Thursday, December 5, 2013

Thinking of My Father

As I stand and gaze upon tools covered with dust and age,
rusted from lack of use,
the realization that I seldom spent any time
in this Holy Place; where he used his hands to make, to mend
and to apply a life-time of acquired knowledge.
I only saw the results of the labor he put forth,
failing to notice the scarred knuckles and calloused hands
that made all of our cars run again, that kept solid walls
and a roof over our heads.


I let my mind wander back through the years
searching for the gratitude we surely must have bestowed upon him
for making all of our lives much easier.
The only response that rises to the surface of my mind
is a poor and simple, "Thank you", then we would drive away;
never letting the endeavour of love he poured out settle in our souls.


How were we to know that our time with him was slowly waning,
that those hands made of iron were softening and losing their grip.
I never noticed his diminished stature as the years went by,
that his piercing blue eyes grew dimmer with each passing season.
I always saw before me the man I knew in my youth;
a man full of laughter, a man with a heart that could not be measured in beats,
a man that could move mountains, and would for any of his children and is wife.


I miss that man, and it is only now that I begin to see he was growing weaker
as the years went by; though his body ultimately failed him, he never lost his laugh
or the love he felt for all of us.


I miss that laugh and the way we would talk when no one else was around: "man to man".
I miss his advice, and I regret taking too much of it for granted, though he never failed to give.
I will never forget the way he would look at me with those eyes,
so full of experience and wisdom, straining to will me
not to make the same mistakes he had as a young man.
Though I did not always heed his warnings, I did grow into a man
and I am thankful that we had the opportunity to sit at a table, over coffee,
and talk as men; that through all of our imperfections the love we shared over-shadowed
any mistakes we may have made.


Time washes away the failures of our youth but no amount of time, distance or death
can diminish the love my father left us. That is his legacy; not the cars he fixed, the houses he built or the advice he gave. It is his love that lingers on and lives in each of us, as if he were still here; laughing, smiling and making sure we were all ok.



Wednesday, September 4, 2013

Love Flower

Love Flower

I’ve seen this flower blossom,
to the effect that no other had ever compared,
and the very next day wilt, to the point
where decay should, surely, begin to set in.
Then, without notice, color returns to the leaves
and the stem gains some of its old turgidity back.
Life begins anew.
I’ve known this flower to cause envy
to grow in the hearts of those that gaze upon it,
seen its beauty inspire others to shine with the same radiance.
But, what care is involved, what diligence in
refining and delivering the proper nutrients.
And there are seasons, some that nurture
the unusual plant, causing it to change, to become more
than was promised when seed was first planted.
And other seasons, which defy the natural progression
of nature, seasons that seem designed to destroy
that which could, potentially, outlast the sun.
Patience, endurance, faith.
These are the tools that will see it to the end.
What control do I have over Earth and sun,
over time and chance.
A weary traveler, who fell, floated
and was saved by the sight of a life force
that weathered the long hours.Show less

Sunday, July 14, 2013

Sunday Morning

A sip of morning’s coffee
and consciousness rises from some unknown depths.
There is a dull ache traversing the entire landscape
of my skin, or my flesh in the biblical sense.
The coffee is strong; rich and black.
The smell of it takes me to a thousand different places
where I sat, drinking morning’s dew from eyes
and watched the shuffling of another day
that would soon find itself at a dead sprint.


Ah, but that was the past.
There seems so much of that now,
stretching out along the road that has brought me here.
So many adventures, heartaches and faded glory.
And it is left to my moth eaten memory to house
all of those amber encased moments that seemed would never end,
though did.


So, now I sit with Sunday Morning and she lights a cigarette.
Of course, she will tell me it is a terrible habit
as she takes a puff and hands it to me.
I just stare at her with a half-hearted smile
and mumble some poor excuse of carrying with
on last habit for a little while longer.
Sunday; she knows me better than any other,
has been there when there was no other.
She has seen me in prison orange, sleeping off the reverie
of Saturday Night.
She has patiently listened as I argued with my other self,
discussing the reasons for lingering on a while longer.


I have always decided to stay, despite what the week may bring
I know that Sunday will be waiting at the end.
She has seen me clinically insane, not knowing where or who I was
and sat by me, rocking me gently until I came back into myself.
She loves, despite the heartache I have thrown at her first light’s feet,
because she has seen me shine, known me barefoot in the woods
with powerful words on my tongue, softly emitting my own light.
She knows I am more than one color, shape, emotion.
For as much as she is unchanging, I am change.


