The Homecoming

The sun warms the back of her neck,
as she walks along the dusty road,
and sees the path to the river,
overgrown now,
but still clear enough in its track
to show the way.
She pushes the hair away from her face,
grayer now then before,
and she stills her heart, her breath,
                        listening to the wind.
Staring at the break in the trees
where the track once led,
she faintly hears the cries of children,
leaping into cool waters,
laughing at the shock of it
wiping away the dust and sweat
and the heat of summer.
All those boys, her brothers,
and a friend or two,
teasing.. trying to leave her behind,
but in the end a hand grasped hers,
and tag along she did….
her brothers smiling at the fun of it all,
her smiling back,
safe in the knowledge of their love.
All those days and summers,
one year blurring into the next
and they all thought it was forever.
But then the letters came,
all those boys were called and left
and she was truly alone,
this time the game for real,
but she waited…
…alone…
for their return.
But never again did she see those boys of summer,
and walk the path to the river
or feel it’s cool embrace.
She remembered now,
tossing dirt and flowers on their graves,
as one by one they came home,
and this time the hand that grasped her own,
was the lifeless grip of her Father,
all the smile gone from his face,
the light gone from his eyes.
She cried then and cries now,
as she turns and walks back to the farm,
empty now but for the memories inside.
She looks at the sign, “For Sale”,
as she drives away,
ready to fly to the far place she ran,
to forget….
.. she shivers in the sun,
cold now with the arms of the dead
embracing her.
She cries to herself, inside,
as she’s done all these years,
and thinks of the river.
                                              JC 2009

It was a road,
no more, no less,
leading to a wooded place
seen from the highway.
I took that road that day,
no thought given,
no hesitation,
driving straight on to it,
and left my life behind.
I was lost in America,
adrift in car,
as surely as a boat
tossed by the sea
in a storm.
The road narrowed,
no turn possible,
only straight ahead
and into ever darkening places,
a green so dense it was black,
almost a solid wall
of wood and earth and rock.
I slowed,
but continued on,
there was nowhere
else to go.
All roads end,
I thought..
at least in the world,
the world I'd come from,
and whether I was still in it.
Was I sure anymore?
No, and still,
not then,
not now,
still traveling in the dark.
I don't drive the car,
I ride it,
like a boat in a river
led by the current
to where it wants to go.
I want to go home,
I think,
but can't remember it anymore.
I'm not sure.
Where is it now,
my home,
the place where I was born?
Can I be lost,
lost in America?
I go on,
ever deeper into the woods,
looking for a light,
of the moon,
of the sun,
of another living soul.
The wheels turn,
on their own,
of their own volition,
and I,
I grip the wheel,
and watch through the glass,
and look,
and hope,
for the end.
JC 2009

Sometimes, more often than not,
a poem slides beside me,
walks into the room,
places a hand on my shoulder,
and whispers its way to a page.
It travels to rooms in my heart,
built by those I love,
who dwell there all alone until..
..until its time to close and lock the door,
and slowly walk the stairs,
to somewhere else to cry.
A poem slides beside me,
and writes itself,
hand over hand it pours to the page,
and blurs my vision to right here,
right now,
and leads me where it does.
A song too sad to be sung
to another,
a song to be sung alone on a page,
a page of another’s devising.
Like the lives that are passing,
the pages turn,
added to another story,
on pages written long before.
A poem sits beside me,
and tells me a story
and places its hand in mine,
and sings its story softly,
the saddest song I know.
To those who I love,
To those who've left me,
To those who care.

On quiet nights the children come,
                                          From distant places in my past,
                                          And quietly their footsteps fall
                                          They’ve run so far and fast.

                                          I hear them as they play and laugh
                                          And peer around the trees,
                                          I turn to see them, but they’re gone,
                                          a soft and gentle breeze.                                    
      
                                          Do they run among the clouds,
                                          or here on dampened ground?
                                          I cannot tell, I cannot see,
                                          They’re nowhere to be found.

                                           I worry that they may be cold,            
                                           Does someone tuck them in?
                                           Soft blankets do they cover with,
                                           to fend off cool night winds?

                                           For now I listen in the dark,
                                           And revel in their play.
                                           And wonder where they’re going to,
                                           When night turns into day.

                                           So now I wait ‘til daylight ends,
                                           The sun to set, the moon to rise,
                                           And hope the children never see,
                                           the tears well in my eyes.

                                           Nights are when they get to play
                                           To be what they should be.
                                           To run, to dance, to jump and sing
                                           all this because of me.

                                          Some day I hope to hold their hands,
                                          and walk with them awhile.
                                          And not just hear them as they play,
                                          but watch and see them smile.

                                          And then I’ll kneel before them both,
                                          And look them in the eye,
                                          And ask them if they can forgive,
                                          it was me that made them die.

You ask, "How are you?",
but rush past lest I answer,
and take of your time,
in your busy day,
as if you really care.
I want to talk,
to tell you how I am,
and ask for help,
but I'm not fast enough anymore,
and I have no other place
but here,
in the street,
with those who couldn't
care less
if they tried,
throwing questions on my life
like stones,
skipped on a pond,
as they run,
hurrying to oblivion,
plastic jobs,
plastic houses,
a cookie cutter life
soccer and a dog,
and me left behind.
"Hey, call me",
behind a smile as they run
away
of course.
I walk,
head down,
it's easier,
that way.

They come in the night,
running down moonbeams,
and I hear them,
laughing,
shadows playing hide and seek
or tag…
maybe jumping rope…
I don’t know.
I run to the window,
I try to see,
But they’re gone again,
around the corner, behind a bush
out of sight from me.
I leave my warm bed,
and open my door to the cold, night wind
but it carries them away,
and now they cry, as do I.
Each night they come,
each night I seek them out,
each night since they hide,
from me, and why not?
I took them to this place,
the playground of the ******,
cold and dark and alone
with no loving hand to tuck them in,
or the warmth of their mother’s arms.
I was God that day, to them.
Old testament , raining fire
taking the first born child…
and the second as well..
and brought Hell to the Earth
on one sunny afternoon.
Again, I hear them
just out of sight,
running, laughing without joy,
pointing at me,
and asking “Why?”
I have no answer to that,
I only know the “Who”,
But they know that.
At the end for me,
I hope to see them again,
this time to hold them close,
and explain the sins of men,
and tuck them into bed, to sleep.

Sitting on the banks of the river,
a branch flows slowly by
carried by the river to a place downstream,
a place he cannot see.....
not today, at any rate, not today.
A leaf sails past, spinning and
dancing with the wind in the sun
flying to a finish far away,
in a race with memories and time.
The graying man sits on the banks of the river,
a pen in his hand, and records the age,
and the soon to be long ago’s of his life,
and all the while watching the water pass
and listening to his stories told in whispers
to a sky that never cared, and writes it anyway,
only to place the pages in the drawer,
and hide them 'til the furthest tomorrow.
The sunshine starts to slip away,
and shadows come to play in the trees
and the smallest branch looms larger,
more important in the dusk than it ever was
when the daylight shone upon it.
And still, with failing eyes and other ills,
the words flow free,
following the river along its banks,
to a place it has to end,
a part of a larger self
a line of pasts reaching out to a present and a time
and touching someone’s son......
too far away to know whose tales he reads,
from a dusty book he found in a pile for sale,
.....it only cost a quarter.
And that was the value of the stories told,
to the river as it flowed
along the banks it traveled, long ago.