I awakened this morning to coffee
It was left from the day before
Normally stolen and leaving no sign
the thief must be missing, the coffee’s now mine.
It sits there in silence, abandoned and cold
I know how it feels, with no one to hold
a day has gone by, two more she’s away
Till my favorite thief, who causes such grief,
Will return to her pilfering ways
That person who steals my coffee
has also stolen my heart
a day with plenty of coffee
is a day wishing we weren’t apart
The morning light remains a dream
And yet, not my dream
My dreams don’t look for the dawn
They ride through the night’s dark mantle
Like a tailor’s shears
Cutting the dark before me with a beam of light
Gathering it behind amidst the growls of an angry exhaust
A dragon, warning those who would follow my path
That this moonlit road is my dream, and mine alone.
In that space between the light ahead and the growls behind
The fabric of night furls and unfurls, windswept sheets
With a patchwork quilt of a hundred stories
Of other travels, of other travelers that passed this way
Alone with their dreams, in another night’s ride.
Free from the smothering streetlights that drown my eyes
I breathe in the pure night darkness, the scent of the Great Bear above me,
Wheeling in the sky pointing the way home
To Polaris
I touch in my mind the celestial doorposts of heaven itself
And then gather the reins in my fistsÂ
Joining with the Hunter, pursuing our prey
Shadow, or Light, it matters not which
The chase is what feeds me
To race through the shadows, to feel the whip-cords of light
Lashing my back as I ride through the trees
Thundering hooves pound in my ears
Beating heart pounds in my chest
Flailing wind pounds at my face
Riding this writhing dragon as it rises and drops in the darkness, twisting beneath me to unhorse me.
I fight alone in this night, until the dragon is spent, dropping to the earth with its head atop its gilded hoard
And through the trees I break, into the calm of a mountain plateau
The moon, an arms-length away, bathes my sweating spirit in peace
I drift into a languid pool of silver night-sea, the alpine meadow grass rippling in the breeze.
I lean back, letting my mind’s sails fill with mountain air
Pinpoints of a million distant suns guide my thoughts
The open sky cradles my head
This lonely road rests my body
The crest of another mountain pass frees my soul.
Tags : Motorbikes, motorcycles, poems, poetry
Once upon a Christmas dreary, children screaming, getting teary
Over several bright and glossy tomes of merchandise galore
While they prodded, nearly popping, seemingly there was no stopping
From without there came a hopping, hopping at my chamber door.
“‘tis some visitor,†I muttered, “hopping at my chamber door.
Not my children I adore.â€
Ah distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate credit card wrought its ghost upon my door
Eagerly I wished the ‘morrow, vainly I had sought to borrow
From my bank surcease of sorrow -sorrow for the lost cash flow
For the rare and radiant paycheck, whom the angels named “cash-flowâ€
Nameless here for evermore
Ah, so softly did they succor, whine and made their brows to pucker
So they played me for a sucker, crying, sighing all the more
So that now to still the beating of my heart I stood repeating
“‘Tis the season to be giving, giving all to help the poor.â€
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the words, “the poor?â€
This I heard, and then much more.
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so sharply spoken,
â€Doubtless,†said I, “what they utter is their only stock and store,
Caught from some grim advertisement warning shrill that woe and lament
Follows fast and follows faster if its warnings they ignore
Till the dirges of their languish blend with howls of needless anguish
Yea, of sadness, evermore.
But the children still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
wheedled sweetly through the doorway, child and merchandise galore;
Then, upon the bedpost sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what these anguished children bore–
What this ghastly advertisement meant in croaking “You need more!â€
Always this, and always more.
Thus I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the kids whose teary eyes now burned into my bosom‘s core;
This and more they cried beseeching, in my head I pondered preaching
On the notion that their leeching brings upon us creditors
Creditors whose endless screeching rails upon my chamber door
Rails upon me, evermore!
But the children, never flinching, still are sitting, still are clinching
So my answer had no meaning—little relevancy bore;
Not the least concession made they; not a minute stopped or stayed they
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched before my chamber door–
Perched and wailed their mournful tale to me behind my chamber door–
Perched, and wailed, and little more.
