The words he wrote
could make a fence post cry

r

I saw a girl in a wheelchair on her porch
and wasps were swarming in the cornice

She had just washed her hair
taken it down and combed it

She could see
just like me

That one star under the rafter
shining like a knife in the creek

She was thin as the hereafter
and made me think

Of music singing to itself
like someone putting a violin in a case

And walking off with a stranger
to lie down and drink in the dark by the lake.

Somewhere just to the right
of that second star
in the sky

there's a black hole
******* the joy
out of life

Maybe I'll wave at the moon
as I fly by sometime soon

I'm tired of life's knife
skinning and carving,
notching it's time
on my bones

I'll decide the when
and the how, the hour
of flight

somewhere just to the right
of that second star
in the sky

where morning hides
like a thief in the night
biding her time

slowly waiting for the light
to leave these tired dark eyes

But not tonight, for tomorrow
there's still much to do.

Ah, Nora.
I don't know why
I still think these thoughts.
It's been so many years.
Never mind the why of it,
I doubt even you could know.
How you could have taken such a part
of me.  Of us.  All of us.
It's the how that dogs me.
Those years when we were apart,
me busy trying to raise the boy,
you doing whatever it was you did;
those were unhappy years.  For me,
I can say.  For you, I can only think so.
O, Nora.  
It's been such a long time.
Now that the boy's all grown, almost,
what will be left of us?
When you came back, I didn't look
this far down the road.  Here we are.
What can I do?  What's done is done.
Forgiving's easy.  Forgetting, well...
not so.
Nora, Nora,
that time so long ago
that never should have been.

r ~ 5/24/14

Forgotten bliss
Fallen in the dark abyss
Throw me a rope
For to hope
I can climb
Back in time
Bliss remembered
Love is tendered

r

She likes an archaeologist
cos he does it in the dirt

and the older she gets
the more he likes to flirt

She likes the way he smells
in a faded work shirt

hard and lean
but not mean
just a little bit assertive

He still let's her roll
her own cigarettes

and handles her gently
like a gold statuette

while they dance
with the shadows
down low

you know.

In these parts
sometimes a man
will walk into a bar
and say something
he’s soon ashamed of
then leave with his friends
paying no attention.

I am drawing water and a ship
to carry me away, a black
ship with good timber
and no rotten planks, a ship
everyone will have a turn
at the wheel, a ship that never hears
the sad song of oars sang
where the only prayer is the wind
to carry you through the leagues
of loneliness, a ship to guide you
down sleeping rivers through
passages of lost swords, the songs
of the graveyard, oh sweet Jesus,
a blessed ship bearing his wounds,
a ship of dreams sighted by the blind
riders that put out light and darkness,
sailing constellations named for the broken-
hearted, the artists, and poets writing deep
blue poetry for the Captain and the crew.

Some may think
a spark
is just a spark
a weak attempt
at a start
to a flame
when in fact
it is the beginning
of an art
found in the ashes
and stone cold bones
of a dark hole
in Zhoukoudian.

I learned the blues
too soon
and the pain
I gained
singing on dark nights
to the rain our plight
those who know loss
is just another cross
to bear for the dark guitar
strings piercing hearts
the cross spreading her legs
like a pair of pliers to make us beg
plucking nails from ****** fingers
picking scabs that seem to linger
through the calloused evil seasons
of high cotton and boll weevils.

i see a fire in the sky above the pines
on the side of the house
this early morning

and on the front
the water is burning -
burning

i used to go to work in the dark
before the time changed - affirming
and conforming

the radio man recites last night's results -
a new day has dawned
- it will be long and disconcerting

there is a fire in the sky above the pines -
and on the front
the water is burning

- burning.

r ~ 11/5/14

Once I spent a winter
with a poem; everyday
in the woods at work
I would say it, never
writing a word until
I had it down in my mind;
it became what I called
a floater, a work song,
a chant, until it sounded
just right and undramatic,
and then I wrote it down
in the dirt with my boots
without changing a word
leaving it there for the birds
and the worms and the roots.

I hauled clay
for days
to fill the deep
washout of our love
and all your old loves
who bled to death
too, I even searched
the cold evenings
of your eyes
and ran my fingers
through your moonlight
while tasting the blood
of strangers on your lips
but I would have
to have a backhoe
and a crowbar
to finally get down
to the heart
of the matter at night
and in the rain
though I'm afraid
I would only find
a deep dark cave
with blind starfish
like those I see
swimming in
the cold sky tonight.

