival would

be a challenge: Dry fuel, a way

to create ignition, and patience.

Success would require the burning

of larger limbs slowly fed to

the fragile fire, I turning to dry.

I imagine trying to find my way home,

or at least to shelter and warmth.

I kill the fire though it would die soon.

Threading through huge rocks, I slip

several times on the wet leaves and moss,

sliding much of the way as I descend

Thoroughly wet again, the cold enters

my bones as I am unable to get up from

the end of my last fall and lie still

How hard it would be to accept a fate

of slowly decreasing body heat, becoming

one with the timeless terrain.

Two Worlds

2012-01-28T11:41:00.001-05:00

In bed, in dread, I know
what is coming, but cannot
remember in time. WAKE
UP, I keep shouting, Helpless.

At Angels-35 we three float,
our bellies filled with 96
fused block-busters, in tandem,
30-seconds apart,

We fly slightly left and right
to stay out of back-wash, leaving
contrails, white streaks against
horizon of blue sky and bluer ocean.

Our 24 arrows speed as arced
arrows at their zenith toward
an enemy who will not see or
hear them before the carnage.

My pillow soaked, I sense the dread
but can only yell STOP. As always,
the crackling voice comes from Blue-01:
Pilot, my radar just crapped out.

Roger. Blue-02, you are now Blue Lead.
We will circle left and join formation
behind Blue-03. Roger, we are now
Blue Lead. Everyone cue on our release.

CAN’T YOU SEE IT COMING?
I begin to grow, filling the B-52, becoming
the airplane and the bombs. I dip my left
arm and circle motionless to the end.

NO, NO. YOU’RE LINING BEHIND
BLUE LEAD. THERE’S BLUE-03.
Too late. Our fate awaits. We are drawn
like huge magnets. Like lovers we embrace.

The explosion spreads for miles of sky,
propelling me from the soaked pillow
to my feet on the cold floor. I enter the black
of the middle of the night, in fear of sleep.

Tomorrow night, I will finally succumb,
dreading that fatal flight, but forgetting all
as I doze and leave Guam again, first in
formation, six flying hours to Viet Nam.

A Child Cries

2012-01-11T19:20:00.001-05:00

As I walk down the polished vinyl squares
and pass the open door. I want to stop
and see if I can help, knowing that others
know more than I. Except empathy, perhaps.

People unseen through cracked doorways
moan or snore or sleep silently, none well.
They come or are brought because those
at home cannot heal or care for them.

I think of the collective misery emanating
from both sides of the aisle and it seems
to gather into a hell I want to run from,
sensing I may be among them soon.

So organized, on schedule with pills
and shots and catheters and bedpans,
meals on trays ignored by those who
cannot stand the smell of food.

Soldiers maimed and slung in plaster
suspended at angles, those who lie hour
after hour trying to remember what happened,
wondering where are the others.

I abort my appointment and flee.

Last of the Good Wine

2012-01-11T19:09:00.000-05:00

At first, it was sweet with upfront
flavors still filled with sugar.
We soon found the different tastes
of different grapes, later, even
the qualities of those grown on
hillsides or valleys, some tailored
for sales of volume.

We learned to match wine and food,
usually taking too much of both.
Those who knew from years told us
secrets about aromas that lingered
on the back of the tongue, embuing
a satisfaction of getting our money's
worth and bragging rights.

We found those special bottles
and told our imbibing friends.
Soon, we would not consider
a good meal without a good wine.
There was pride in the opening
and decanting and serving.

Later, the less expensive bottles
caught our attention, giving as much
pleasure for half the price, adding
to our egos for astuteness
in knowing how to find such bargains.
We began to stock our cellars.

Eventually, the opinion of others
mattered not, and we drank according
to personal wants and needs, always
admiring the years and talents that
created these liquid arts and smugly
sipped their masterpieces.

Tinker, tailor, soldier, gardener.

Winter

2011-12-23T14:41:00.000-05:00

Grackles swarm to rest

on bare limbs that must

wait for spring to bring

leaves and life.

A sudden launch

and a single turn

sends them south,

their stencils of flight

following predestination.

Lawns dormant under

continuous days of gray

and cold, keep those

of us who do not migrate

close to our shelters.

We tend to gather

for treats and conversation

to cheer us through

the long, drab season.

Pop the cork!

Cruel Reality

2011-12-10T14:45:00.008-05:00

Cold wind across the eastern ridges
pushes me back from my northern
windows, sending a shiver through my chest
as real as standing on rocks exposed
by the loss of leaves along the hundreds
of miles shoved up by tectonic forces.

My life is as a tic of the eye in view
of ancient inching of masses of earth
that move gigantic rock, subject to even
greater brute inevitability. My soft being
cannot relate in time with olde events
existing without emotion or empathy.

The hills and valleys erode and redirect
in their own time, without kinship to my
admiration and artistic wonderings
at such majesty, a one-way mentalism.
Even the bare trees ignore my angles
of composition as they reach for the sky.

Future humans will find similar
images if their own conditions
are stable enough for curiosity
at things existing unknowingly.
Or my optimism is misplaced
and only the firmament will survive.

Adaptation (Just for fun)

2011-11-26T08:51:00.001-05:00

For several days I often heard the skittering,

run-jump of a squirrel across the roof,

then silence. Curiosity led me to settle

in a chair on the top deck where I could view

the whole scene of the top of the house below.

Within minutes, the cautious creature climbed

a tree on the eastern side and started its run

to the west. From the ledge, it jumped about

five feet to a limb from a near tree, then proceeded

to fly from one limb to another, tree to tree.

My thoughts were to nip this roof-runner in the bud,

so I got my ladder and saw to lop off the squirrel’s

landing limb. I could not wait to see the varmint’s

reaction. When I next heard his nails above me,

I ran out to watch from my perch on the deck

just in time to see him reach the edge, ready to

jump. He stopped, looking all around as though

to say, “What the hell?”

After about a minute while I gloated at having

out-foxed the critter, he launched himself

to another branch a good two feet further

away than the one I had cut off. He landed

with ease and took up his usual path,

seemingly without wonder at what had happened.

Sentinel

2011-11-23T13:38:00.004-05:00

In the half-night I sit by black windows,

seeing only tigers’ eyes of dim street lamps.

Safe and warm in my swivel chair, I wait

for pills to carry my too-active brain

and weary body back to a soft bed

filled with nothing but thoughtless time.

My fingers push keys to form words

that cannot re-create the fear of unknown

realities that overcome me when they will,

strangely, my brain not letting my brain

know what it will soon discover hidden

in aged crevices and cracks in its former

smooth walls of carefree youth.

I sip the sour wine of hope and listen

to the rumble of a train, the engineer

shattering the solid quiet with long

bursts of his air horn, as required,

but no doubt enjoying the rage of those

he wakes to join him as he flees

past the other limits of this small town.

All day the sky has been heavy

with cold gray, hiding now all

stars and planets, only faith

keeping them in their westerly swim

unseen. Surely they are there,

Cassiopeia forty-five degrees

to the north, Polaris unmoving.

My nightly Earth turns and wobbles;

stars move in the opposite direction,

firmly on course.

Quite often, one tires and flares

as it gives up its orbital effort

to streak gloriously for a moment.

(Yes, I know "falling stars" are not stars. ;))

Portage

2011-11-22T16:55:00.000-05:00

Portage

Pairs of teenage boys bounce

150 pound packs, slung

between them on a pole, its

length perfect for the rhythm

that shifts the weight up

and down to average 70 pounds

or nothing for each black-clad

boy to bear.

They walk the ancient

“Old Man’s Trail,” winding

with the terrain, fixed rest stops

for rice and tea. They have

not been warned of the dangers

of bombs from planes unseen,

but they would fear their sergeant

more than any tales of danger.

Six month’s of training and culling

produced teams of hard-muscled

and mentally prepared load bearers,

intent on never shaming themselves

or their comrades without weapons.

Arms and other supplies they

haul for uncounted miles,

watching the ground and their

used tires sandals, threading

along the trail at the foot

of kharsts and across slat and rope

bridges, spans that must be

repaired almost daily.

Those that survive, return,

passing new units

that continue the march

like caterpillars along

the Ho Chi Minh Trail.

Now the survivors are old

men with white beards

and memories, wearing

the same type of black

pajamas and rubber flip-flops

on their feet. Little has changed

except there are no more bombs.

Those who flew the planes

and rained bombs on the flow

miles below, now have time

to wonder what it was all for

and tote up their guesses

of the number of casualties,

their private body count.

On Going to War

2011-10-27T14:07:00.001-04:00

My take on Richard Lovelace’s poem, seen from the opposite view:

To Lucasta, On Going to Warres

Tell me not (Sweet) I am unkinde,

That from the Nunnerie

Of thy chaste breast, and quiet minde,

To Warre and Armes I flie.

True; a new Mistresse now I serve,

The first Foe in the Field;

And with a sterner Faith embrace

A Sword, a Horse, a Shield.