She has seen me in her morning’s service, seated and singing.
Searching for that spark that smoldered along the way.
She does not judge, neither approves nor disapproves
but watches and waits as the week draws to an end.
Oh Sunday, if you could whisper to me all that you have witnessed
would our hearts break or burst with light?
It does not matter, I know she remains silent
and is a better friend for it,
so I will come back here again and again
and always find my Sunday waiting.  

Friday, June 28, 2013

A Few Words on Dying

The last words are never right,
the moment, when you look at someone,
whom your heart is tied inextricably to,
and then, without notice, without forewarn
they expire.
You always think you could have said more,
told them how much they had affected your life,
how much they meant to you,
instead you can't remember if you said, “I love you” or not.


It is not the last words, but rather, the life lived.
Do not concern yourself with saying goodbye,
the time to grieve will come,
hold off while they are still holding on.
Holding them, while even a trickle of vitality
lingers in their hand to hold yours.
Those last moments,
the moments you will never forget,
are but a pause and heartache.


Should we let the last images
our father, our mother, our child
sees be the desperation of two helpless hands,
the anguish of eyes straining to notice every detail
the complete, utter abandoned of self;
dropping all pretence of dignity and wrapping
ourselves in a blanket of raw grief.
Our attitude is misconstrued with the dying,
refusing to accept the inevitable
we may end up causing panic and fear to
fill those last gasps of air,
as the dying moves on.


Reserve this time for squeezing hands tight,
for remembering the life lived
and how that life lives on in you.
A person dies, a body is buried
but the pieces left behind reside
in those that were lucky enough to
share in that life before it faded and went on.

Tuesday, June 11, 2013

Renewing the old Gift

I stand in silent stills,
photographed in black and white
waiting for dreams to coalesce with the spirit
and transform into color.
Waiting, for action.
Action speaks,
but speaking does not action ignite.
A spark. It requires; that infant child
of fire, so often extinguished before it can
fulfill a promise made when Prometheus
first broke the law of Gods and gave hope to man.

But, when a spark serendipitously finds the right dream,
the right idea,
a miracle occurs, small light becomes luminous,
filling not only the surrounding void,
but an unnoticed void in hearts and minds.
True fire spreads.

Our mortal limitations oft prevent us from
seeing the simplicity of change.
We think in grandiose terms,
and with those Titans looming over head,
cower in their shadow and concede that one
soul cannot change the world, cannot cause
the tide to shift and oceans to rise.

Doubt is the devil we have created;
for shame, for convenience and for fear.
Fear of failure and ridicule.
One spark may not immediately proffer
the change our chained souls grave.
But a word, a gesture, can spread
from one fire maker to the next.
And, with time, in time the world
is not as it was before, and we are more
than, in the beginning, we believed we could ever be.

Friday, June 7, 2013

The Things I See When You are Looking Away

I know you now,
not just the landscape of your body
though I know it well.
The twists and turns,
the smooth curves that lead to places
where dreams and visceral reality form a close bond.
I know you,
as the sea knows the beaches it visits
in repetition on constant change.
One continually changing the shape and texture
of the other,
the other changing the flows and force
of the one.
I know the voice that echoes
within the chambers of my heart,
laughter that sprays onto the high, dry places
bringing sweet relief to old sorrows.
I know you, as we dance.
This eternal waltz that has been back and forth
long before my first wave caressed those foreign shores.
I knew you before the first drop that formed me,
before the first grain that formed you.
We have always been, even before we were
and will be, after our memory has dwindled.
Our echoes reach out into the void
in all directions.


Monday, May 27, 2013

Alchemy

Late night sitting,

so much of it consumed

with chipping fragments of stone

from a boulder,

art that bares no consequence.

When the car pulls up, stopping,

one last pack of cigarettes.

The moment presents itself in full clarity.

Four wheels were hugging every curve and

knuckles are still white from death gripping

the stirring wheel.

This is where true laughter begins and ends.

There was no race,

just an intense interest in the moment,

and what of this moment

and those to come.

Promises have been made

and promises have been broken.

If these tumbled walls and fallen rafters

are ever assembled to form a home again,

I will have finally succeeded

in turning lead to gold.