My ink may run
as black as coal,
as dark as
a dark night
of the soul.

Or flow red hued
like the morning sky;
as red as love,
or red man's blood
on hard-baked clay.

Yellow ink hues
my many suns,
my moons
the color of
dry bone.

Blue-inked waves
may wash my
blues away,
or sing the blues as blue
as muddy waters.

Gray ink clouds
on a fog-shrouded
empty highway
take me from here
to the Blue Ridge
mountains.

White-capped sailors
sail the arctic
as lost as
my white ink
on a blank page.

r ~ 5/13/14

He had a way
with a pen,
my friend
the part-time
con artist, full-
time drunkard
with twinkles
in his eyes
like stardust,
and wrinkles
from laughter
as loud as
a clap of thunder,
and it was
really a wonder
to watch him draw
his last breath
with such depth
like an outline
of a shadow,
a sinkhole
in the shade
on the side
of a dark ridge.

Ain't no reason
or particular season
to the rhyme...
but my head is heavy-
and my heart is rotten
to the core.

There's holes in my pages
where there once were words-
the book worms got 'em
and left me empty...

I asked ***** Joe for a light,
but his flint wore out
on the road into Fallujah.
Now he's rotten to the corps-
he can't hear us anymore...
a secret, silent sentry.

r ~ 8/22/14

I remember well
The creaking of
One hundred year old
Pine planked floor
And the ticking
Of the 100 year old clock
In my family's old home
Before the highwaymen
Took it with the widening
Of Highway 91
But Mom got her new house
Set back just a little
She loves it and new amenities
At least they didn't steal the barn
Or clock
But I miss the creaking and the ticking
Of my childhood home
On Highway 91
Across from Stoney Creek
My real home

I crossed a crystal bridge
A bridge of clear quartz crystal
Leading me to nowhere land
My rubber soul did whistle
I could see beatles through the sides  
And yellow submarines below
I decided to sit in and make no plans
And be a nowhere man but here
In this bridge of quartz crystal clear

r  22Sept13

At eight weeks old, she was our newly rescued mixed beagle pup.

Noah named her Daisy. Not a name I would have chosen, but certainly as sweet as

memories of Grandma's homemade molasses
bubbling in the old iron kettle brought out from the smokehouse for only one day each year on a crisp fall morning.

By sixteen weeks it was evident that all involved in the rescue didn't know squat about Beagles. After a frantic thirty seconds on Google, our mistake was quite clear in the form of about five hundred red and black and tan photographs.   We were the proud but red-faced and slightly shocked owners of a "**** Dog". Yep. And Daisy was her name-o.

Two years and seventy pounds down the road, I sat in my morning solitude spot this day with a good mug and a good book watching the nut hatches, house finch, and Black-capped/Carolina Chickadees tearing that special blend seed up as Daisy patrolled the yard for squirrels with one eye and her nose to the sky watching for the lone and clever Rock Pigeon scout that always precedes the flurry of flying rodents raiding my feeder. I can't help but to smile as Daisy glances at me through the deck door glass to see if I am admiring her skill and diligence.   I am.

This being a Sunday before the dreaded M word day, I tend to lounge lazily around the house in my worn Clapton pj bottoms and hol(e)y Langley T-shirt. My shadow follows me from comfort to comfort spot knowing that I leave a trail of odd snacks from my kitchen perch to living room couch to study to lazy bed, and back again. She is showing a bit of winter fat.

To be continued....

r ~ 9Feb14

I don't know what
the limits are
what impacts fragment
beyond repair, outside the web
of what there are words for,
murderous facts that leave mute
witnesses’ souls brittle
inside their chests,
as the thousandth child starves
somewhere in our inhumane
universe another star grows dark.

