The New Lion of Damascus roars
Obama stuck,  Putin snores

Elusive
like the wind.
As gentle
as a summer breeze.
With patience and love
I surround her.
Her beauty
like the sun, the moon,
the deep blue sea.
And in her eyes
the mountains
of Tennessee.
She shares her beauty
with us, with me.
I give my love
to her, my Wendy
always and forever.

r ~ 7/5/14

a darkening fog
swallowing
the shadow
of a black dog

following - following
close behind

- it is a hollow
feeling -
this war
inside

at evening tide
- a darkening.

r ~ 10/21/14

Black smoke on the mountain
bends over the moon like flies
around rines all fed up
with the night, like a bloated
face floating by in the river
sleeping through
death's long montage,
that dark mistress sipping
gin on a balcony with no wind,
her curtains still as a blanket
placed over the drowned.

We knew him well
his jest
most excellent
alas, not infinite

Where be your gibes now?
Your gambols? Your songs?
Your flashes of merriment,
that were wont
to set the table on a roar? (Hamlet, V.i)

We laughed,
we cried
amused and touched

Borne on your back,
anguish unspoken

Poor Yorick.

r ~ 8/12/14

I have this
theory about
irony, tyranny
and irrational
national emergencies
you see, when
the foul wind
blowing south out
of Washington DC
fails the smell test
but compares well
with, say, *******
cat ****, radioactive
batshit contaminants
but, hey, try any
old way, you still can’t
iron any wrinkles out
of the fact that what
lies in the murky bottom
of the Potomac
our leader drinks in
also flow through
the faucets to sink, then
down the *******
of our so-called democracy
and into the lagoon
down on the links
of Mara-a-Lago.

I found an old homesite
in the woods,
next to a church, or at least
what looked
like the remains of one

Rocks overgrown with weeds
and vines, a doorway
leading nowhere
in either direction, and

I think
I thought
I was maybe Christ

I think there were birds taking flight
from my open hands

The laughter of children
buried like bones
beneath
the terrible blue sky.

We, lost Africans
left the savanna
to follow the stars
leaving the ground
to stride with arms
down by our sides
to inherit the earth
and dirt of other lands
following the caravan
of sacred elephants
taking off our black
helmets to discover
other atmospheres
learning to breathe
here as well as there
drinking and singing
like blood thirsty
tigers the dangerous
songs of maps drawn
and long forgotten.

I'd like to retravel
The road to here
Straighten out a few curves
Undo some straight lines
Unmuddle some puddles
Shake the mud out of my eyes
Take more time to explore
Those missed detours

The road to here
Has been a long one
Sometimes walked
Sometimes on the run
Sometimes rocky, often dusty
And sometimes fun
But never did I ever
Leave a deed undone

I traveled it in the rain
I traveled it in the sun
Ups and downs and switchbacks
There's no going back again
Can't be redone
Miles and miles and miles
Of tears and smiles and love
The road to here.

r ~ 8/2/14

The work I do is not easy,
but it's not bad.
I'm glad to have it,
when it's all I've ever had.

I am a student of the night.
I wear a black patch
on my sleeve.

My teacher's name is Sleep,
and she goes by Dreams, too.

She moonlights by the creek
that flows like a gust of wind
through leaves I never knew,
places I've never been.

We sing songs about you, love.
This song's about you.

18 is a hard age
to be black
and dead

tear-gas in our eyes
burns, baby, burns.

r ~ 8/14/14

Tonight the fog settles
on the water reflecting

a dark mood, and the moon
is genuflecting to the blues

resting one knee on the cold
silent sea taking off his hat

as if to say *May I rise now
and take my leave and leave

you be, for tomorrow will
surely be a brighter day?

Getting serious my friends
The first cruise missile hits
Middle East will explode
The President I have supported
Needs to rethink this
Grow some cojones
Realize he is stuck between
A rock and a hard place
But we shouldn't cherry pick
Which bad guys to go after
Enough blood and treasure spilled
On sticking our noses in where they don't belong
But is GB and GD and VX
Worse than starving your nation
Want to go after bad guys
Go after that crazy ****** in North Korea
Ask yourself if Iraq and Afghanistan
Are better now than before
Plenty of bad guys here in U.S.
Time to stop being the policemen of the world
Listen, CINC
Let us worry about home
Yes, killing children with poisonous gas
Is despicable
But will missle strikes
Change the picture
Syrias as serious can be
Best to let war take its course
Than trying to change history
Another Rubicon
We don't need to cross

mercy-
left town
on a late night train-
running again
with no place left to go

and all tracks look the same
when the lights are burning low

mercy-
don't come knocking
'round my door
-anymore

mercy-
I need mercy-
I need some more

and all tracks look the same
when the lights are burning low

mercy-
where she's gone
i don't know

-mercy.

