Tuesday, April 28, 2009

Vince


Three and a half hours he played
not for money
nor fame or recognition

he played every song
every set
as children play

an ease and a love
introducing young and old alike
with a magnanimous spirit

easy as the jeans he wore
at home in bare feet
on fame's wood

a place of history
the Ryman
a man of heart
Vince Gill

on display
for three and a half hours
giving and giving

and giving

of himself
to others
for those in need

and I was there
to see a heart
larger than my own

and I cried
to know
such souls

were real
and walked
in flesh and blood

there was music
make no doubt
but I heard something different

and I cried
as only love witnessed
brings tears

I saw Vince
play and sing
without pay

for three and a half hours


PS

and you know what

if they would have let him
I think he would have played
for three and a half more

with the joy of a child
with the heart of an angel

Friday, April 24, 2009

ode de Ross (my future son-in-law)


When Caesar stood on his balcony
and the birds sang
did they sing any different
than the birds off my porch?

When Napoleon accepted
the note of sun slipped under his tent
was the golden warmth any more ernest
than the sun on my cheek?

When Columbus sailed the unknown sea
and set his Italian feet upon native sand
could he had sighed more deeply
at the beauty before him
as the beauty before me?

and when Juliet looked upon Romeo
as stars upon the moon
did his heart rise and his soul breathe
as mine
when you look at me
as I look upon you

so upon this day
with the birds and the sun as witness
I stand as royalty
as king asking of queen
take my hand
share my life

Thursday, April 23, 2009

in service

Spring is here
my azaleas tell me so
and will do so for
a few more weeks

when they go
the flowers pink and red
and what remains
is just green

I will wonder
why them
so beautiful
why must they go

and I am still here
these are the things
I do not understand
and fear

never will

beauty they bring
not an ill word
nor wayward glance
though their days be short

for a few brief weeks
rain or shine
they open to the world
and wave their hues

bright as fresh paint
tender as rice paper
they ask for nothing
while giving everything

I feel honored
to have known them
and I imagine
if they could speak

what they would say;
perhaps, nothing,
or, perhaps that life
is in service

in giving;
that
I imagine
is what they might say

but then again
perhaps
they already
have

Wednesday, April 22, 2009

. . . the last,

I feel a tightness in my chest
not a metaphorical tightness
but a real tightness
the kind I imagine is felt
when the light of day
escapes the eyes
at noon

and as I feel this tightness
and I take another swig of beer
I glance out my window
and to the sky
where I see a few white clouds
framed by branches of green;
spring is here

the tightness grows
and I imagine it's centered
round my heart,
which it very well might
but I like the sense of drama
and in this moment
truth is just
another idea

and I wonder if this is the view
my last view;
for one day
there will be a last view
unannounced as last views are
a last letting in of light
and I think to myself
what a wonderful sight
if so be
to close my days

if so be
to know
the last
of anything

Friday, April 17, 2009

in tribute

from the mist
a gleam of silver emerged
and then a scarred
and faded shield

they came by the thousands
as unstoppable
as the sand running
out my hourglass

and I rejoiced
for the enemy seen
a battle to fight
to engage

to die with my boots
on
my enemy
worthy
brave

giving my son
the honor
of a history
worn high

Thursday, April 16, 2009

going home

home has a pull
that time
can't
touch

that the passage
of sun
and the rain
of snow
neither
fades
nor
covers

but damn
it's
hard
to
go
back

to a time
that lives
not of earth
or hearth

but in
the golden
spectacles
of
memory

warm
edges smoothed
a tinge
of sepia

Wednesday, April 15, 2009

a red football helmet


I wore a red football helmet
when the moment
at the age of seven or eight
occurred such
--how or why, I don't know--
that forty some-odd years later
I would remember