Yet this Inconstancy is such,

As thou too shalt adore;

I could not love thee (Deare) so much,

Lov'd I not Honour more.

Richard Lovelace

To Destiny, On Not Going to War

Tell me I was not a coward

when I declared, as did Chief Joseph,

“I will fight no more, forever.”

No more bombers will I fly.

No more raining down of bombs

on humans I do not know, nor

of those I did know, torn apart.

No more pursuit of a lost cause.

Strange for one who killed

with skill, from so high, more

than a hundred missions, more

than ten thousand iron bombs.

Would you have held me in high

disdain should I have continued

to kill for career or prestige,

had I not put honor above all?

fdharden

Retaining

2011-10-20T18:40:00.002-04:00

A stroke of luck in hard times,
the new owner of an ancient home
wanted all stone walls repaired,
a skill possessed by few men
in the valley, one unschooled
but through his hands and history.

He began with a wonderful base
except for a few failings where runoff
water had made holes as the
ground shifted. The same old rocks still
grew from the ground, providing perfectly
weather-worn stones to fit the wall—now his wall.

The old man worked on no schedule
except one set by the task, understood
with a handshake over details of the deal.
The new owner wanted the past recovered
and the stone man knew what that meant,
having worked these bulks and the earth for
all of his years since the Great Depression.

Two days of searching and hauling
in his wheelbarrow brought the fillers
to solidify the base. No cement, the stones
melded to leave little space for movement,
held by friction and gravity with maximum
surface contact. Perfect vertical backing checked
and rechecked as the stones took their place
to settle over the coming years.

The craftsman wore no gloves, his callused hands
relishing the heft and roughness, the feel of dirt.
Larger stones found their places in the front and bottom
as the wall grew to its former shape with the same
materials from the nearby terrain.
Stakes and strings help keep the wall even
and vertical. The stone-worker gave no thought
to pleasing the owner, but pleasing his sense of work.

Long rocks he set into the wall to help hold it together,
and heavy ones cap the level top.
He dug a drainage ditch on the uphill side and filled
it with stone rubble to carry the rain to drainage
pipes replaced after more than a century. Three months
later he stood back to assure the proper
wall width, level to the eye and pleasing.

He will watch the wall through the years as he
and his construction ages. He and the wall will
stand firm without any other choice. The owner
will also admire through the years and congratulate
himself for having found the bare hands artist
whom he knows was underpaid, not knowing
that the old man had grown rich on the job.

A New Fall

2011-10-16T11:59:00.001-04:00

This afternoon, gray with just peeps of the sun
now and then. Lots of wet clouds hurry about..
Seventy degrees make comfort indoors and out.
Quick change creates leaves' new radiating
colors.

Sugar maples are at my favorite stage,
mostly red but some green hanging back
to contrast strikingly with stark surprise..

Birds eat many dogwood berries or knock
them off to the ground where they are easily
found. With so much late rain, most leaves
and the grass hold tightly to their dark greens.

Soon there will be frost reversing the fluids’
flow in all the vegetation, colors will fade to ecru
for long cold months.

I wonder if the sap and vigor of humans rises in the spring.

Challenge

2011-10-03T03:07:00.003-04:00

My deep-cindered log fire calls me
to switch front to back for enjoyment
of the slow glowing heat to beat away the cold,
cold night, old and new snow banked
against my log cabin in the Maine woods.

Sound from the outside does not exist
except for occasional falling clumps
of snow from firs and birches.

No human resides within miles
as I spend the winter in planned
isolation and my personal test
of lone survival, my tools basic, suited
to the environment, a shelf filled
with more than a few books of careful
choosing.

My bunk is self-made
for my length, the mattress a feather-
filled antique that settles around
my body with comfort for aged bones
and joints.

An oil lamp reflects yellow
light against the pages of my selected,
sleep-inducer, a tome I feel guilty about
not having tackled before.

The night passes in stillness except for my constant
snoring, which, thankfully, I cannot hear.

Morning will bring more of the same.

Brief Encounter

2011-09-30T19:47:00.001-04:00

Pomegranate flesh, strewn beneath
stratus rinds, leaks into the peaks
of an already coal-black ridge,
filling half the late sky, then takes
on a bawdy rouge as the hidden sun
continues to rearrange its palette
of innumerable mixes and brushes.

Sumptuous

2011-09-24T11:43:00.001-04:00

A touch of finger tips across white linen
as red wine is served
in tall stems sets the moment,
eyes meeting, communicating
things to come.

A perfect bouquet from glasses
held over polished plates of rare
delights hardly touched as the two
talk and find reason to slip a morsel
or two on the other’s plate.

After polite adieus with the genial
staff, the pair wanders slowly
to the elevator that lifts them
and their spirits in anticipation
of slow love in the glow of darkness.

Something or Other

2011-09-24T11:39:00.000-04:00

Senryu

smetimes in the late
hours when sleep plays hide and seek
I seek other things

A Bit of War

2011-09-24T11:36:00.002-04:00

Senryu

an excited man bragged

about the MIG he shot down

another man drank

haiku

2011-09-13T10:35:00.002-04:00

late days slide warm winds

under leaves spiraling down

settling skittishly

Elberta Belle

2011-09-06T11:09:00.002-04:00

Raised by Franciscan monks, she migrated
from St. Augustine to Macon, where I first
saw and admired her perfect, pale skin
and picked her instantly to be mine only.
At last alone, I lay her warm body, soft
but firm, next to me on the black futon
where her complexion would show
to its finest hues, her plumpness soft,
yet firm, ripe to perfection,
even in her youth.
I hold her with both palms on round
hips like roses, soft velvet
to her navel. Bringing her to my cheek,
I inhale her sweet tang, anxious
to take her, forcing my ardor to slow,
make the moment last. Impossible!
I must have her now. My tongue touches
the crease down her middle, eager
to taste the rare juices just under
the whole of her. I suck the syrupy
flow to fill my mouth with heavenly
ambrosia, feasting now with abandon.
When only the wrinkled brown skin
Of the pit remains, I hold it in my mouth
for a long time, not wanting the affair
to ever end.

Sometimes It Happens

2011-08-26T13:49:00.001-04:00

When a man loves a woman, he slides first into her eyes,
finding his place there where her longings match his own.
The touch of fingers and clasp of hands seal the knowledge of belonging.

When a woman loves a man, she does so with abandon,
no reservations or conditions, just a matter of fact like a rock.
The touch of his lips and clasp of her cheeks stay imprinted permanently.

When two love, with no other thought but to cling and feel and run away
to be apart from the rest of the world, then their lives begin as they start
to search and marvel at what they have found.

Gravity

2011-08-12T14:00:00.001-04:00

As you approach
and cut across my lines
of flux,
a so brief contact of eyes,
shy,
yet pulling.

Undeniable attraction
unintended, inescapable,
creating
longings of intimacy unlived.

So little
time to imagine
a world impossible
as our sleeves touch
in passing
through an ocean of life.

A Walk in the Park

2011-08-08T14:50:00.000-04:00

Amiable opponents bend

over a battlefield, royals

and knaves alike in peril.

Bumbles hum and hover

over scents blazing

in the morning sunny air.

Gravel crunches, gaining

volume as runner’s pampered

feet close on me, then divide.

Frenzied pigeons trap a child,

thrilled, then screaming

for mother, peanuts flying.

Slanted, shady grass under

broad branches beckons

love-blind couples.

Mosquitoes sing in my ears,

no love songs but lust

for blood unstented.

I leave the field, bloodied

and bowed, but in toto

feeling the winner.

Robert Frost and Edward Thomas

2011-08-02T22:11:00.000-04:00

Those two were not recognized poets

then, just before the first war, but took

great pleasure in walking the fields

and woods, commenting on the art

of what they saw. Thomas was pulled

to the war, who knows why, but did

not survive his first run at battle.

A learned friend and I walked together

in a similar fashion, seeing and commenting

on every unique thing or phenomenon,

especially those that were new each day.

John was pulled to the ideals of the Democratic

party, and I to none, at least in public. We did

agree on Monet and Van Gogh and tried to match

their impressions on the wonders of our road.

The road now is like the tree falling that nobody

hears. We know even the weeds and the taste

of cress near the spring house. The barn and silo

and cattle awaiting their fate in the holding pen,

the warm welcomes of the few farmers left

and desire to stop their duties and gab for as long

as we wanted.

One of us had edited the local bugle, the other only

knew what he liked, but both gained from the other

while watching their feet as they put one in front

of the other. One wrote, the other edited and sometimes

rebuffed a shoddy attempt or when the words rang

false. Both now too infirm to relive those days,

but still knowing the feel and luxury of owning

everything we saw and shared.