r ~ 9/14/14

The yellow eye
of the sun,
like the ancient eyes
of an old man
who's seen too much whiskey,
used to brown my skin
now just dries me out
like an old boot
turned the wrong way
on the post out by the highway.

r ~ 7/8/14

Fishing for salmon
Stare that bear square in the eyes
Help you forget your gone friend
Have a hell of a good time
Fishing for salmon

What is it about September
Hearts aligned and remembered
Tomorrow the last day

Call me in September
Don't disremember
Remembrance one day away

Hearts can bind or break
Or forever to  forsake
Just one heart beat astray

Remember me in September
Forget me not in sweet surrender
For one more day

r

Night and fog
setting in-unsettling
now that the rain has stopped

the live oak in the dark
creaks under the weight
of dying limbs

mean high tide
at three a.m.
means no ghosts will walk
ashore

U-227 lies on the bottom
not too far out from here
where she went down
in the nacht und nebel
while the live oak creaked
and the ocean roared.

r ~ 8/10/14

Symphony of shells
Quartz pebble accompaniment
Gull solo to wind sound
Waves whisper-singing in mid-lantic
Come away, come away
Come to momma
Now

r ~ 7/17/14

All of his letters ended in goodbye
instead of to be continued

someday we're all going to die
my brother, he would say

now he's got me saying the same
words like the moon and darkness
that only we could hear

he'd listen to the blues and sip whiskey
until morning, then wake me
from my sleep, tell me to go out

and cut the weeds
growing up around the stone
angels in the field.

My soul
is getting older,
the nights are colder

and the soles
of these soft worn out
doe-skin boots are thinner

every day, way too thin
to keep the thought
of a frozen plot at bay.

Imagine we are home
and not lonely, imagine
our love which once cut
through strange waters
like longboats through hearts
not slow and heavy
from the moss of fear
we are here and not here
nights in our land are sad
the risings of the moon
are like sores we have given
our women, and we cannot sleep
for what we dream
the enemy will do, like filling
our children's throats with rocks
and place them in shallow swamps
where they will rise up
to tell us of fish with odd shapes
and men with torches
coming in from the sea
up to the beach on a black night
throwing open the gates
to our dying city.

The carpenter builds
Spilled blood on a board
And under his nails
Smashed black and blue
Indigo on a page
Words sharp like a saw
Cut to the bone
Twice measured then honed
On the streets
Alive with a beat
A rhythm and rhyme
He's counting time
With a rat-tat-tat
One nail at a time
Straight is his line
He drives it on home.

r ~ 6/2/14

I listen to that great darkness
watching for burning ships
their bows bearing women
and the black prows are coming
plowing the mist into water
as the wind lifts up the bowsprits
leaving a wake I want to be
left alone with night after night
like a sleeping knife that runs
deep through the belly
between the thighs of dreams.

Yes, tell us
of your Trump love,
your tough love;
shout it from the rooftops
while encouraging ******
in a mosque.

Tell us how poetic you are,
you the rearguard
of fascist *******
as worshippers are showered
with bullets from above.

You want to talk about cowards,
or standing with the Sioux
at Standing Rock?

Let me hear your hypocrisy
little miss sunshine,
just one more time.

And you, the defenders
of ignorance,
can kiss my po ***
along with the *******
wannabe poets
who hate the truth
when it shines.

O, Orca
Tahlequah —

so much more
than just J35 —

for 17 days
more than
1,000 miles
of heartache
you gave us —

waiting, watching
as you grieved —

carrying the weight
of the world’s eyes —

teaching each
and everyone —

grieving mothers
have their own —

ways and time
to say
goodbye.

Time is a clock,
a face no-one forgets, a
stopwatch on a stiff wrist
beneath crisp white cotton,
a feral black cat in the woods
of adulthood that sneaks
up on you in your prime,

or something like that.

Pull up a chair
and rest a spell.
In your glance
I can see a tell.
Your heart is not here
when he's in town.
Your home fire
is burning down.

Come sit,
let's talk awhile.
I won't ask you
for a smile.
Here, now,
just take my hand.
Let us watch the sun
sink into the sand.