I was heading toward
my paternal grandmother's house
(which just happened to be
next door to my maternal grandmother's house,
which was next door to my maternal great-grandmother's house
and, not surprisingly
across the street somewhat
from my own house
or, as my father would say,
catacorner)

since burned down
only an empty lot remains today
inhabited by a few brownish weeds
and much smaller than I remember

but then
the driveway
two strips of fractured concrete
like two Louisiana highways in disrepair
with its own green weedy medium
leading to a covered white aluminum car park
passed a set of gray concrete steps
with a thin black metal railing
lacquered shinny in ornamental flourishes
and touches of rust looking like
tiny little barnacles on the fleurs-de-lis

standing at the top
wearing not my Green Bay Packer helmet
the one I wanted but didn't get
that Christmas
but wearing my plain, generic red plastic
helmet, I stood before the screen door
looking at her pearl doorbell

and, at the age of seven or eight
red (with a single white stripe) helmet clad
(oh how could they put a Tiger in Tide colors)
alone, on a warmly lit afternoon
shadows growing
the rail appearing all the longer
by the minute

I became aware
and somewhat embarrassed
(I do remember that)
but mainly aware
for the first time
I was talking
to myself
out loud

a practice I knew was not new
but never before was I self-conscious
of the act
until that moment
talking to myself
in a red helmet
one I didn't really want
the error not corrected
until many years later
when I bought my own
regulation sized
fully padded
Green Bay Packer helmet

a bit of revenge
to parents who never knew
I would correct their shortcomings
silently
quietly
one by one

I still talk to myself
mostly internally
wondering
if my own son
has his own list
and just how long
that list is
that he will never share
of which
I will never know

unsung bell

Words live beyond the waves
of emotion
beyond the wide eyes
of anger
beyond the open heart
of love

choose your brush
and paint the day
yellow or red
your choice

live they do
in the mind
and heart

launched
they are
as bird
from nest

vulture or dove
your choice
just remember
park under
a tree

shade
or
shat

the same is true
for those words
never uttered
for they too
live
as a cave
empty
in the hearts
left
behind

ears remember
what is said
and what
is not shared

the unsung bell
rings longer
and
perhaps
loudest

the hours

Vanity Fair arrived today
my head spinning
in the month
that seemed like
yesterday
when
I stood at my mailbox
holding a magazine
that looked very similar

thirty days compressed
thirty days gone
thirty days
marking time
in pages not read
of pages not written

as if

life were a vise
squeezing my weeks
into days
and my days
into hours
and the hours
into minutes

it wasn't long ago
that every minute
seemed an hour
and every hour
seemed a day
and every day
seemed a week
and the weeks
well
they seemed
a lifetime

and all I want
is for an hour
to be an hour

Tuesday, April 14, 2009

fragile

Walking laps
I see smiles
and eyes
fragile

they seek
need
a smile
a glimmer
of eye

a fair exchange
a smile
for
a smile
a look
for
a look

a hunger
for recognition
acknowledgement
acceptance
of hands joined
in common
purpose

miss a smile
miss a look
and the laps
get lonely
as eyes
stare ahead
and lips once
raised
remain
quiet

Saturday, April 11, 2009

not a word

first come the carpenter bees
floating cities of black and gold fuzz
bloated as blimps
making homes of my home

then a few weeks later
comes the carpenter
repairing my home
destroying theirs

and the azaleas
say not a word

(beotches)

buttons







buttons
twenty-one
I took my time
she didn't mind

Friday, April 10, 2009

flags waving

I own books so good
so brilliant
so magical in mood
I don't read them

oh, I've read some
enough
to know the fear
a fear so overwhelming

I can't turn another page
read another line
and forever
sticking upward

a bookmark
a reminder
that I must never
will never
confront my fear

the fear of finishing
the fear of ending
the fear of leaving
a good friend behind

for as long as
the bookmark
remains
for as long as
pages remain unread

my book lives
beckons flirtatiously
to caress the mind
that caresses mine

and so, these books
and I
dance the dance
of glances and smiles

the waltz of fingers
and pages to dip
of delight held
anticipation growing

so upon my shelf
the only books finished
are the ones
I want done
want gone

the relationship over
kaput
finis
terminated

to my others
flags waving
as girls smiling
as arms open

I hold dear
these loves
beyond continent
beyond time
eternally alive
pages to turn
stories to unfold
paths to travel
vistas to view
oceans to sail

Thursday, April 09, 2009

664. Sapphires Brilliant

"Kyra," said Papa, "lift this chair." She did. "Now put it back down." Again, she did. "Which was more difficult? The lifting or the putting down?"