Flights

2011-07-22T11:53:00.001-04:00

There is a place in my backyard,

with open sky between encircling

trees, where the stream of passenger

jets passes, noses pointed at D. C.,

a hundred miles out, right over

my house. Each throttles back

exactly there to start descent

for landing. In permissible weather,

they trail constantly, every few minutes,

each shuffling hundreds of souls

from who knows where to our

capitol city. Tens of thousands travel

daily to stay in other places,

while I remain wondering why,

watching the flow,

happy to remain

where I feel safe and welcome.

Don’t touch my junk.*

*Credit to the brave man who

defied the stupidity of invasion

of privacy.

haiku

2011-07-16T15:39:00.001-04:00

steady siroccos

spread scattered showers across

eastern sand sponges

Purely accidental: seven words begin with 's,' minus two odd ones = five. A new challenge.

Paco

Cleaving

2011-07-08T23:27:00.001-04:00

My finger tip ridges fill with a full tear,

just one of a stream finding its way

to your throat as you stare wide-eyed,

nothing entering your understanding.

Your eyes ask how I could touch you

when you know I’m leaving forever.

If there is still caring, why are you

still leaving. How can you turn away?

I cannot reply with eyes that also blur,

but I must find the will to withdraw

my gaze and finger, the last connectors

burning with a confusion of regret.

Where will I go except to grieve?

What will I do with this last look

and touch of your skin under salty

emotions of already killing want?

Where will you go to fall

like the dropping beautiful ball

in Times Square as the new year

begins in a split second?

Absent Dancers

2011-07-04T14:15:00.001-04:00

Unusual to awake in the middle
hours with no visitors, no dancers
who want to hold me tight and relive
moments of horror as they perished.

Don’t think I’m complaining, except
maybe for the loss of sleep. Hell, I will
not complain if I never sleep again
until I join you in Elysium.

Has the quota for one who hates
to dance finally reached empty?
Did my out of step performance
annoy you as I screamed for help?

Is it perhaps that the ballroom
allows for just a few elders that will not
jostle the beginners who have only
recently received late invitations?

Please. let me will dance in their stead
if their faulted brains will allow me
to tap your shoulder, take your bony
hands and sway to macabre music.

haiku

2011-06-28T20:01:00.003-04:00

lush leaves still in heat
of summer steam secretly
begin autumn’s change

haiku

2011-06-26T07:54:00.000-04:00

come float above high
tops of growing cumuli
and watch the Earth slide

Escape

2011-06-18T22:00:00.003-04:00

John Henry sat on the back steps

of his daughter’s house, thinking

about tomorrow. He knew she had

no choice, so he had already made

other plans. With his Gerber knife,

the bark from the dogwood limb

peeled easily and made a small pile

around his shoes.

John waited until breakfast was

finished, giving the stores time to

open, but leaving a space before

his planned move to the hospice.

As always, he settled into his

place on the stoop where he could

watch things come to life. He eased

the newly carved stick next to him.

In the quiet morning, he stood and walked

slowly with his wooden prop down

six blocks to the pawn shop where

the owner waited with the legal

paperwork already signed. The snub-

nosed .32 fit snugly in the belt

holster in back under his jacket,

the box of bullets filling his pocket.

John’s next stop was in the middle

of the din of barking at the country

shelter. The Blue Heeler saw or

smelled him at once and stood at

attention, waiting for the daily biscuit.

The old man nodded at the attendant

to let him out of the cage. The dog

came directly to John’s shoes and sat.

Come on boy, we have one more stop

to make. The ATM allowed John to

take his remaining cash, which he folded

and stuck down inside his right brogan.

The dog and the man walked together,

slowly, as if they had traveled a hundred

miles before, but were in no hurry

to get where they were going.

Life Erodes

2011-06-18T13:05:00.002-04:00

Things change.
The words you and I said so long
ago no longer have that sweet
meaning. They have faded like
untreated paper, acids slowly
eating away the fiber.

Time erodes memories and feelings
that can never be recaptured, no matter
their importance and heart-rending
emotions permeating our beings,
binding us both mentally and especially
physically in our hunger.

He who wrote “You Cannot Go Home Again”
knew the multiple meanings that his words
encapsulated. Even the ‘home,’ faces the
ravages of time that make us into different
people. People with memories and affections
still, but distorted into spoiled realities.

We cannot bring back the wondrous days
of close times in the sun, the gentle touching
that never failed to bring us to oneness
and singularity of thoughts and emotions.
Those times are still in memory, but are no
longer accessible through the fog of life.

Conjunctive Eyes

2011-06-12T18:26:00.001-04:00

Summertime images penetrate
my corneas, focused by lenses
to ride retinas to optic nerves
feeding the mass of gray matter
for interpretations.

Can we trust our lying eyes
that also bring us sights
of sorrow and evil, despicable
visions of decay laid to waste
under greens of innocent grass?

Why are we able and willing
to see long-time loved ones
as different beings when they
act in ways that surprise
and dismay our expectations?

Does our awareness of betrayal
and emotional destruction change
our brains into gray stone that can
no longer accept beauty through
wet eyes blurring?

haiku

2011-06-06T15:02:00.003-04:00

sere clear sky steals sap

from shade cyprus sentinels

pumping through damp earth

Heartland

2011-05-28T13:01:00.003-04:00

The brilliance of the sky,

even scattered by rising clouds,

obscures the building cumuli nimbus

as an almost frigid air mass pushes

from the west to clash with warm

wet south winds, two divergent

forces that will surely result

in a combined fury as the Earth’s

rotation inexorably summons

the northern hemisphere’s

counter-clockwise rotation,

to rapidly form cones of wind

and torrents of rain and hail pelting

the structures on land, drawing

them upward and casting outward

every object not secure beyond

the monster’s force. In cities,

and a few small towns, a siren

sounds to save a lucky few who

cannot fight, only flee with close

ones. A new reality emerges

with the dawn.

Macabre Me

2011-05-24T16:01:00.002-04:00

Twenty-seven tons of iron bombs
tumble with gravity haste from eight
miles above the Ho Chi Minh Trail
to rain fire and sizzling metal shards
through the deadening concussion
on fifteen year-old carriers, the chain
of death delivered from my safe
platform of titanium electronic
hideout while I monitor green glaring
scopes for retaliation.

Twelve years aged scotch forces
its fumes through my senses, leaving
me only long enough to say adios
to wife and sons without a fucking
clue that it was all about me
and the nights that will never end.

The hot needle enters my right temple
without even a whisper of introduction
or a word that it would take up residency
for more than twenty years, at first like
a hot poker burning my right eyeball
blood red, copious snot running, pain
beyond my ability to contain, me rolling
on the floor, banging my head into
the wall as I stagger up and down for
my hour or more of dealing with the beast,
some nights to the ER for knock-out drops,
some nights mewing like a kitten,
my .38 special between my teeth. Clusters
the neuros named them, cluster fucks they
were, often three attacks in one long night.

A plane zooms upward, but stalls to fall tail
first back to the runway, while the pilot
floats gently down into the pile of metal
and the almost invisible fumes of aviation
fuel. His crew chief shares his fate, running
without hesitation into the conflagration,
carrying his best friend to safety before
they both die horribly. They still live,
uninvited guests who just want to dance
with me in the dark.

haiku

2011-05-22T19:58:00.001-04:00

rising heat ignites

backyard blossoms on the bank

into bright madness

Kabloona

2011-05-16T22:31:00.001-04:00

Ice shards float in the recent
breakup of the waterway,
stranding a bear mother
and two cubs who stare
at the seal-hide canoe
keeping its distance.

A white man, a kabloona,
sits in the middle, holding
each side as the rough ride
throws the craft about.
The rowers, wary, intent
on getting two speared seals
to the tribe, all decimated
by the long winter and only
few fish caught through the ice.

Feasting on raw seal, precious
whale oil is wasted in lamps
as each slices in cultural turns
from parts designated by eons
of hierarchy, even though
round-faced tots gnaw secretive
bits of liver and heart.

The kabloona has gained entry
to the tribe, sharing near the end
of the line of hunters, but before
any woman or child. He came
out of curiosity and boredom
and stayed with the undeniable lure
of living with the elements.

(My condensation of the book,
a true story written a century
ago by a French nobleman.
Those interested will find it.)

Postcard

2011-05-14T21:31:00.002-04:00

Umbrellas and tables covered, waiting

for the unveiling and cleaning of rubbish

from the thirty year-old deck, while I yearn

for my seat and shade in the evening

shadows that bring relief from direct

rays of a glorious setting sun.

Squirrels and birds now rule my little

kingdom, leaving their clutter and damage

of the replaceable things that don't matter.

They know to stay away from this human relic

on days when I control my isolated oasis

from a wooden throne on high.

The seemingly moving sun changes

all I see, making a new world, but one

I have gloried in, these many years.

The mountains have not moved but the sky

is still different each day. I know I shall soon

be able to inhale it all, and more.

Wish you were here.