Baseball was my passion
that year when the world
still seemed like a safe place
to hang my hat.  Dad was
buying horses left and right
while Mom shook her head
and kept her silence knowing
this was just another one of
his wild-*** hairs that seemed
to get a little crazier each year.
Credence Clearwater Revival
was hot and singing songs
about rain on the radio.  
School was out and I would
go over to the creek to swim
after I finished whatever chores
Mom had me doing those days.
Sometimes I would lie on the
Devil's Bed rock next to the
little falls where the biggest
trout liked to feed and listen
to the bugler from the Army
burial detail playing taps for
that days funeral. I wondered
what it would feel like to be
the son of the soldier getting
buried up on the hill having
to wear a suit and not cry. It
always gave me a lump in my
throat. My brother said it was
a shame and Johnson should
be shot instead. I always agreed.
We all watched the nightly news
together after supper and before
Hogan's Heroes came on.  The VC
were handing it to our guys in
a place called Hue and Mom cried
when a South Vietnamese officer
pulled out a pistol and BANG
shot that dude in the head
right there in front of god, me,
Mom and everybody. I went to
bed that night and  decided that I
wasn't going to pray any more.
We lost every game for the rest
of the season and I didn't care.
I've never forgiven that officer
for shooting that guy dressed
in black right in front of me,
god, my Mom and everybody.

r ~ 6/3/14

I have dreamed
of escape
a way out, a forever
ladder stretching
to the clouds
steps counted aloud
along the planks
just off the prow
a pointed bow
towards starboard
before a final wave
to shore, a short
stretch the length
of a dock, the depth of
a drowned-out shout.

Their words
Like the softest cannon fire
Shrapnel finding every mark
In blood and brain and bone
and heart
Leaving us to bleed
for more
Till fire, now silenced
turns to dark.

3/30/14

Like old friends making up
after too many years
of the fine and high lonesomes
it’s time we get shed of our ways

So take a deep breath
and listen up
all you bad hombres
I **** you not

You may have run off
into the ditch of your past
and let love spin like a wheel
until an old man came by
looking for pop bottles
and bagged it all up

We’ve seen a lifetime of days
sweating blood for nothing
and now this is the night
of nights to do something

Keep your boot on the clutch,
steady, and ready to drive through
the fog of love’s misery or mystery,
the happy, the heartbroken, a sly
smile and a flick of a tongue on red lips,
your truck hitting smooth on all six.

I find it odd
that my old dog
growwwls
and lifts her ears
when she hears
a pine cone fall
somewhere out there
on my neighbor’s
forty acres
but pays no mind
to the dogwood’s
bark in the quiet
of the night
out in my front yard.

If I knock on your heart's door,
will it open with arms spread wide?

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.

In his eyes
I see myself
and in his smile
I see you
will he forgive us
will he forget
will he remember
what we put him through

The ebb and flow
the rising tide
no room to run
no place to hide
it's all behind me
it's all before
I finally made it to the shore
We finally made it to the shore

r
Mar 1

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.

A man waiting on someone to die
drinks another cup, sighs
and looks at his watch, the face
everyone rememembers
for its twitch and drooping eye,
always running, always losing
a second, an hour, sometimes a day,
a year on the wrist of the dead.

Thinking back on that day
so long ago, I always have to ask myself
if my recollection is true.

Did the sunlight and the spray from the falls
really create a rainbowed halo above you?
And did the trout all rise to the surface
at one time just to feed on your beauty?

On even the coldest days the memory
still never fails to warm my heart.
Funny how tomorrow I might smile
thinking of that day so long ago,
and the next shed tears abundant as the falls
that in concert with the sun
sang you forever into my heart.

r ~ 4/4/14

I won't deny
October brings me 'round
September flies
October settles me down
Pumpkins and Halloween
I love to discover
New visions and carvings
Of jack-o-lanter
Handing candy to smiles awonder
Wish my young childhood days
Of October I remembered
But still miss sweet Septembers

r

At night, time passes by
like shadows that were not there
the morning before when I
opened my eyes as the sun rose
from dreams that left behind
their hind tracks to show where
I have been lingering in the forest
of many seasons, something to go by
while the hunter quietly closes in.

A crowd has gathered
in the home
of the unknown poet

a house of smoke
he calls it, but the poet
left for another affair

his gallant wife
descends the stairs
and shows no misery

while the guests read
his work sniffing
over their peer glasses

and with no regrets
whatsoever the poet's wife
drives a dagger deep
in her pale breast

as the poet is laughing
and dancing with ******
the guests at the table
place their orders.