"The lifting."

"Right. The lifting. That is our work. That is what we do."

Kyra smiled. And so did Papa.

__________

Ariel shimmered in golden waves, her eyes as sapphires brilliant upon the eastern plains in winter. Kyra smiled, lifting her arms as a single note rising, holding, growing and upon the two, gold and black, love showered, a waterfall of universe smiling.

silent colors

The silent colors
of the day
flow past
on a river
of asphalt

a quiet gliding
of car
to match
the quiet sliding
of
mind

a lone trumpet
holding a single note
tethers me
as gravity

how can I leave
such a note
weaving melody
as arms
in hug

lost

Lost is when
every direction
seems
wrong

when the acid
in your stomach
churns
no matter what you do

when you question
your value
your contribution
and the paper
before you
remains
blank

when the hand
you extend
is not embraced
and the hand
on your shoulder
slips away
quietly

Lost is neither dark
nor light
for the feeling
transcends
the day
and the night

lost is being hungry
with
no desire
to eat

lost is being cold
with
no energy
to reach

for the blanket

two feet away

and lost has an aura
quarantine
if visible
would read

so in this state
state of
quarantine
one looks

looks upon
the quiet door
visitors of white
sometimes light blue
or green

washed cotton
standard fare
holding your hand
as the nameless one before
and the nameless one to come

Wednesday, April 08, 2009

663.Round the Horn III


Yul exhaled as the setting sun. Rog inhaled as the rising dawn. Lips touching, parted, just breathing each other before the wonders of the cosmos of sheets warmer than before. Eyes shut as curtains before the stage of imagination, tongues playing as actors, darting to and fro, moving slow and quick, a touching of intent, a gliding beyond, beyond content. Sighs taken, sighs stolen, fingers searching, pulling hair as reins as necks bulged in sinewy shadows, lithe in desire, curved in reach. Hands spoke and fingers travelled, exploring nooks as scholar upon books as eyes followed lips in looks upon dives took; and taken.

Mairi cried the cry of frozen tears heard, not seen. Her face as stone in the rain. Her mind made up.

Kyra and Ariel danced in the light of the next life, master and apprentice, walking on rainbows, floating on clouds, kissing the sun with their eyes and tickling the stars with their toes. What had been given was to be given and so give it was with a natural joy, free as the breeze in the trees.

Von held his grandson. A name to give she had said. A son's wish she added. He beamed as a grandfather, holding lineage, holding a past and a future. His smile grew and Zoe smiled the smile of happiness shared, of a journey travelled to a successful conclusion.

Trev and Em, two cups of snizzle, one sheet of paper and eyes that said read. He didn't need to be asked twice. She found the spot between shoulder and chest, a nook to hear the heart she loved. He read as if floating, as if an audience of angels sat the seats of plush.

John leaned over the lave, door locked. The mornings were still hard. The memory still vivid. The pain almost unbearable. She was gone from sight, gone from touch.

roses and thorns

over yonder
tell me
what do you
see

yes, that patch
waving red
skirts
alive in breeze

heaven
or
hell

rain
or
shine

tell me
if
you dare

roses
my dear
or
thorns

to what end

to what end
to what purpose
do we move

through the day
through the lives
of the souls

fate has entrusted
to our circle
the square

of our foundation
the walls of
love and lust

of friendship
and continuance
as we touch

the day
and warm
the night

give me your lips
and I'll
give you

my ears
nestle
suckle

but above
all
hold

hold as if
below
a well

nay, a cliff
dark
bottomless

can you hold
hold me
like this

hold body
and
soul

heart
and
hand

all of me
the day
and the night

the sun
and
the rain

can you
do
this

can you
do
it now

not now
as
in now

but now
as in
eternity

a place
forever
now

Tuesday, April 07, 2009

battered

Battered
soft where I
used to be hard
bruised where I
used to be smooth
pommeled
repeatedly
pummeled
over and over
and over
again

stormed
my bridge
across
my moat
rammed
wood on wood
banged
shelled
hammered
slammed