Dancing in the Dark

2011-05-10T16:02:00.000-04:00

A navy lieutenant commander takes
the seat, still warm from the Air Force major who,
grinning, makes way and formally hands over the duty.
Their short exchange translates to the terrain scope
as he takes the stick and throttles and responsibility
for the drone more than a thousand miles away,
where the sun has just risen, belying the midnight here.
Using only the trim button, he eases the plane a little
left to point cameras at a small crowd gathering near
the only tree, and a water well in the bleak surroundings.
The little people seem to be digging near the road used
to bring in supplies. Final approval comes with a nod
from his shift leader, who had a little talk with the CIA
rep who is always up to date. Hellfire missiles blow
the funeral gathering to smithereens. A pat on his
shoulder gives assurance of a job well done.

An air force major centers the cross-hairs eight miles
above the rocky, tree-lined supply trail at Mu Gia Pass,
bombed a hundred time before, and rebuilt within a day
for the night's line of supplies toters, trained for more
than a year for just this trip down the Ho Chi Minh trail,
up steep grades, across streams and even some level
places that seemed like eating dessert, though the blisters
on recent resting places for the long,slender pole cuts deep.
In the dark, each couple keeps an eye on the reflective
patch on the back of the clone in front. The silence,
held by even the smothering of sneezes and coughs,
is torn apart by bombs that start a thousand clicks
ahead, and travel north like a giant chain being dragged
along the thin line of carriers who stand with sticks on shoulders,
stunned, knowing the fire will consume them all.

An army first lieutenant, just eighteen months
from his tossing of the wheel-hat into the air at graduation,
from the ages old, never-changing academy,
leads his motley crew with do-rags through
the clinging arms of the jungle vines and heavy
brush just outside the perimeter of their base
camp, complete with bunks now longed
for, and even words on paper, written with love
from across thousands of miles of sea and land,
the pages almost falling apart from the many foldings
and openings that fill their hearts.
Noise from the front and left trigger a solid wall
of M-16 fire before any order is given, taking out
more than ten rice farmers and their families,
sleeping without a weapon. The night patrol,
on seek-and-destroy, move closer to the village,
and in fear and anger, Zippo the grass huts
as they run insanely through, shooting anything
or anyone that moves. After the quick bon fires
and body counts, they find the buried cache
of weapons left there just yesterday by the Viet Cong.
Some of the men, joined in camaraderie, regardless
of shades of skin and what they smoked or drank,
survive to endure rancor and even a spittle welcome
at home, that event which they had counted and marked
faithfully each day on hand-crafted calendars that grew
smaller each day, another day in the neighborhood.
They hated everything and everybody who they crazily
thought would get them killed before the big eagle hauled
them back to the land of milk and honey. They shook
hands and told of their families or girl friends waiting,
of the cash they had saved for that hot car and all
the cold beer they could drink, without having to keep
one eye on the jungle, watching for Charlie.

Thirty years later, survivors join in late night dances,
alone, awake and afraid to go back to sleep, their solitary
waltzes unseen,or forgotten, or those moving
targets who just happened to get in the way
of bullets, fire, shrapnel, or million dollar missiles.

Please. I don't want to dance with them, just children,
even some brave warriors in black pajamas
and truck tire flip-flops, no more than fifteen,
but willing and able. Even old, stoop-shouldered men and women,
and kids who rode and cared for the village buffalo
in rice paddies.

Their thoughts all the same, alone in the dark:
Goddamit, it was my job.

Are those who gave the orders dancing?
No, they are rotting with the victims,
my victims.

haiku

2011-05-06T19:10:00.003-04:00

dogwood blossoms lay

new carpet over green grass

at the end of spring

In the Arms of Art

2011-04-14T14:20:00.002-04:00

I pick up a piece of a car fender
rusted almost to a dull orange
powder, and it becomes a canvas
filled with a speckled tangerine
emitting a citrus sting.

In wonder, I continue my path,
holding new-found objects, each
transforming itself to please my
wonderment at color and scent,
never known even as a hint.

As natural as taking the next step,
I present the world with my
collection of colors and smells
and sights as new as the birthing sun,
clearing a mountain just for fun.

In a slow awakening, I try to hold
on to the art, canvasses I would
proudly show at a gathering of Monet,
Renoir and even Picasso, the one who
would exclaim, "You did well, you!"

Fortunot

2011-04-12T18:18:00.002-04:00

The remains, already in mental tatters,
now dragged in the streets of despair.
Only a fool would believe in new life
when all vital signs are in decline.

An empty ego and impotent libido
leave bitter dregs of a life in limbo.
Even then, the fool deludes,
longing for days in the sun.

Chin up then, stiff upper lip, pip-pip,
Old Boy. You can only do the possible,
eh?

Display the medals
and hang the framed accolades.
Karma has finally caught up with you.
Get real.

Unaware

2011-03-30T15:07:00.001-04:00

Rain on snow takes away the glitter
as I watch its runoff in the midnight
glare of the streetlamp. In the middles,
in the silence so appropriate, I am
compelled to watch the emptiness
outside.

Aging's effect on the mind causes
memories to flow to a drain ever
empty and seeming to want more
of the most meaningful events
of a life that outrace its abilities
inside.

Perhaps by tomorrow I will have
forgotten standing alone beside
the black night window, a spot
chosen as my haven against those
memories that never join the rush
downhill.

A sudden shiver works its way into
my chest, with fingers that spread
wide, dissolving the snow blanket
with sopping cold drops that I know
will soon drive me back to an unwelcomed
sleep of then.

Another Time

2011-03-23T13:48:00.001-04:00

Just standing, taking it all in,
large and small pieces and shards
scattered for at least a quarter mile,
the camouflaged tail section with its four fifty
caliber guns just pointing, not aiming.

Trees down and other jungle growth
cleared by the crash landing, no sign
of life or even body parts apparent, the
scene so quiet. I listen for anything,
anybody.

A few minutes pass as I stand
still, tense, knowing something is about
to happen, but my mind is simply open.

A murmur creeps through the metal,
attenuated by green tangled growth.

A weak moan, then a definite "Please."

Is that you, gunner? Are you in there?

Bolt upright in bed, covers flung aside.
I stifle a scream with realization of where
I sit, staring into the darkness,
sweat-soaked and shaking slightly from
transition of mental confusion.

A soft mew from the old feral cat below my
window, a frequent visitor seeking God knows
what, in his own world and I in mine. I manage
a weak grin, but tonight has ended for me.

The Real World

2011-03-18T18:57:00.000-04:00

At the quarter mile point a white
rock rests against the base of a
sycamore, having tumbled years
before from the ancient quarry.

The flat spot on top of the three-
foot tall stone I claim for my first
rest on a two mile walk along my
river, Daughter of the Stars.

Under the shade, even in the midst
of summer, the air cools my brow
as I allow my heart to slow its beat.
The pleasure surrounds me.

A gentle slope leads to the slow
current of the river below, its surface
slick in the reflected light from a
rising brass sun behind me.

I dig into the damp soil with my
walking stick and uncover two small
red wrigglers that squirm rapidly in
the expected nascent heat growing.

A quick flick with my dogwood stick
sends the natural lures arcing into
the water world where other creatures
wait for just such culinary pleasures.

Blue gills vie for each small bite and
skitter away with their prizes, soon
inhaled before they turn back in memory
to the place of their manna from above.

Reluctantly, I heft my weight from the
solid rock, back onto the two-lane
Macadam road leading to Gander’s
farm, rich in smells pleasingly awful.

I stop again for a few minutes to sip
from the pool below the springhouse
where the watercress waits, its green
cool flavor bestowing another gift.

Past the centuries-old, many red coats
barn, its sliding door open to the rich
mixture of sorghum and grain to fatten
fated black cows in the holding pen.

Turn around point at the tractor barn
built just to house the refurbished
ancient machines, lovingly driven
just to make sure they still work.

Two miles under my feet as I proudly
pop the cap on a sweaty bottled beer
from the cooler in the trunk of my
meticulously clean antique car.

Memory Prevails

2011-03-03T23:39:00.001-05:00

Over reality of sermons
and benedictions and the
cold hardness insisting
as the burials follow with
the years of stowing away
their beings and our times
inside one side or the other
of my brain where they live
as brightly and warm and
funny and loving as ever,
maybe even better without
the accompanying pains of
knowing their lives contained
troubles I would never know
or want to remember. R.I.P.
but continue to live with me
at odd moments when a word
or smell or even a mood comes
questing. Grant me that grin,
that laugh or giggle, that
surprising hug out of nowhere
when you knew I needed. Stay
here with your voices of concern
when I suffer and your sharing of
yourselves.

Finding Time

2011-02-23T20:07:00.000-05:00

Arthritic hands, toughened by hard times,
now weakly grab the green-gray armrests
of his seasoned years-old teak chair
on the high deck built with those same hands
more than thirty years gone.

He settles on the chair after brushing off
the leaves and leavings of acorn shells,
taking a sweeping look around
the yard overgrown to a fault with every
plant that survived the winter snows.