It is getting cold,
but the night is young.
There's still a fire in me
that has not been sung.
We can watch the moon
creep o'er the hill.
I'll sing for you
and warm the chill.

Pull up a chair,
let us talk awhile.
The night is young,
I can make you smile.
Take my hand
and make me feel.
There is a hearth here
that's burning still

r ~ 6/25/14

I listened to the iron rooster
spinning in the wind wondering
who would climb the roof
and take him in, or would he roost
with strangers in the house

It was so cold
the chicken water froze over

The women made coffee
and the men went out to the shed
to look over the tools

No one would sit in her black chair
because it was a bear
that might wake up anytime

She died in the middle of the night

The doctor said her heart blew out
like a jar of preserves

Before dawn I laid my head
on the hard couch by the cast iron
stove and heard her coming down
the stairs with her cane and her teeth
in a glass on the way to the outhouse
saying *Who took my flashlight?

Listen
Listen now
He doesn't sleep here
Anymore.

Smile
Smile somehow
He walks upon that shore.

Look
Look inside
Look inside yourself.

Dream
He's dreaming
You'll find him in your dreams...
Somehow.

4/18/14

You may as well dance
to the tune of a blue moon.

Or sing a lullaby to the sun,
eat a bellyfull of stars,
try to keep away from bars. :)

How do we write about love?

It's too hard to capture in words,
and in verse it's even worse.

But the hardest thing of all
isn't when we fall,
it's when we let it go.

How do you say that, you know?

You are fallen darkness,
the ghost ship
in the wake of a quarter-moon

Your depth
is like a blue grave
looking back
from a burial at sea

Your hands are shadows
over a campfire
lustering against the lightless
river, palms folding
like prayers over
the embering heat
of driftwood and deadfall
retreating into ash

You are heaven's shoal
of dead stars, the obsidian
lip of the shoreline
I approach without light

The shallow groundswell
of sand un-printing my tracks,
as if to refuse my sunless steps

You are streetlights left behind me
back home, softening now
beyond their dead-end streets.

Death is lying
in the ditch
like a hubcap
that went
rolling down
a dark road
along with
the stench
of a black cat
that crossed
my path
still following
me until
luck will have
its final say
so I've got to
keep moving
while the night
shines it's bright
lights speeding
up behind me.

Measure our nights
by the sighs of the moon.
Count the stars
till we run out of room.
Lie here beside me
'neath the comforting sky.
Make me a pillow
of your warming thighs.
Bring my roar to your lips
as my salt you sip.
Twice kissed silken cries
your wakened delight.
Measure our nights
by slumbering sighs.

r ~ 5/2/14

Some nights you still
cast your shadow like
dice, always coming up
snake eyes, and I dream
I am watching you stare
at the camp fire, the moon
parting your hair, high
in the mountains growing
silent and thirsty not saying
a word until a bird comes
from nowhere, and lighting  
on your wrist to drink from
your palm while you stroked
its throat; I could have sworn
your finger was on a trigger.

shadow man-

measuring my span-
born(e) in the space between
heart beats and the unforseen

hiding on the periphery
of  crow's feet and defeat
-the shadowy me

snickering peripheral(ly)
i got yo numba-
boy.

r ~ 10/9/14

I saw a photograph today.
Old, Berlin, black and white-
black charred stumps-
blackened limbs.

When they bombed the Tiergarten,
did the trees hear them fall
in the forest?

r ~ 8/6/14

Night, that old sinkhole
of the soul, climbs
the dark stairs of despair
who knows what the moon
is thinking behind that one-eyed
stare clawing his way through
the pines outside my window
carrying bootblack in a blanket
when it's colder for shining shoes
that go with my black suit
and the red rose on the pillow
I burn before the morning.

Underneath the painted rock
you'll find a key
I ain't much for hiding
but that's just me
There's a book of pomes (yeah, pomes)
beneath my pillow
You might find one or two
to your liking
But that's a'right if you don't
I wrote 'em
for you, any ol' way
Come September
if I don't remember
where I hid my key
That book of pomes'll be
still beneath my pillow
If you care
to take a read.

r ~ 7/12/14

The chimney on top of hill
with tumbleweed surrounds
Wind-scarred handfired brick
red as Autumn's dress
Ballast stone adorned foundation
carted from far distant shore
Stones once stored in hold of ships
from even further lands
Stones mined by strangers
speaking many languages
except his own, the builder
of this chimney, forlorn marker
against the sky
All that remains of his home
Well balanced, builder
Well founded.