my port
cullised
sliding
giving
bending
grabbed
pulled
yanked
bent
and taken

penetrated
my nave
occupied
my
sanctum
sat
my
sacrum

last call

If you had nothing left to give
absolutely nothing

would anyone
any
one
still love you

or would you hear
reflecting
bouncing
the echos
of your own
thoughts
thinking
blinking
neon

as alone
as the last
beer
on
last call

a quiet house

I sit at my desk
the gentle whirl of fans
and in the distance
a dog barks

the mood is chocolate
bittersweet
and I wonder
if in ten years

when all is done
when all is said
what I remember
the most

is the sitting
the fans
and the distant sound
of a dog barking

hell is not fire
not brimstone
it is vacant eyes
and lips without care

pain not in yell
or anger
but rather
in a quite house

of covers pulled
over the head
and dogs that lie
knowing

lie as sandbags
to back and stomach
knowing
all is not right

they hear what
I hear
and on other days
at other times

return they would
the bark
that comes
from a distance

but not today
today they lie
back to stomach
quiet as the house

quiet as the future

his eyes were blue


his eyes were blue
and they were honest
and in a look
the shadows of my falsehood
disappeared

Monday, April 06, 2009

Sometimes

Sometimes
you don't know
how dark it is
until
the sun comes up

and

Sometimes
you don't know
how nice warm is
until
the sun goes down

either way
dark and cold
sucks

if I had a fifth
of whiskey
I wouldn't have
a fifth

I'd have
a couple hours
of peace
followed by
a couple hours
of hell

as only eyes

Walked to my mailbox
a quiet gambol
lost in loss

waving red
three tulips
happy in hue

I've got years
they've got days
how can they smile

like they do
and I frown
like I do

how?

absorbed
my pain
without a word

bled me dry
with honor
wearing my crimson

healing
as only eyes
can heal

Saturday, April 04, 2009

nine for nine

Violin eyes
violently violet
minor chord
atchafalaya deep
in the glory
of morning

I can't leave
without the right words
a genetic fault
so I write the
wrong words
knowing
I
can't
leave

yet

my feet on concrete
ten feet high
fifteen feet away
white and silver
a touch of pebbled orange
ten in a row
I shoot
fluid
strings sing in backspin
a perfect bounce
I moved not my feet
like bone and dog
returned

just me
an autumn afternoon
no one to watch
no one to see
no one to care
just me
and my basketball
a touch of leather
replacing
a touch of flesh
a sadness
cistern deep
beyond my understanding
but all the same
pain knows
a way around

so I shoot
nine in a row
missing the tenth
starting over
knowing
I don't want to leave
at home I am
outside
avoiding
the hell that awaits
a door away

nine for nine
always
nine for nine

Reading and Commentary

Friday, April 03, 2009

a hallowed breeze


from below I looked
upon suns among the stars
shinning through the rain
shinning not of fire and flame
but of the divine light
a light unto which
I had never seen

and

and as a kite in the spring wind
I felt a tug
a lifting
a healing
as ethereal fingers
flew my soul
a hallowed breeze
gentle
breathing life
birth
into the night
into my soul

as once we did



Standing on the beach
waves gently lapping my toes
that is how it is
the coming and going
standing, just standing I am
gentle waves
tickling my toes
beckoning
so when you see the sea
and those gentle waves
think of me
and the warmth
and know
I'm always
just
a
wave
away

Come see me sometime
and with your hands
reach
reach as you used to reach
hold me as you used to hold me
cup your hands
and hold my pure, clear
essence
as once you did
just holding
and taste of me
as life, given
of life, taken
of life, risen
and
drink of me
of tongue
and eye
take me
within
letting our souls mingle
as once we did

Wednesday, April 01, 2009

of wings

I've seen the face of God
calling me home

a fitting to be
of wings that sing

preparing the way
please let them say

to whisper of the path
that forks

and nudge the heart
to love's way


Swimming with Angels

to write
is to reach

to read
is to reach back

to comment
is to touch the divine

to comment back
is to swim with angels

If I write
will you swim with me?