In the gloaming
Of near darkened hospital room
A tender touch of a caring hand
Relieving pain
Providing the only light
That remains
In the gloaming
Of the nearly darkened room
Sleep child
I am here

The hangman
Riding town to town
In his creaky dusty black buggy
Sleepy eyed old mule pulling
Long-tailed fat round pet rat
Riding beside him
Both dressed all in dusty black
Neither smiling or frowning
From Tennesse to Missouri
Oklahoma then to Texas
Back again across the Mississippi
To Alabama or wherever called
Tools of his trade neatly bound
In back of the black buggy
A cheap hotel and clean black suit
Bow Tie tied neatly
A perfect knot and long coat tail
Takes the tools he needs for day's task
From black bag beside sweaty bed
Heads downstairs for another day
Just another job
Humming a sweet hymnal
As he climbs gallow stairs
Loops the noose tight 'round
Poor neck and offers cigarette
Politely as expected
Pulls black hood if requested
Awaits the nod and drops the trap
To cheers and jeers and sobs
Collects his bits of silver
Packs his gear and bags
And long-tailed pet rat
Has buggy hitched and hits the road
Dusty, humming hymnals
In his creaky old black buggy
Without a thought to next job
Down Georgia way
The hangman and his gear
Long-tailed rat and sleepy mule
Another day another dollar

r
6 Sept 13

Of all of the habits that I have claimed
  The ones that could have maimed
The ones that could have killed me
   Should have stilled me
And those that will eventually
    Somehow I missed the habit of simply
Being happy
    The habit of greeting each dawn
As another day won
    Like my sweet Daisy
Rolling on her back in the grass
    Beneath warm sun

r ~ 21Feb14

Blue as the geography
of footprints across the dunes
quiet as the white music
of a silent moon
like the wind blowing
the soul off the water
the shadows go out
and are lost in the evening
I conclude the hypothesis
of sundown making no sound
while night climbs the vines
where lowing sadness abides
the ritual of tides pulls me under.

Fear is a stingy businessman
who will sell you a plot
for your loved ones, little angels
for your children, copper coins
for their eyes while at night
a million thoughts will appear
at your window clear as day
like someone with a lamp
a sack, a clock and a map
in the darkness black as a bat
a boot, a cap with the insignia
of dreams that die in the palms
of your hands like a wound
that won’t heal and turns green
like a fish, like jade, wet moss
growing on stones above graves.

I used to keep a bell jar
full of old fine fishing line
arrowheads, gold coins
and stuff not easy to find

like cherry cured shine from
my mountains of Tennessee

buried in a lunch bucket
twelve paces from the coop
waiting for the moon
who took his own sweet time

slower than a long night
listening to the same hoot
of the same old hoot owl
in the same old dying tree

knowing it was the end
of my days on the Creek
me, I could see it coming
like a dead star's light

from so long ago
I couldn’t possibly know
which old road I’d follow

so holler at me my
friends, my loves
from time to time
wherever you be

whenever your heart strings
are feeling a need
to tell this spirit of mine
your sorrows, your joys
or wishes for
better tomorrows

and I will from somewhere
be there with open arms
and ears and a heart

sewn tight with that jar
of invisible string
that binds our lives together
forever and longer than that
light from a dead star still
burning on shining so bright.

This unnatural light
like the last summer
before the last winter
sends the grackles
into the cedars
rattling their wings
in the evergreens
making a sound like Ishmael
casting his bones
on the deck of Ahab's ship.

Somewhere along the way
I picked up a heavy load
of dead wood, a couple of degrees
east of East Tennessee,
a few bottles uncorked,
problem women, and another
woman, a child, and a mortgage,
all while I wandered down the left fork
of the wrong road like the red silt
in a river that has forgotten
its source, but enjoying the scenery,
the journey, and, of course,
the paths I tended to leave
through the high weeds where I lost
myself and my footprints so loud
I could hear them before I left them
on the ground behind me
like hollow dreams trampled down
beneath the feet that I follow.

There was a girl
I used to swap paperbacks
and spit with, once
I fixed her wiper blades,
I remember the soft dead wings
on the windshield,  pretty
as you please

She was alone in her shoes
listening to something
that kept getting darker
and glowing like morning
on the oil spilled under her truck,
she was drifting through
the rosewater of her soft red hair

She only wanted to be rolling
off a swollen river, sliding
out of a clean slip, turning
over in a deep sleep, trailing
a shimmering thread, hiding
under a pile of wet leaves

Then there she was sailing
in her river of blood,  going
white and smelling like smoke
from a struck match behind
closed blinds on a ceramic floor,
a white blouse red as a sharp knife
collecting the light of mourning.