Presently my soul grew meeker, hesitating, much the weaker
“Childâ€, said I, “or demons, truly your forgiveness I implore
Now I sense my purpose clearly, clearly as in days of yore
Darkest night and plaintive sobbing grants me wisdom lost before
Peace on earth, good will toward parents comes from merchandise galore.â€
With installments, evermore!
Who am I?
You ask me, with a voice so low it is drowned by the distant highway, who I am.
And I cannot say.
I use a thousand words, and smiles, and scowls,
And tell you who I love.
And who I hate.
And yet I cannot tell you who I am.
Who am I?
You ask me, though your lips move through the patterns of other words,
Your questions gently couched in questions of statistics and health.
Your Question sticks to your face, like a fear.
Half afraid I’ll turn out to be different than you.
Half afraid I’ll be the same.
Who am I?
If I told you, you wouldna believe me, you’d say that I’m putting on aires.
And that they do not become me
But aires is who I am, to you and to a thousand others
I cannot be other
I cannot be others
I cannot be anything other than who you say I am
Who am I?
If I lie awake at night, and puzzle at the answer
and at the midnight hour offer up my best guess.
If I fail the test will you turn me out into that dark night?
Will you give me extra credit for effort?
Will you correct me with a blood-red pen?
Will you announce to the world that I have failed?
Who am I?
Who are you? This game we play but never win.
While my answer is shouted down by the sound of the distant highway
Your answer is shouted down by your nature.
And after we both are spent by shouting, when we are reduced to nothing but hoarse whispers
A question only spoken in that tortured voice remains,
Who are we?
Over the past few months I’ve come to know a group of veterans who have experienced more than their share of anguish. In the last few days this theme came to my mind, and in the end, the following came from it. This is for them:
Mother’s anguish bleeds
from the body of a mother’s son dying
Through the stream of a mother’s soul
tears turn to pools, pools into streams.
Streams into torrents
Mother’s son’s mother cries.
wretched life wasted, wretched cry wasted – wretched
Anguish is the sound of the torrent through her torn soul.
Raging in the ears of those who didn’t know.
Still don’t know.
Won’t ever know.
Son’s anguish sneaks
out the back alley, down the lane, out to the highway
The sound of grief and failure suppressed,
the soul pushed down the asphalt way
motor off
the crunch and pop of loose gravel its only voice.
Until its final grief explodes, pent-up breath,
becomes the sound of the machine jamming through gears
The empty night highway has no more dreams,
running away
Rider’s soul flutters, torn, to the pavement behind,
Anguish is the fading sound of anger, rounding the distant corner, gone.
Not holding back, never looking back.
Never.
Looking back.
Father’s Anguish
never spoken, never open
always borne, never born,
bears the pain of mother’s anguish
bears the blame for children’s anguish
wears the sound of anguish in his eyes
no one hears the screamÂ
of such pain as no single soul can bear
it flutters in the wind without a sound like a drum-skin, torn,
Anguish is the sound of his silence
Beaten, in the presence of hope.
Torn, in the presence of pride.
Soundless, in the presence of joy.
Tags : poems, poetry, submarines PTSD
This Memorial Day, I heard several people suggest that to honor those who served in combat honors war itself, and that perhaps we should not. I would like to take a moment to publicly dispute this.
They suggest that perhaps if we spent as much time working for peace as we do preparing for war, we would all be better off. It would seem there are those who still believe there aren’t and down through history never has been people who don’t want to work for peace, but for domination. There comes a point where you can’t talk to those people. There was no talking to King George, as Ben Franklin eventually came to believe and advise. There came a point where there was no talking to the folk who felt the need to own other people in this country, as gentle a man as Abraham Lincoln came to realize. Stalin, Hitler, Emperor Hirohito, Ho Chi Minh, Osama bin Laden…there’s a long list. At some point our freedom has been threatened by these people who didn’t fail to understand reason or respect for others rights, they simply had no interest in it.
