FLIGHT

Whispers of the lonely wind...

Feathery delight...

Drifting, shifting, lifting, falling,

Silently alight.

 

Longing to be lifted up

Into the gentle light...

Racing to the setting sun

Into the dark of night.

 

Flitting like the butterfly

Who does not know its plight...

Chasing windmills...

Braving storms...

All dread hid from sight.

 

Lifted to the heavens like

A silent wind-blown kite.

Fears abated, pulling on the

String with all my might.

 

Moving forward; never back;

Never left or right.

Nothing else to equal the

Pure ecstasy of flight.

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INDIAN NATIONS

The ancient warrior, drawn and pale,

Hardly the image of eons ago,

Still gives us pause to reflect on his plight,

The grave indiscretions of

His conquering foe.

 

Long ago, no one can remember,

Before all the ships arrived on his shore,

This was "his" land teaming with

Every abundance imagined to fulfill his needs.

 

But boat load on boat load

Explorers and settlers amassed

On his borders, eyes hot with passion,

Primed to the hilt; sword at the ready;

Meant to proliferate credos of greed.

 

Lies upon promises, heaped to infinity,

Pushing and crowding him west to the seas,

Killing his livelihood, breaking his spirit,

Prodding and pounding him down to his knees.

 

What kind of shame can a nation endure

When it's destiny feeds off her native son?

Somewhere in time there's a reckoning day

Where truth is revealed...

And justice is done.

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BROKEN INFINITY

Everything is measured somehow,

Marked by linear space and time.

What begins must someday end.

It's proven time and time again

As church bells toll their loathsome chime

To the passing of another friend.

 

Youth is such a hypocrite,

Letting us believe forever

Is a goal we might achieve,

Leading children to conceive

Of never-ending fairy tales,

Of fabric with unbroken weave.

 

We are but a moment here,

A pebble dropped into the sea.

Our concept of eternity

Is just a theory.  Hopefully,

We strive for our allotted time

In life's broken infinity.

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THE ROSE OUTSIDE MY WINDOW

Look at you!  You're just amazing.

One of God's most perfect gifts

Growing right outside my windows,

Brightening a dreary day.

 

Petals softly kissing dewdrops

In the early morning mist.

Colors seldom seen except on

Nature's pallet dipped in hues

No artist's canvas duplicates,

Nor photograph to capture all

The subtle textures of your skin,

The soft sweet fragrance waiting there.

 

Pity that my time allows but

Just a brief tormented glance.

Would that I could give you all

The tender care that you deserve.

Yet you survive despite neglect

And flourish in your habitat,

Bringing me a joy unmeasured

Beaming in the morning light.

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FIDELITY

My ways may not always be common

To general philosophy;

The rugged macho credo of

Male dominant society.

The outcry and the decry

Of later day liberality

Speak boldly from necessity

For all to seek fidelity.

 

No shame to bear the weight of trust,

To shun the tempting lure of lust,

To find the one and only one

To share your all until all is dust.

An honest person is "not" rare,

Or should not be if truth be told.

A place is waiting those who care.

Fidelity is Heaven's gold.

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WATER OFF THE BACK OF A DUCK

"You have no right!"  yatta, yatta, yatta, Boom!

"You can't do that!" Nag, whinny, whine, nag.

The volleys and salvos continue to fly unabated.

Unaided, your defenses reel

Until calm is a foreigner, and lashing back seems

The only alternative left in your repertoire

Made up of candle-lit folly and dreams;

Once filled with logic, gusto and zeal.

 

How do you deal with the daily barrage,

The desert mirage, the facade of contentment?

How do you feel at the end of the day?

Do you put it away?

Are you filled with resentment?

 

Living with pressure is no easy matter.

Do you run and hide?  do you pass the buck?

Do you square your shoulders

And take its full measure?

... Like water off the back of a duck.

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HARBOR NO ILLS

Harbor no ills for you, my brother.

Harbor no ills, my enemy.

Sing in the sunlight,

Dance in the moonlight,

Softly embracing in sweet harmony.

 

Is seeing believing?

Is truth merely blind?

No one is all-knowing

For there's too much to know.

But we can take time to

Deliver compassion

To realms seldom seen

By mere mortals below.