The brash-mad chasing of three squirrels
makes him want to lecture them on polite
behavior. The silliness of the thought makes
him grin inside. A tawny wren clings to the top
of the old wooden house with its tiny door.

He tries to answer the amorous male’s call
with a poor imitation that the eager, addled
bird finds attractive, again calling absurdly
loud from such small lungs. No point in
trying to fool the horny little bastard.

His glass of sipping whiskey lasts almost
an hour as the peaceful privacy of his
backyard soaks into his soul like the smoky
bourbon goes from tongue to reach
his satisfied mind taking in his own oasis.

Male Pride

2011-02-05T17:01:00.003-05:00

The box with the small entry,

placed high above the fence,

discovered by the tiny wren

with his complicated opus to

the beauty who cannot resist

greeting.

Tirelessly, the sticks and straws

have molded to his perfect eye

to fit the responding lover and

soon a voracious brood, their

begging maws needing constant

filling.

I watch from my shaded seat,

remote, unnoticed by the

toiling pair, admiring their

unending pluck and ownership

of a tiny world of threats and

uncertainty.

A diminutive survivor will find

his way back to this weathered

house, dim in his memory, but

soon filled with the comfort of

home as he trills mightily to the

one.

In Puerto Rico

2011-01-31T14:57:00.002-05:00

It rains somewhere every day,

especially in the small mountains

as the sea air sails up the slopes.

There are colmados, their version

of the convenience store, scattered

seemingly to suit the owner, not

the customers.

Today the wipers cannot keep up

with tons of water streaming and

hiding even the narrow road. I stop

the Ford Fairlane in front of the little

store and reach for the umbrella on

the backseat. A rap on my window

startles me, a walnut face looking in.

The owner waits there calmly in the

deluge, his grin questioning my visit.

Bravely, I carefully pick from my

sparse vocabulary of Spanish, painfully

learned in night classes. “Hola, señor.

¿Donde esta la casa de señor Mendez?”

The old man stares at me for a full minute.

I figure he’s trying to think how to

give me directions, and finally he speaks

very slowly, as one would talk to an imbecile.

“Señor, por favor. No speaka Inglės.”

I thank him and roll up the window as I

drive off, crestfallen at the perfect

squelch.

History Lesson

2011-01-28T19:03:00.001-05:00

First day. Lucky. Best school in the city.
Those years of night school paying off.
Early on the job, walking fast to my first
class, two boys propped against the hall
wall.

“Who’s that?”

“My new History teacher. Look at that
haircut. I think he just got out of prison.”

Grinning still, digging in my briefcase,
my name-plate goes to the front edge of
my new, battered desk in my new classroom.

The day’s objectives neat in chalk soon on
the green board. No more black slate.

More than thirty sleepy students straggle
in to fill the straight lines of old, carved-on
desks, not one of them seeming to notice me,
another new teacher, in his best suit, trying
to look confident and cheerful.

Required roll call meaningless; we’ll get to
know each other soon. No assigned seats. Let
them each be comfortable where they choose.

By careful planning the night before, I give
each a sheet for their names and a short biography.
Memory gives up only his last name: Cotton.
In the tenth grade, the tall black boy had written
in large block letters his name and
“ITS NOT I DON’T WANT TO BUT I CANT."

The next day, he was in a Remedial Reading class,
and I had learned a lesson.

Unending Rows

2011-01-28T18:57:00.000-05:00

Cockleburs cling to my double-cuffed
overalls, I squinting through sweat in
eyes set on the marker tree shading only
the end of an unplowed field. The Biblical
admonition echoes the threat of looking
back in admiration incurring a crooked
row ahead. Mollie Mule farts loudly,
stopping at my Whoa, its stink permanent
in the still, heavy air. Futilely, I wipe at
salt-sweat with soaked sleeves before
jiggling leather straps to start the bottom
plow, sloughing dry, red dirt, my stinging
eyes again finding the guiding tree. Finally
standing in the meager shade, I soak my
sweat rag several times with water from the
stowed Mason jar, to wet the mule’s eager,
sucking lips before tilting the glass for my own
two, quick sips. Hawing to turn the plow into
the next row, I loosely wrap the reins on the
right curved handle, finding a new target tree in
the distance, thinking only about the second
water jar waiting, as I block any other thoughts
of my future.

A Quick Trip

2011-01-23T03:27:00.001-05:00

I want to be large enough
to straddle the Blue Ridge,
ride it without reins or halter,
but romp across the valley
below, feel the mountain air
breeze through my hair as I
and my razor-back steed
splash along the flow of the
river.

Let stones roll and
trees fall as I rearrange
the topography to my suiting.

Let it all be mine. Never mind;
it is already, I, loafing on my
backyard deck.

She Lives...

2011-01-22T09:55:00.001-05:00

...In memories of close
ones, in an intimacy of love
of all her living being, her
talents and quirks, her quick
intelligence and her empathy
with others, that fortunate one
who now sees through her
corneas, even those of us
who have only now learned
of her beauty.

A Break in the Boredom

2011-01-15T10:44:00.001-05:00

Fuel exhaust pushes against eight engines

and makes the steel bunker girders seem to

flex through the heat waves as the pilot rudders

the BUFF* left onto the tarmac taxiway for an

exact three A. M. takeoff from Guam.

The bomber will join two others lining at

the right turn onto the runway that stretches

for two miles, almost to the cliff that falls

two hundred feet to the deep Pacific around

the Marianas.

The flight of three rolls down the centerline,

thirty seconds apart, to climb a hundred miles

to their assigned altitude for a repeated formation

a half-minute apart. Over the Philippines, they

separate to find their own tankers.

After gas-passing, the planes reform for the

long haul that takes them over Cambodia for

their bomb run against an imaginary rectangle

of the Ho Chi Minh trail where determined

coolies and trucks haul supplies.

The run starts over an initial point called to

the crews by the lead navigator. 108 bombs,

500 or 750 pounders, drop from each bay,

seemingly in a chain that travels on blast

links along the trail.

At eight miles above, the bombers cannot

be seen or heard by the laden laborers below,

delivering death silently until the concussion

bombs disintegrate men, supplies, explosives,

elephants, tigers and jungle.

A left turn off the target takes the reformed

platforms into Laos, south back to Cambodia,

then over the ocean for the six-hour flight

back to Guam, the sun well up now, as others

pass in sets of three around the clock.

Each crew-member sits in silence and his private

thoughts, counting the days until this six-month,

temporary duty ends, and they can return to guarding

the nation with similar bombers, different only in

their arms of nuclear weapons.

* BUFF. Big Ugly Fat Fucker or B-52 Bomber

Almost

2011-01-13T06:07:00.001-05:00

Morning chill keeps me in the bunk
as my fishing partner starts the pot
of percolated coffee, its aroma strong
in the small cabin of logs laid years
ago near East Grand Lake, where the
first sunrays strike the continent. Still
in just skivvies, goose bumps cover
me while I am drawn to the colors
painting the hardwood floor through
the one window facing Canada and
a huge expanse of water. The fast-
changing sky hovers over the dark
strip of trees separating the reflected
dawn on the still mirror of glowing
water, on fire with images of growing
clouds streaking south, their dark gray
underbellies pulled along by bright
white light from above, but so far
away that only a golden patina grips
the water emerging from the line of
dark trees and their twin reflection.
I gratefully sip the hot, strong coffee
and almost regret knowing how the
boat’s blades will churn the pacific
waters and create a new lake.

Almost.

In a Maze

2011-01-08T07:03:00.003-05:00

Men and women think and love
in vastly different ways and they
will never learn the other’s language.
Personally, I think of myself as that
clueless dog who chases the cuffs
or skirts of humans with glee until
one or the other grows tired of my
never-ending fun and swats me with
a folded newspaper.

I go along happily doing and saying
what I thought I learned, to the OPPOSITE
sex, when a bolt from nowhere jolts my
inner beliefs, and I hear the British at York
Town playing The World Turned
Upside Down. Like a puppy, I find
an isolated corner to lick my wounds,
always ready to jump up and carry on
with my silly shenanigans.

Circling

2011-01-06T04:28:00.003-05:00

Late or early, missing by minutes
becomes hours, sometime days,
when missives pass in the ether,
code connected, ever reformatted
as they pass like planets whose
orbits never allow a touch,
disaster certain to result.

Time missed, in volume or minutiae,
impossible to retreive, even on one-way
highways sparsely traveled in small
hours, unlit by sun or streetlamps,
brings confusion, speculation, wrongful
inclination and even accusations,
causing harm on the level of planets
colliding.