I don’t use freedom as a patriotic catchphrase to be bandied around with a flag tied to it. I mean the right to determine our style of government, our right to raise our children with our own beliefs, not those of the state, our right to choose within the confines of personal circumstances our occupation, religious belief, the very location of our home. It is our freedom that allows us to change those things if opportunity, conviction, and desire motivate us. These are our freedoms, and it is these that were threatened. Many consider these freedoms trivial. I believe they think this way because that freedom has never been genuinely threatened or restricted, and the reality of life without them is too far away for most to give serious thought to, what with the joys or pains of the moment in front of us. But there are those amongst us who, when called upon, are capable of seeing a little further, and have acted upon the need to be prepared for our defense against those who would deny us those freedoms. We have set aside one day in a year to celebrate the foresight and sacrifice it has taken for us to remain free.
The people who have been in combat know a secret that is hard to live with. They realize that in spite of all the skill, or equipment, or training – often it comes down to odds that can only be influenced in small ways, and the guy they were just standing next to died because some guy across the battlefield just happened to target him. That guy didn’t die because he was a lesser man, but because he, and everyone else, volunteered to place themselves in the way of this possibility for a cause they felt was that important. Chance did the rest.
It is hard to live with this, because most men in combat have seen others act in a way that makes no sense to the common world – they’ve seen men take actions that endanger themselves in order to protect those around them. In some of the worst of human conditions some of the best human traits come to the surface to meet the need. And every man that’s been in combat and not died comes away wondering, somewhere in the back of his mind, why it wasn’t he that was killed, but some other guy. We wonder if perhaps that guy was more worthy, more courageous – if maybe that other guy died because we didn’t do enough- and we remember it for the rest of our life. We do this despite the abject fear we sometimes saw in that man’s eyes, the fear-driven anger, things that are ugly, and not comfortable talking about. We still wonder in the aftermath if that man was more worthy than us. Memorial day is one day for these men to share this pain of survival with others, to give those who were safe at home a moment’s glimpse into what it takes to maintain this way of life, and most importantly, to honor the men we had the opportunity to see at their best when no one else could. It seems most people don’t believe it takes armed conflict. It seems much of our society believes armed soldiers are bloodthirsty animals looking for prey. Memorial day is a moment for us to realize that most of those who have been in combat were not looking for blood, and expected no glory, on the day when our companions died. On that day when battle plans are executed, men feel fear because they do not want to be killed, nor do they want to kill. And yet, to protect the society they support, it must be done, and this is that day.
Most everyone prefers peace. But once in a while, someone who will not be satisfied with peace comes along, and needs defending against. We don’t have a memorial day for those people. We have a memorial day for those who picked up a weapon and defended his home against them, regardless of the danger. We don’t celebrate the brash young man who left home with his rifle to kick some butt yelling “yee-hah!” down the road in a cloud of dust. We celebrate the courage of a young man who got to battle, and learned quickly that there was more to it than that, that his glory came second to the survival of his group, and who, in the end, got his butt kicked defending them. We celebrate that transformation from brashness to complete sacrifice. And through that example we wish for more courage ourselves to face the need for sacrifice in living each day in our hard-won freedom, seeking peace.
Tags : courage, freedom, memorial day, military, peace, poetry, sacrifice, submarines PTSD
Yes. Seriously. I know…roll your eyes all you want, but here it is, Haiku for the Valentine. In case you didn’t know, the idea with Haiku is to pack as much meaning into three lines as possible. But not just any three lines, NO! Five syllables for the first and last line, seven for the middle. Making it can be as much fun as reading it, but here’s some to get you started. Write it on a napkin, and slide it across the table to your One True Love during dinner Monday. You know you want to. You know you need to. And written in “Electric Green” from the flourescent Crayola box provided by the restaurant for the kiddies makes it even more romantic!
For text message if you have to be on a business trip:
My heart is heavy
your love is always with me
but you are not here
Is it raining and/or snowing out? Are you somewhere cold, but somehow mindless of the discomfort?