Monday, April 29, 2013

Remembering Gypsy

Memories;
sitting at the kitchen table
with the Philosopher King,
that old, exiled gypsy...
I know you say that you are not photogenic
but your smile,
the way your eyes smile
in that sad way, fruit dying on the vine way.
Picturesque.
Smoking your cigarettes with the right hand
then the left hand
and afterwards the right again.
You would speak to the children
gathered around, sitting at your feet.
Words, 
words that were more than strings of thought.
Tribal spells from an age that will never come again,
the heart’s metal forged with unfiltered spirit
and brought forth imperfect, but perfectly fragile.
Those words would take shape, forming structures inside of us,
solid foundations,
to withstand the ravages of time and disappointment.

Friday, April 19, 2013

Winter is Coming



The knights of Spring, garlands about their necks
and blunt tourney swords in hand
the innocent youth,
having only known the warm kisses of maidens
and the sweet Summer Sun.
This season will pass,
Winter is coming.
A red comet streaks across the azure sky,
turns to blood once the sun has set
and tales dragons begin to spread across the sea.
What was once legend, stories of Grumkins and Snarks
leap from the pages of children’s stories
and into the woods beyond the Wall.
That great expanse of ice, once garrisoned as kingdom would be,
ready to defend, to hold at bay the gathering storm,
has become merely tradition.
A place for murderers and thieves as well as some second sons
and a few knights whom have no hope in owning titles or lands.
The true nature of it, a mystery to those black crowes,
standing vigil against the endless night.
They all speak the words,
“I am the sword in the darkness.
I am the watcher on the walls.
I am the shield that guards the realms of men.”,
but to what end.
Their needs are quickly disregarded by the rest of Westeros
in light of the Game of Thrones being played by so many would-be kings.
Let us pray their warnings are heeded
before that night which has no end engulfs the world
and Winter descends upon us all.

Wednesday, April 17, 2013

The ashes that hold memories

The old house of our memories home
smolders, now burnt.
It is just a hull, ravaged from the inside out
The first room to go, that sacred place
where she would sit in her recliner
peeling oranges in Winter time,
sucking the juice out and tossing the pulpy Rhine
only wanting the juice,
life giving manna that staved off
sickness during the cold Kentucky Winters.

This house,
Where generations of children were raised;
those of the great mother
and later her children's children.

The front is gone, the porch
where so many seasons
beans were hulled and broke
to the sweet sound or her singing
and the stories she would tell
of family, known by many only name.

The kettle that once stood;
a cast iron cauldron
where food was canned
and mutton made.

All gone.

The grapevine, that we all raided time and again
despite the sourness of the grape
and the consequent belly ache;
purple giving away to a vibrant green,
and the sour taste would
cause a curious puckering of the lips
and uncontrollable cringe
yet we would go back for another and yet another.

Memories:
the pop of the electric fence
and the way that electricity felt
as the youngest of us were tricked into
testing to see if it was on,
as the task always fell on the youngest
time and time again.

Memories:
Sitting in the backyard by a wooden picnic table,
digging through the soft mud
and making mud pies to cook on that old
wood cook stove,
that stood in the backyard for as long
as grand kids can remember.

The dying of her house,
like losing a member of the family.
From the youngest to the oldest,
we all ran barefoot through that house at one time.
When the sun went down
and He-Haw had gone off the air
we would crawl on top of feather beads,
chins tucked neatly under homemade quilts,
trying not to move, so that our warmth would
soak deep in the feather bed.

The house is now gone and with it
the paths worn by dozens of children
from the living room to the back rooms.
Never have I seen so many beds crammed in to such a small house.
But, as a child that house seemed immense.
And now, what is left, seems so small
and the relics we once held so dear have floated
to the sky, not quite to heaven, but at a height where they will never be seen again.

The tears we shed could have quenched that fire,
the memories remain but the rooms in which we made them
are now gone;
Cast iron skillets, Red Eye Gravy, the sight of grandma
eating crackers in her coffee at the kitchen table.

So many of us still run barefoot through those halls.
Dodging fly swats and that dreaded paddle
that sat just around the corner as a reminder
the fly swat was a mercy compared to what we could have gotten.

Memories, there are so many.
And those are just mine.
The well water was so cold, but you couldn't
drink a drop until grandma scooped out
all the germs from the water bucket.
My recollections are but a drop in that bucket.
And the memories go back, back before me
before my mother.
Back to when the house was built
and the youngest child was just a baby.