 

Reach out to the one who

Has smitten your hand.

Reach out even though you

May not understand.

The sun casts long shadows

From the crest of the hills.

Stand tall on life's hilltops,

And harbor no ills.

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PLEASURE AND PAIN

If passion holds pleasure,

It also breeds pain.

No other emotion is free

To lay claim to

The bold multiplicity found

In it's faces;

Nesting in dozens of

Dark hiding places.

 

No one can know when

Passion may strike,

When two people meet and

Their small worlds collide.

Drenched in emotion,

Drawn to each other,

Driven by feelings they

Soon cannot hide.

 

What of the outcome?

Pleasure or pain?

Melt the facade 'til

All passions lay bare.

Time is our mentor, our teacher,

Our healer;

Patiently waiting to

Render her care.

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FEAR

There are but two things in life, as we know it,

We mortals tend to fear:

Pain, which we constantly strive to avoid,

And death, which is always near.

 

Would you put your hand into a vice

And turn the screws until bone was dust?

I dare say you wouldn't. The pain would be far

Too much for one to tolerate.

But if passion guides our will or

If we're bound to mend a broken trust,

The fires of Hell may not be goad

To make us pause or hesitate.

 

The Reaper bares his shadowy scythe,

Forbearance to the dark unknown,

Foreteller of a fated end,

Beleaguering a troubled mind.

It is this great unknowing which

Gives cause and pause to fear.

The grand regrets of things undone,

Of loved ones sadly left behind.

 

There may be more for us to fear

But somehow they are all connected.

Pain and Death are parents to

All fear... imagined or collected.

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THE HICKORY SWITCH

Mother would get so frustrated at times.

Raising six children was no easy task;

Especially six who were so much dissimilar

In interest and temperament.

It's no small wonder that

She was able to keep her sanity,

Able to refrain profanity

When six strong wills clashed with her own.

Amazing we all came to be fully-grown.

 

But mother has a secret companion

Tucked in the corner there by the window.

Twenty-eight inches of flexible pulp

Ripped from the limb of a nearby hickory,

Standing in wait for her to command

With the quickness of lightning,

The sting of a bee.

 

We always knew when the call went out,

When she summoned the threat of the hickory switch,

The time had come when her patience was broken,

Better to yield than to try and pitch

Our case any further, although the switch

Was really nothing to fear for the pain.

But the choice was made. the course was laid.

The switch had decided... There's no more to gain.

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GEE / HAW

"Gee" to the right and

"Haw" to the left.

Father's voice rang with those

Simple commands.

"Giddy-up" go and

"Whoa! mule" to stop

Was all the old Dobbin could understand

Of the English language,

Though I'm quite sure

It was much more than he

Ever wanted to know.

He would have been more

Contented for sure

Just to roam in the pastures

Where wild clover grows.

But striding along with Dad

Traveling behind,

Plough shear between them

Tumbling the earth,

Tilling the soil for the

Planting of seed

Vaguely aware what his labor was worth.

Stalwartly, trodding, plodding along;

An acre behind; and acre to go.

"Gee" to the right and "Haw" to the left;

Minutes to hours; row after row.

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HOLIDAYS AT THE MALL

How did you spend last Memorial Day?

Did you stand by the grave side

Of fallen soldiers and

Weep in their memory for the sacrifice

They so bravely made just to keep you free?

Did you think about them at all?

 

How did you spend Independence Day?

Did you waive the flag to

"Oh say, can you see..." ?

Did you wear funny hats,

Clothes of red, white and blue?

Or was it just a day off from

The helter-skelter week of work?

 

Holidays... Sale days...

Spent at the mall,

Searching for bargains in climate control.

Another day older...

Another day off...

Another cash sale

Of our spirit and soul.

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FIVE O'CLOCK

It begins almost immediately

As warm bodies filter halls

Which last night were void of

All human conveyance. Of

Trite conversations of yesterday's weather,

Of ball scores and dinner plans

Yet to be finalized.

 

Now it begins all over again,

The wishing, the longing to

Be somewhere else.

The nagging complaints about

Time better spent somewhere,

Anywhere else but this vast

Ho hum dump.

 

Time for a break; cut away from the wheel

Which incessantly spins

As the day drags its feet.