My heart is snuggled
your love is wrapped about me
blanketed and safe
Is there a Big Question you’re planning to ask?
My heart is bubbling
your love is spilling over
I can’t keep it in
Perhaps you and/or the object of your affection dislike the winter.
My heart is glowing
your love fills me with sunshine
basking in the grass
What else is in that Crayola box the waitress gave you for no good reason, seeing as you’re out on a date with no kids? Use them all to write this one:
hearts are a canvass
your love paints mine with colors
beautiful mirror
Ok, folks, have fun. Or write your own, that’s even more fun! Remind me to tell you about the ones I wrote with the kids when one of them came home with Haiku writing as homework. It was an epic homework night that lives on in our memories lo these oh…I’m thinking about 15 years ago. It was that good.
Here in my middle ages, I look at the young men, as they court
and the young girls, as they are courted
they are so full of life, and so empty of wisdom
and yet, so full of life
I feel my life waning
I feel the life draining, out of the pond, and into the river
flowers bobbing, spilling, tumbling free
out into the broader, slower river, to spend another lifetime languishing towards the sea
But the old codger on the street-corner
craggy, dried man, drained and empty
He cheers the young men on
with a toothy grin and a wink he nods at the boys as they follow
that girl down the street with their eyes, and their hearts.
the old flower-seller lady urges the young man
and she watches the young girl, and sighs
remembering her own first rose, brought to her by a young man, perhaps just like this one
brought with a stumbling shyness, by a boy who knew she loved flowers
but didn’t know why
and didn’t care why
except, that something about that flower
might make her think of him, and feel happy when she did
because while he wanted her to think of him, he wanted her to be happy too
it would be another forty-seven years before he would understand that he really just
wanted her to be happy
and said so, with his last breath
She sighs, knowing this is how it is
and knows how to be happy watching another boy
making a fool of himself without knowing why
because he will know why, when it becomes important, and in the meantime
will do what he can without knowing why
And I, here in my middle ages, still worry about what I don’t know
I worry about what I can no longer do
I feel, here in my middle ages, stuck in the middle
neither wise, nor full of youthful vigor
but I watch the codger winking
and the flower-lady sighing her sighs
and watching them wink and sigh, I lose my fear
Time will pass me by, and in its passing
will teach me to wink, and sigh, and to not miss being young
and stupid
and so full of life that there was no room for knowing
why the happiness that sits by my side
sipping her coffee with me, watching me, watching them,
knowing that I watch, and think, happy with the show of things she cannot see
going on in my mind
knowing why her happiness is so important to me.
I hope I tell her in a breath sooner than my last that
I hope to tell her with a wink, that her happiness is more important than mine
I want to hear her sigh, before it means she misses me
I am one flower on the surface of the river
and I will rush to the sea, and become the sea
cheering both codgers and young men in my time, and selling flowers
glad that I am neither
happy that I am both
satisfied that today I am not yet part of the sea
Tags : aging, love, poems, poetry, Valentines
In each man’s heart and seldom shared
some passion burns and flares
in mine when silence takes me there
doth creak the rocking chairs
there’s nothing there of power
nor bold display of might
in fact the humble cane and wood
seem fragile, weak, and light
the symphony of squeaks and groans
syncopate with creaks of bones
yet still reverberate the tones
of laughing youth, and lover’s moans
the wood is etched, yet hid from view
with loving tools, and from that grew
a place for love to be so true…
a place to sit and be with you
In August’s sun, or April rain
we sit upon the supple cane
and touching binds our love in gain
in sickness, health, in joy or pain
there harks upon the heavens fair
the angel’s glorious aires
but sweeter still, without compare
doth creak the rocking chairs!
There will be a few poems coming out this week.  A couple are older ones, at least one is still cooling on the window sill, and a couple actually rhyme.
Today, we’ll have an older poem about the joys of growing older together. Later this week there’s another about the fear of growing older. I don’t know where this stuff comes from, I just write what the voices tell me to! There’s even a haiku set coming, maybe tomorrow. Make sure you leave your comments.
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Apr.4,2013