r ~ 23Mar14

Coldness, I have watched you
in the shadows,
and you have given me mine
from time to time, awake
I slumber down paths
of moss and who knows what all
darkness we can gather
one at a time, but not one soul
can make a bouquet from another
soul, it is too cold to be dreaming
and there is no place for the duelist,
the two of us, lovers of black clothes
and fairly good looking women,
it is almost winter and the wind
is my second, wearing a dark cloak,
breathing in the dead eyes
of my brother, how they shine
and listen to him sing that sad song
will you, while gathering snow
and turning darker than starlight.

hay came in rectangular bales
when I was younger, we used
to stack them and make forts
shooting imaginary indians or vc
depending on the weather.

sunny days we killed indians
rainy days were for killing vc.

the war ended and there were no vc
I grew to respect the indians
to learn their history, my history
watching the news, seeing
white men killing indians again
at a place called wounded knee
once again-wounded knee, dad said.

nowdays hay comes in round bales
the vc are our friends, and the indians
aren't worth shooting anymore.

r ~ 7/2/14

Sister hums a hymn
  Along the cyprus way
Down by the Camp F fence
  For him she goes to pray
For whom the lights will dim
  A dead man sings today
Angola's ****** anthem
  And Sister hums a hymn.

r ~ 8/11/14

Dulcimer...
play me a song
'bout all the wrongs
that I have done.

Sweet Dulcimer...
in your strings and swirly grains
lie my life's story
and the way my river runs.

Ol' Lucifer...
leave me alone
for it's a long, hard road
that I have gone.

My darlin' fair...
in your sweet and lovely face
I see longing... I see despair
I see sorrow and despair.

Somewhere in the misty moonlight
I hear her music play
Sweet Dulcimer
take me home.
Sweet Dulcimer...take me away.

February 2013

Some in my family say
Uncle Sam was my salvation
when I was a young man
hell, maybe so, I don’t know
but he kept me out of jail
and paid for my education
which is how I found myself
in West Memphis, Arkansas
surveying Indian mounds
that some fool professors thought
were put there by the Choctaw
but I knew they’d got it wrong
all along, it was the Mississippians
which makes perfect sense if you think
on it considering where they put ‘em
but I digress, I must confess it
was my fondness for backroad bars
and blues guitars carved from wood
of crosses burnt by drunks in hoods
and strings plucked by calloused fingers
of old men with shoulders slumped
like sagging barns and Ford pickups
you find out in them parts, singing
songs about long gone women, all
kinds of aching age old pains lingering
enough to make a man’s heart rain
until the US Army Corps of Engineers
blew the levy’s to send those tears
out across cotton fields and mounds
I know the Choctaw didn’t build.

She is mathematics,
bare necessity in numbers

Curvature and roundness,
symmetrical circumference
lies in the rise of her hips

A tanned half moon,
a breast

A pose

The fall equinox begins
in the shadow
of the small of her back

Night looms beyond, below
connecting beauty's dots

Her body reclines,
hand resting between waist
and hip, an impasse

Head at rest
held by soft hand.

Hey God, scoot over a bit. I'm feeling kinda tired. Would you fluff that cloud for me?  Ah, thanks dude, much better. My head's been feeling heavy. The closer I get to the end of the road, well...makes me wonder why bother with the rest of the show. The endings are all the same.

To be honest, it hasn't been quite all it was hyped.  We start running low on that joy thing and all of a sudden it just seems so ...pointless.  I find myself wondering if my dog is going to outlive me. ****'s that about?  I've had a dozen or so dogs and this is the first I've ever worried about whether one would be sad if I checked out tomorrow. Another sad lonely old dog ain't going to be the end if the world.

Even poetry's not doing much for me. Face it, mine's fallen flat, and with the exception of a handful of golden pens on HP, it's kind of gone to hell. Oh, I don't blame eliot. That's what happens when us old ***** play around with technology that the youngins know more about. Algorithm doesn't know **** about poetry, and all I know about hash is how to smoke it. Think I'll just stay up here and rest a spell. This fluffy cloud is feeling mighty fine.

r ~ 5/23/14

Read to me
while I lie here with eyes closed against the sky.
  Read to me with passion
of the smell of lemon
  and musk wrapped in silk and satin.

  I rest here in your voice and drink
your very words.
  Read to me with lilt of breath.
Breathe me to the brink
  of lasting
as I sink into your sighs.

Read to me gently,
  read softly into the night.

r ~ 27Mar14