Must walk away for a moment or two

Or else throw up hands

In a sign of defeat.

 

Trucking along through

The muck and the mire,

Biding time just like one of the flock.

Secretly waiting for transformation,

The magic which happens

At five o'clock.

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The Wedding

...And now the plans have come together,

Preparations finalized.

Every deadline met its match;

Every detail, its condition.

 

The crowd of friends

And fond relations, fanning in anticipation,

Waiting to be entertained

By ceremony and tradition.

 

Dirges played on organ, though

You wish they'd choose a happy tune

To celebrate the grand occasion.

Solemnity is such a bore.

 

You snap the children to attention

Whose fidgeting becomes obsessive,

Give a nudge to Grandpa just

Before his wheeze becomes a snore.

 

Now all the waiting's over as

The wedding march fills up the air.

All rise to view the party as the

Toothy smiles grow ear to ear.

 

The nervous groom mysteriously appears

And waits before the altar

As father fills his chest with pride

And mom fights back a single tear.

 

And now a vision dressed in white

Floats softly down her aisle of dreams

To seek a hand filled with her own

And make a vow to never part.

 

Two people who have found each other...

Two lives which now reside as one...

Two into one: a solemn promise.

Two souls together of one heart.

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AFTERLIFE

I can't help but wonder

What awaits in afterlife;

Can't believe we simply die

And that's the end; the final step.

The spirit, the soul,

If they truly exist,

Must be carried off to

A higher plain which can't

Be seen by mortal eyes,

Much like the light at the

Edge of the spectrum,

Reaching to levels beyond our vision,

Waiting to reveal itself when

At last we shed this mortal coil.

 

Where do we go?

No one knows.

No mortal has been there

Then come back to tell.

Call it Heaven if you like;

A place where peaceful souls may dwell.

 

Whatever waits in afterlife,

Whatever consciousness abides,

Will be a new adventure

When we finally reach the other side.

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BUILDER OF DREAMS

It's a feeling that consumes you;

Deep within your inner soul

It grows from seeds sewn long ago,

Expanding to excessive measure.

 

Tall ship glides into your harbor;

Regal as her masts undress

And rest a while, lashed to your pier

Awaiting orders to set sail.

 

You, her captain, store her ballast.

You approve her manifest.

You alone must chart her course

And choose the sea she rides upon.

 

Destination at your bidding,

Sun and moon, the stars to guide as

Open seas unfold before you

And your crew unfurls her sails.

 

Favoring breezes build your hope

Preparing you for stormy seas.

Hope, your first mate, scans horizons

Searching to fulfill your dreams.

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THINGS WE TAKE FOR GRANTED

I can wake up in the morning

And walk down the stairs

Because I have feet which

Will carry me there.

 

I can watch television

Or read a good book

Because I have eyes which

Allow me to look.

 

I can speak to you

And hear your reply.

My ears catch your question.

My voice tells you why.

 

I can reach out and touch you,

And stroke your hair;

Let my fingertips tell you

Just how much I care.

 

These marvelous senses;

A joy to behold;

To take them for granted

Is callously cold.

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MOONSHOT AND BEYOND

I envy those who have been to the moon;

The chosen few who have touched her soil,

And viewed first-hand the earth in its glory,

Set on a canvas of dark lonely space.

 

One might imagine the exhilaration,

The rush of adrenaline speeding the heart

Until breathing shortens or stops altogether,

And the awe of its grandeur reflects on your face.

 

The pause is but a moment or two

And the task of survival quickly returns.

But the realization of how tiny we are

Gives new meaning to our humdrum lives.

 

This platform is a portal to a galaxy beyond

Where every possibility resides...

Where man is but a player whose part is yet unknown...

Where mystery exists and hope survives.

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THE PLAY IS THE THING

Nestled in a darkened room.

My feet pulled back beneath the chair

Meant to avoid late-coming traffic of

Those too unfeeling to arrive on time.

Ploying my neighbor to wrestle the armrest,

A respite of comfort as evening advances.

Straining to read the last lines of the program;

Looking for hints of what may lie ahead.

Patience thins with the slightest delay

As anticipation stands on its toes

And stretches and strains to be

Launched on its journey,

Longing to see which direction it goes.