Woodworking

2010-12-29T18:31:00.002-05:00

I drag out the old drop-leaf table from its dusty,dark storage in the basement. Use it or lose it, I think. Time now to do something with this piece hidden under different colors of brushed on paint.Scraping the coats of paint from one corner of a leaf shows the wood beneath. As I suspected, soft pine, open grain, but even this small part attracts my feeling for the old wood. Two days of harsh chemicals and Red Devil scraping leave even the legs bare and raw, as if they had been standing naked in winter’s cold air.Will this thing be ready before Spring? I decide to finish the legs first, with three coats of polyurethane, a steel wool rubbing between each layer, and a day to dry. Damn, the grain in that knotty-pine looks good. Hand block sanding slowly smoothes the top and drop leaves, adding tactile pleasure. Nearing the end, but lingering, I do a fourth rubbing with steel wool and a final coat of clear poly. A last day of drying, and on go the legs.The Harvest table stands on the tarp, shining, each change of grain standing forth, producing a Gestalt effect where the sum is greater than the parts. Now I wonder where the hell I can put this new/old table in a house already crowded with too much of the past.

Hangers-on

2010-12-15T09:02:00.001-05:00

In the middle of the cold drizzle,
through a back window,
a slight movement grabs
my attention. A dark finch? has
found the almost frozen feed bags
still half-full of fattening thistle
seeds.

I stay with the tiny gluttonous
creature as its head bobs to grab
the loot, then back up to watch
for threats—almost anything
that moves. He/she prefers
to grasp the netting with tail
up.

After the bird flits away into
a Leyland Cyprus, whose limbs
make it disappear, I wait in hopes
of a return visit or the appearance
of yet another hungry and stubborn
stay-behind guest for my sumptuous
feast.

I reluctantly give up my vigil
of the dark grays and greens
and stillness, seemingly devoid
of life. I take away the smug
knowledge of those waiting
a turn at the table set for my
enjoyment.

Unaware

2010-12-12T04:33:00.001-05:00

Rain on snow takes away the glitter
as I watch its runoff in the midnight
glare of the streetlamp. In the middles,
in the silence so appropriate, I am
compelled to watch the emptiness
outside.

Aging’s effect on the mind causes
memories to flow to a drain ever
empty and seeming to want more
of the most meaningful events
of a life that outraces its abilities
inside.

Perhaps by tomorrow I will have
forgotten standing alone beside
the black night window, a spot
chosen as a haven against those
memories that never join the rush
downhill.

A sudden rain works its way into my
chest, with fingers that spread
wide, dissolving the snow blanket
with sopping cold drops that I know
will soon drive me back to unwelcome
sleep.

Again.

Tour of Duty

2010-12-09T23:59:00.001-05:00

He turned thirty before killing his first human,
with not a thought of people in the jungle thirty-thousand
feet below. Doing the job. Defending. Making 108 swimming
pools for those lucky bastards below. Don’t sweat it,
Charlie; it’s on us.

Suspected enemy strongholds, or likely ammo dumps.
We loved bombing explosives. At our altitude no noise,
just the flashes of secondary weapons stashes killing
everyone associated with the stockpile they guarded.
A good night.

Like the tuna commercial, at bombs-away, the copilot
always broadcast in the clear for everyone to hear:
“Xin lỗi,Charlie.” Of course it was for the Viet Cong
below, meaning, “Sorry, Charlie.” I mean, you
gotta be polite, huh?

Youth

2010-12-09T15:04:00.001-05:00

I tried to keep light

in a bottle, but beauty

up and died on me.

Wonder

2010-12-02T07:52:00.003-05:00

Stumbling into the blatant face
of paeans and unreserved emotion,
he fast turns the corner, forced
to react to this new world, reasoning
awry, old habits unworkable while he
flails, touching down momentarily to test
the icy thinness, then quick, away,
yawing desperately to find
familiar mores and aged tactics,
useless against his ignorance.

Catch and Release

2010-11-29T23:39:00.001-05:00

Standing knee-deep in the sliding water,
my grandson up to his waist, I realize
it's too late to give him all the lessons
he needs to fish this river.

The sun is just up at our backs, perfect
for the smallies that sense us but cannot
see against the glare. I take John's rod
and reel from him and tie on a swivel.

I hang a Panther Martin, gold blade, from
the clip and cast it a few feet below
the riffles, a good fifty feet in front
and to our left. Line taut at once.

I set the drag and place the rod handle
and reel crank in John's hands. He just
holds tight, watching the end of the line
cut the water as the fish dives deep.

"Pull up easy with the rod, son, and then
crank in the slack. Don't let him have
line to play with or he will spit out
the spinner and be gone.

John works the fish downstream
and toward the shallow water, and I'm
thinking proud like he's doing what
comes natural to him.

With the two-pounder finally hanging
from the line in his hand, I tell my
grandson to wet his hands so he won't
take away the smallmouth's protection.

With forceps, I help remove the hook
with little damage, and show the boy
how to hold the fish underwater until
it regains strength enought to flee.

John said, "Grandpa, I'm glad we don't
have to eat him. He was beautiful."

"Son," I said, "so were you."

Unfinished

2010-11-29T21:06:00.000-05:00

Again I smell that reek of helplessness
emanating from those exalted who act
as if they have all the solutions.

"Let’s show them how fucking tough we are!"

When the NVA came down the Ho Chi Minh
with missiles on Easter Sunday, we threw all
our marbles into the ring. When they overran
our best and bravest, we said,

"We’ll show them how fucking tough we are!"

When they refused to bargain, we sent the Big
Ugly Fat Fuckers to Hanoi, losing some, but
laying waste to everything they owned. So—
they came to talk, that’s all, talk.

"We showed them how fucking tough we are!"

They freed the POWs and we declared victory
and pulled our asses out of the quagmire. We
left all who had believed, depended on and
loved us. We loved them only as individuals.

(We showed them who we really are.)

When Saddam's Iraq was beaten to a pulp,
we talked and let him keep all his weapons
of death. So, he used them against the people
in his own birth village who were angry at him
and his other murderers.

"He showed them."

Justice has been served, except for those
holdouts in Afghan who don’t mind at all
killing our young fodder sent to kick the can
a little further down the corrupt desert road.

"We’ll show them by next summer"

And then come home. Except for those
that already got a ride home in a first-class
body bag with military honors that mean
the same now as they did then and before then.

Unfinished.

Fall Finale

2010-11-25T06:41:00.000-05:00

My trees hold still under
their gray ceiling of poised
strata, no movement even
of sere dull leaves.

Squirrels
I imagine huddled
in stick havens, drowsing
away this lifeless day.

Absent finches
and cardinals, jays and grackles
have spurned hanging webbed
sacks of grain for warmer climes.

Dull bunting drapes over
teak chairs and metal tables,
adding nothing but more
of the same.

Impossible for me to frown
long at my deserted back yard
when even gas logs flame slowly,
but at least with color.

Heat

2010-11-25T06:04:00.001-05:00

From their high window
the pair could see streetlights
and sparse traffic
in the night's middle.

They stood in the dark
room, looking down,
barely touching, wearing
nothing but a shared grin.

The sudden wail from
a speeding fire truck
broke the silence
and the afterglow.

Too late, they thought;
the fire consumed us.

Richter Scale

2010-11-17T09:55:00.001-05:00

Magma anger builds, pushing upward

through erratic cracks inside my

vulcanian cranium, quick overflow

now irreversible, slaying inexorably

any living remnants of affection

and empathy.

Erupting rock seeks the bottom

of possibilities until frozen hard

by an ocean of tears, the two

intractable, becoming a new entity

blocking any effort of reconciliation

and return.

Newborn tsunami gathers masses

of ocean, forming rolling waves,

gaining height and acceleration,

separating from the duel, taking

away all hope of healing; killing

and maiming

beautiful, beautiful.

Growing up in Georgia (Cont.) Age Seven

2010-11-14T00:21:00.000-05:00

Errand

Grandma gave me the exact
change to get two quarts of milk
from our only store close by
before it closed in ten minutes.
The sun was down but I could
still see as I ran between the
mill-village houses and down
the dirt bank to Hawthorne
Street and across to the still
open doors. Mr. Blankenship
was taking off his butchers'
apron when I ran in, pushing
on the screen door and letting the
spring slam it shut again. I gave
him the money first, and grabbed
two bottles by their glass necks,
and was back on the sidewalk
before the door swung shut for
the night. Just as I stepped off
the curb, a black Ford came fast
around the corner, scaring me
back onto the sidewalk. Just one
shot blasted fire from the back
window and the car sped down
the street, me just standing still,
watching. Scared stiff. But I
looked to my left where the big
black man lay on the concrete
looking straight at me, not blinking,
an even blacker hole, the size of a
half-dollar, leaking blood out of his
left shoulder. I ran fast across
the empty street and tripped
on the curb, smashing both bottles
on the concrete. The glass necks
were still in my hands as I ran up
the steps. Then I just stood there,
unable to open our back door.
Grandma took the pieces from
my hands and sat me down
on the steps where she slowly
coaxed it all out of me.

Storm

2010-10-17T00:00:00.003-04:00

wind bends tops of trees

lightning flickers in the north

cold rain spatters dust

For the Moment

2010-10-08T12:55:00.003-04:00

From the summit of the Massanutten

ridge looming over river and valley,

I stare through the branches of a

Paradise tree, sparse with leaves in

this late fall of the year.