 

The overture starts as the crowd becomes hushed and

Familiar melodies fill the room...

A sour note from a horn breaks the air as

Peripheral motion is spied in the wing...

The crowd settles in with focused attention,

Awaiting the miracle yet to unfold as

The night becomes magic, reality fades,

The stage fills with life and

The play is the thing.

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MONEY, MOOLAH, DOLLAR BILLS

Would it be trite for me to say that

Money is of no importance?

After all, we must transact

The basics of society,

And since the sense of simple barter

Is antiquated in our time,

Seems little else is useful in

Acquiring life's necessities.

Sad that it's become the driving force

Of all ambition's quest.

Sad replacement for the values

Honor gave nobility.

Graven image placed on altars,

Worshiped as a god on high,

Crass excuse, when all else fails,

For loss of sensibility.

Would that times were simpler,

When hope lived steadfast in each heart,

And life was not a mockery of

Blaming others for our ills.

When the art of living off the land

Was still a possibility,

And life was not a cutthroat game of

Money, moolah, dollar bills.

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WHY DO I WRITE?

Weaving lace with words and phrases

Is a craft I've known since childhood.

Finding subtleness in language;

Romantic eccentricities.

Twisting metaphoric diction

As the ink flows onto page,

Filling, flooding, overflowing-

Miles and miles of deep emotion.

New twists.,

Old twists,

Trite distinctions,

Flavoring, savoring conversations

Dulled by enigmatic charm.

Afraid to harm linguistic manners,

Searching, striving for the next

Euphoric phrase meant to impress.

Never quite as comfortable with

Confrontations face to face.

Preference yields to empty pages

There before me to complete.

Conversations live but moments.

The written word knows no defeat.

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A FEW MORE DAYS OF WINTER

The ground hog has performed His task,

Prognosticating Winter's slow demise

Into a kinder gentler forum

For the weather-weary.

 

Days begin to show more hope as

Sunlight tends to linger more

And skies of Winter gray begin to

Shed their mask of dreariness

To shades of blue and puffy white,

Riding on the wind of change;

Looking to be rid of frost,

To chase away cruel Winter's bite.

 

Unpredictability seems

More the norm than usual and

No one knows what new surprise

Is waiting with the light.

 

Nodding off at evening wondering

What tomorrow's light may bring.

A few more days of Winter

'Til the sweet respite of Spring.

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THE QUESTION

He had no idea he'd be asking the question.

It came as a shock;

A total surprise.

As if someone else's voice was escaping his

Lips, taking control of his mind.

 

Some haunting ancient apparition

Entering into his thoughts,

Guiding to a new commitment;

Two hearts deeply intertwined.

 

Now the night is deftly quiet.

Everything to say is said.

Except for one last burning issue

Which has waited patiently

For conversation's intersection,

The perfect point of interjection,

From his soul escapes the question,

"Darling, will you marry me?"

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MOTHER... PACING

How many evenings yesteryear did

I stretch deep into the night?

Burning off the energy which,

In those days, seemed without bounds;

Bending rules with laughter until

Daybreak nearly caught me in the act

Of cheating tender sleep.

I tread on stony ground.

 

Time was nothing way back then,

And night was merely lightless day.

My candlewicks were double-edged

As Mother paced the night away.

No lectures or conjecture when

My footsteps tiptoed past her door.

Three simple words, "Are you alright?"

No need to question any more.

 

But I could see the telltale signs,

The lines of worry hid from sight,

The deep concern she tried to mask;

Mother... Pacing through the night.

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SIBLINGS

Lord, have mercy on the only child

Who's never known the discovery

Encamped within a combat zone;

The thrill of sibling rivalry.

The crazy love / hate dinner date

That dances unromantic circles

'Til it forms a bond so strong

That pry bars cannot separate.

All too often goes unnoticed;

Pity when it goes unsaid;

Pride -  Or simple foolishness stands

In the way 'til it's too late.

Even though the miles between

Grow distant with the passing years,

The bond remains in memories so

Intricately intertwined

That time cannot erase the easeled

Portraits of our youth.

The sun-drenched grapes of yesterday

Mellowed sweetly in the wine.

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