Vast skies float over the snaking

river and highway up against the

foothills that rise so fast to my

rocky ledge, jutting like a dare

for any bold vision seeker.

Buzzards and eagles soar between

me and the hazy horizon, seeming

to suspend over their self-appointed

guard posts, patrolling with

sweeping, effortless turns.

I back away from the edge of the

precipice as my mind turns to the

bulk of stone, placed just so by

gravity and erosion over millennial

time to wait for my arrival.

Unwelcome Guest

2010-10-07T23:20:00.001-04:00

A barren desert forms, flat
and featureless within my
loneness, clamping the fear
inside to reside alongside
hidden, buried memories.

Only a patina of awareness
required to give new life
to times and deeds reviled,
those that spread throughout
to fill every fiber with regret.

Alone, no help to change
what lives under false covers
of guilt, excuses rising to
defend, only to create
the ogre that never dies.

A Last Hot Day

2010-09-25T00:16:00.003-04:00

A sea of lazy air gives motion

to differing parts of mountain bulk,

as sunrays-soaked fields boil and

play tricks on the sensible, stable

horizon, now a weaving base for

hefty ridges of rocks and trees.

The foothills dance with erratic

steps, as though to cool one foot

while keeping the beat with another,

chromatics galour grateful for

respite with each slow-sailing

short-lived shade of clouds.

Spontaneity

2010-09-21T20:26:00.001-04:00

Her firm grasp of my elbows
guides my arms and hands to the
small of her back, then down
the wholesome slope of lush
hips moving with grace to press
breasts and thighs against my now
fully awake behemoth libido. No
questions. Just here and now.

Murphy's Law

2010-09-21T20:22:00.001-04:00

In the jump seat close behind and between
pilot and copilot, I sit wearing a chest-pack
chute, we three silent, watching wide-spread
banks of stratified sameness slowly slide miles
below, illuminated by the early sun’s slanting
rays. Our time seems unmoving as undeniable
half-ton iron bombs lay captured in one rack,
copper fuse wires extracted in the failed drop.

Incestuous Rex

2010-09-14T19:29:00.006-04:00

Seeing Jocasta nude for the first time

caused Oedipus to catch his breath

in painful longing, serving to oust

guilt memories of father Laius’ death.

His gift from Thebes turned with quick

amusement to look her brother's way,

an immediate warmth with smiles

enough to create a catching medley.

She did not avert her face, with

wide-set green eyes and pale skin,

not ashamed, but craving brash

connection with her illicit kin.

Growing Up in Georgia (cont.)

2010-09-13T11:05:00.002-04:00

Innocent Guilt

First arousals in childhood
years, curiosity yielded desire,
but little knowledge--disjointed
threads of longing, objects of
formless desire: mysterious,
unbearably exciting, secret forms
hidden under skirts, contained
between closed legs.

Learned details shaped
fantasies: the crinkled oval of
umber colored, hard nipples,
soft down in a too-quick
glimpse of an inner thigh,
tongue wetting nervous,
swollen lips, breath halted
by an accidental touch.

Impossible to contain or
satisfy myself.

Harvest Beat

2010-09-12T04:42:00.003-04:00

Ten thousand kites at least,
quick hyphens arrow south,
tied by birdsong to single turns.

Shortened days of frost
when crystal air shivers
in steams of ragged mist.

Exploding dawn bursts upon
and paints the eastern ridge
with gleaming, broad strokes.

Trees and water, even the sky,
portend harsh changes of
frigid, bristling beauty.

Lush façade of sudden hues slowly
spin and sail in streaming sere
showers and absorb the false recess.

Tinted shards of newborn bright,
adrift in saffron seas, lonely in
profusion of their intense purity.

Don't Move

2010-09-08T09:54:00.003-04:00

From this angle on the slope,
our river's deep, slow flow
reflects blue behemoths,
imposed on its surface through
sultry gatherings of heated air
in the still midday. This straight
stretch of rich heritage seems
to hold its breath and wait
for shadows to cool green banks
overhung with majestic rows of
tall sycamore sentries guarding
an ever-changing sameness.

Growing Up in Georgia (cont.)

2010-09-05T18:06:00.002-04:00

That's Not Her

The waxen face with hidden eyes
rests lightly on white satin, we
boys staring. She used to be my
grandmother, mother of my mother.

No longer. Now an aged mannequin,
dressed for the occasion and for
the undertaker’s paying guests,
begrudging of their homage.

My always-talking cousin,
son of my mother’s brother
must offer his benediction:
"Looks like she’s just sleeping."

I turn from the still form
to Ralph, wanting like hell
to smash his too-long nose.
Our parents push us along.

A sleeve removes the emotion
from my eyes, but all I can
think is that she's gone
and can never come back.

Today

2010-08-29T11:33:00.003-04:00

I'll paint more than

a thousand Monet scenes

at least, of blue mountains

and slow black water in deep

channels of my river.

My pallet will need more

than a thousand shades of

green for the foliage on

banks of overhangs that

coat and hide mysteries.

I'll use a putty knife

to slather on the piles

of oils for textures I can

feel with my eyes and

hold until I start again

Tomorrow

Taps

2010-08-24T15:34:00.002-04:00

In dress blues,
the marine corporal
stood rigid, his eyes
locked with mine.

Strange how slow
the hand that brought
the bugle to his lips.
Then he closed his eyes.

Just twenty-four notes to
honor my brother, dead
for months in the now
deserted Guam ground.

For less than two
minutes, the long
mourning filled me,
tears overflowing.

The last notes seemed
to stay, imbedded in
the walls of a young
strangling heart.

He opened his now
wet eyes as he eased
the bugle to his side,
my eyes held fixed, wide.

Two marines folded
the flag for my father,
while the bugler still
stared straight at me.

Day is done.

Growing Up in Georgia (cont.)

2010-08-20T10:38:00.001-04:00

Eked Treasures

Chickens in the backyard
provide the every morning
eggs, fried in grease from
the now crispy streak-o-lean.

Handmade biscuits warm,
halved and filled with
churned butter, like sponges,
even crumbs soon eaten.

Grandmother with twenty
bucks a week to manage
groceries, cleaning supplies
and a (very) rare treat.

Dinner at noon, leftovers
for supper at six. Collards
boiled with fatback, the
strong pot-likker sipped hot.

A too-tall rebuilt bicycle
waiting for my sister to
run beside and keep me
teetering on the seat.

Sneered at by jealous
kids for being used, my
grandmother praises the
fine work by grandfather

Sugar-cured ham for
breakfast, Christmas day
only, from our own first
frost pig slaughter.

Shelling butterbeans by the
bushel, pressure-cooked for
canning in rubber gasket
Mason jars, stacked high.

Pantry filled with various
peas and beans, tomatoes
and pickles, even those
from watermelon rind.

Shirts from flower sacks
sewn on foot pedal Singer,
everything made with love
and knobby arthritic hands.

Used grease mixed with
potash in cast-iron pot over
a slow fire all day, congeals
into lye soap, cut into bars.

Cleaning pig intestines in
the bath tub, feces rinsed
away, the smell remaining
even in the cooked chitlins.

Souse meat from lips and
snouts, sow-belly tough and
chewy, nothing wasted from
the once-yearly pig kill.

Prayer before each meal,
thanking God for providing,
we kids giggling until the
certain glare from Grandpa.

Litany

2010-08-18T09:44:00.001-04:00

Toxic venom flows through
my veins to an already
inflamed brain that abhors
remembrance of acts in the
zeit geist of Saigon, Tet and
Easter Offensive, Kent State
and phlegm aimed with hate
toward starched khakis, little
justice for gargantuan deeds
ordered by brass who already
ken the forsaking of honor
and southern puppets left to
kowtow or die, or kowtow
and die, played out again for
all my days and nights in Iraq,
Rwanda, Somalia and soon,
poppy people in stone age
Afghanistan.

No Way Out

2010-08-16T21:57:00.001-04:00

When your mood is singing,
the glad notes skip across
even mountains that rise to
surround and protect me from
useless hope.

When your notes turn sour and
offbeat, I shield my shaky ego
with echoes of missed beats and
acid tongue of pride, though I
know better.

We withdraw, each to the brink
of sanity, holding tight to the
quickly placed dagger of want
and denial, of fear and refusal
of proffers.

Weakened emotions swing from
peak to valley bottom, energy
lost to attempt another climb
to heights now unattainable in
damaged souls.

Sweet Trick

2010-08-15T11:05:00.003-04:00

In those days we fished with
cane poles, woven line and
cork bobbers. In the shallow,
still waters of the lake that
fed the deserted mill trace,
even a boy could swing his
night crawler to a likely spot.

I sat, content, smoking my
pipe and watched my motionless
line leading to a spot near the
perfect cover for an imagined
lunker, lurking cautiously near
the rotten log. My reverie then
ended with my son’s intrusion.

He sat near, almost touching,
gave me a big grin, his silence
hiding his obvious plan as he
lifted and lowered his pole to
gently plop his bobber within
inches of my own. I smiled as
it sank rapidly. Too much weight.

The weight that sank his float
bent his firmly held rod double,
its tip pointing at the large fish
struggling to reach bottom.
I gaped and wondered if the
fish outweighed the boy with
shoes shoved into the bank.

The fish would not budge, so
the boy stood and slowly backed
up the bank, sliding his prey
along the bottom until it showed
its moustache and white belly
flopping in the mud. Still silent,
my son and I wore huge grins.

He now fishes with a priceless,
antique fly rod loaded with silk,
no. 6, waxed line, bought by me
for my own pleasure—just to
watch him catch fish that I will
never snag with my old crank
reel and metal lures.

He ties his own flies, taking pride
in his contribution to the perfect
angling combination. At almost
any moment of a fishing day,
I see him grin the same grin as he
remembers stealing the big blue cat
from under his father’s bent nose.

For the Moment

2010-08-14T13:41:00.001-04:00

From the summit of the Massanutten
Range, looming over the river and the
valley, I look through the branches of
a Paradise tree, sparse with leaves in
this late fall of the year.

Vast skies float over the snaking
river and highway up against the
foothills that rise, breathtaking to
my rocky ledge jutting like a dare
for any bold vision seeker.

Buzzards and eagles soar between
me and the hazy horizon, seeming
to suspend themselves over their
appointed guard posts, patrolling
with sweeping, effortless turns.

I back away from the edge of the
precipice as my mind turns to the
bulk of stone, placed just so by
gravity and erosion over millennial
time to wait for my arrival.

Across the River

2010-08-13T04:08:00.003-04:00

The bones were the last to fall away;
reluctant was I to forsake my marrow.
Let it all collapse onto the wooded
floor, still, without a purpose.

The world comes to me now, not
through physical senses, but by
simply being there with me, a part
of my waiting waft of watching.

Fleshly beings move frantically
around the pile of me that used
to be, faintly familiar people. I
feel their anguish and want away.

I move, pulled gently as if by
magnetic waves, first across the
river and into the trees that harbor
angry creatures, scurrying about.

A message moves into my new
being, not sounds, just perception
of the teaching of the way of this
new order of being, existing.

This is your part of the valley.
There are no duties and you
have no influence except within
yourself. Welcome home.

"Across the river and into the trees" purported to be the last words of Gen. Stonewall Jackson. Also the title of a book by Ernest Hemingway.

The Flow (Oh, Shenandoah).

2010-08-05T21:31:00.003-04:00

Today I walk to the lowest
area along the river, where
I often pause when the light
shows me something new,
or just in a slightly different
view of things familiar, but
now calling to me strangely.

I decide to stop where a large
white stone has traveled
from the remains of the natural
fence guards of the sandstone
quarry, its spoon-shaped top perfect
for my rest and reflection about
this living, ever-changing flow.

The morning dew extends up
my shoes, almost to my knees,
not uncomfortable in the quickly
warming day. My legs dangle a
foot above the moist mud between
me and the moving, clear river.
Moments pass as I try to take it in.

With the water high from the
drainage of miles of hills soaked
by prayed for rains from farmers
tied to the land by generations
uncounted, a high point with
trees forms an island, isolating
like a moat for the grazing cattle.

The flow separates around the
new island, slow on the shallow
side and faster where the dark
channel cuts deeply below my
feet. Standing waves are created
just past huge boulders which no
doubt shelter ravenous prey.

I watch riffles over shallow rocks
where I have stood on early morns
to reap and release smallmouth bass
that stand still in the stream with just
a flick of their tails, waiting for tasty
morsels that must come their way
in the natural flow of the river.

I throw pieces of bread from my
sack lunch into the backwater to
watch the sunfish battle and snap
up the treats as would starving
creatures, except that their bellies
are already heavy with the largess
of this generous world of water.

The solid, unsympathetic stone eats
into my pampered rear, and I think
of the miles I must walk to find my
way back to a soft couch where I am
treated with the ills of the world
through a flat-screen TV. Would
that I could just go with the flow.

Ever

2010-08-02T05:18:00.003-04:00

She captured his ether
with an aura streaming
across millennia, staking
her claim as the ever right.

Startled, the man tried
desperately to make out
its meaning, sensing her
ever, myriad meanings.

How long have you been
here? Ever, came the edict,
to peer directly through him,
an original sin in his heart.

How long will you stay?
Ever remained an echo
from the spheres of space,
invading his ego with praise.

When he tried to turn
obliquely from her beauty,
a new pain ever wrapped
him in perfect ecstasy.

She orbited his nebulous
thoughts, controlling him
with lustful ease and a grace
emanating ever near afar.

Trapeze Act

2010-07-31T21:33:00.003-04:00

I swing through the air
of sweet nothings,
grabbing at the bar
of all you want me to
believe.

Catch you with a
precision unpracticed
or even considered
until I was mid-air,
flailing.

Strange that you
know my awkward
tempo and adjust to
bring us to safety
again.

Then, in the middle
of the act, the safety
net is lowered to the
solid floor of
reality.

Trust me, you assure,
convincing me the act
is the same, nothing
has changed but the
stakes.

So again we launch
into the luring air,
together, on a single
bar of stability and
trust.

The opposite, promised
bar swings just out of
timing and position, so
one of us will have to
fall.

The net on the floor
flies up to meet me,
not in mid-air, but with
a solid, indisputable
crunch.

Mattie Lee

2010-07-18T14:48:00.001-04:00

She died young, when I was two. Her
sepia portrait stares at me, taken years
before I was born. A slip of a girl in
gingham and freckles laughing at
something the photographer said.

Now her teenage grin says how glad
she is that life went well for me, that
I made it through all the bad times to
become an old man. I wish for nothing
more than to know she was once happy.

Broken Shell

2010-07-11T20:15:00.003-04:00

The heart is like an egg waiting for that exact
time to be born, but if
left, even in cold
storage, it will be still-
born and eventually
turn to dust.

My Storm

2010-07-10T10:23:00.003-04:00

As the front approaches,
I watch the western sky
broil with anger and shoot
out ripping jagged jabs
randomly at the ground
where I am anchored.

Comfortable in my old
teak chair until big drops,
cold in the heated air,
find me and drive me
from my observation
post on the top deck.

The enormous mass of
disturbed air moves north,
skimming the edge of my
yard and trees. I wait
under a big oak until the
bulk of rain finds me.

Now I stand at the north
window, watching, and
tasting the ozone, as the
ruckus passes west to east,.
soaking the land and corn
that extends its tongues.

I feel satiated.

Hola, El Viejo

2010-07-07T23:01:00.007-04:00

Hey! Old man!
Whatcha doin
on dis block?

Huh?

You tink you
own ever god-
dam ting?

Huh?

You tink you
can jus walk
tru my turf
and jus go on yo
fuckin way?

Huh?

Fuck, man!
watchou doin
wit dat iron?
You gonna cap
my ass?

Huh?

Bam! Bam!

No one around now
but the red brown body
on the turf.

Fucking bad old
man. El viejo.

Huh?

Between...

2010-07-07T12:17:00.000-04:00

The anguish of your suffering, and the cold of
my bed, lies this shell of a
former man, now relegated
to choosing one and pleasing
none.

Where will I lie, when events
take their turn, to make of me
what they will? No doubt in
solitude, trying to make sense
of a world turned upside
down.

And the Living is Easy

2010-07-05T21:36:00.001-04:00

Light blue mountains beneath
lighter blue, distant flat clouds,
breaking up at their tops to allow
an already gone sun to send pale
slashes of peach among the jagged
edges.

Heat has settled like an inverted
iron pot over the valley. Haze
softens the edges of it all, making
my view lose a sense of real objects,
even trees, whose leaves hang without
motion.

I can see the oppressive air,
still rising to find a point of
condensation that forms thin airs of
moisture that will never reach the
scorched and arid land below,
thirsting.

Time is a Moment...

2010-07-05T08:07:00.001-04:00

that will never repeat
exactly, not even the
moment just passed.

Still, we have that
wondrous ability to
keep a single moment.

We are able to live it
over again as often as
we desire its happening.

Some moments are not
welcome, as we try our
hardest to erase forever.

Each new moment stays
in our brains, some to be
called forth frequently.

Others invade and make
room for their own being
knowing they will not die.

Where is the free will?

Discovery

2010-07-02T13:32:00.001-04:00

As I enter this new-found
depth, I do so warily at first,
but the warmth and the need
to go deeper are overwhelming.

As my body and mind grow
accustomed to this unexplored
area, I move cautiously, savoring
every new sensation that abounds
in ways too numerous for me to
ever know the unlimited complexity
of movements and surprises,.

As I reach the limits of my
ability, my quest is rewarded by
happening upon the rarest find of
all. An unknown live shell in the
reef-protected waters of the shore.