~

the ebb and flow
her tidal pull
a lunar fullness
draws me home,
it’s gentle sway
at eventide
it pulls me closer
to her side.
this homeward port
a harbor safe
a slip secure
tis where i rest,
my home here sure
o'erlooks this bay
it’s here i lie;
all hopelessness
all tears i cry
swept clean as sand
at highest tide,
and in its place
here's what i find,
a hopefulness
a peace of mind,
a breathless beauty
a bright divine.
oh, cluttered soul
this life's debris
like clear blue sky
swept far from me
to ocean's deep.
here all the why's
i ask of life
are ever lost
though ne'er replied
once tempest tossed
now free to breath
safe in her arms
most restful sleep.

~

*post script.

there is something about coming home;
having a place of refuge, of safety...
more than just a roof over one’s head,
if it be a place of peace, it is a place of rest,
and there is nothing else, anywhere like it.
these last few nights, watching
a lunar cycle climbing to its peak,
i reflect on how much i am drawn to her,
like the tide... there is no other place
on earth, none where i’d rather be
than in the shelter, the comfort...
of her arms.

~

she is hot,
a day too hot,
far and away too hot!
summertime, august hot...
do you know the kind?
the sweet smell of street-asphalt melting,
underneath the simmering waves of heat rising;
the river-eddy, current’s slow dwindling,
tadpole pond, now empty, mud-cracking, hot;
tire swing, rubber-cracking, too hot to touch,
lazy-swaying, gently in the mid-day heat;
sweat, like honey-dripping, slow sliding
sticky-leaving, dribble’s-down-the-back, hot;
the hot, popping sounds of crackling
bonfire's roar on humid, moonlit night, hot;
the distant sound of cricket’s rising chorus
in the creeping darkness,, fading, sultry twilight,
as the tree frogs slowly drown them out;
now alone, in the moonlight, she,
barefoot climbs the still-warm rocks
high above the river bank,
peels off her sweat-drenched clothing,
and plunges to the pool beneath,
to let its cool, soothing water
wash the sweat from sunburned skin,
and ease the blistering heat of day away.

~

*post script.

no doubt, just a bit different for this writer.  

i watched my sweet wife work all day beside me in the hot summer heat today. don’t even ask where this one came from!

~

so long ago, the
battle fields he’d left;
the foxholes where
for many nights he'd
lain his weary head.
together ’til a victor
named they’d daily fought,
then parted ways as
shell-shock bonded,
comrade friends,
brothers, arms-in-armor.
few survived and
those who did,
wore battle scars
that most can’t see.
left behind
the fallen proud,
their darkened images,
etched like stone.
from sharpened knife,
runs deep regret;
this searing pain,
like smoke in eyes...
these bayonetted memories.

older now,
so much has changed,
those mem’ries live,
though rearranged.
new battle lines are drawn
in hopes of
absolution carried,
heavy, deep regret...
emerald valleys,
blood-stained volleys,
full of memory;
the un-forgiveness buried
in fallow soil ’neath,
but few inches shallow,
the forgetfulness of
daily toil in grief,
for a life lived full
while others died.
etched like stone,
from sharpened knife,
runs deep regret;
seared painfully,
like smoke in eyes...
those bayonetted memories.


now autumn falls
upon his land;
as winter’s blade
is sharpened thin,
he marks time by
raking leaves,
like fallen comrades,
he draws battle lines
on grass of green;
like photos faded
now too his memory,
takes him back,
to that smoke arising,
soldiers charging,
more wounded crying,
with each rifle’s crack,
the fear of dying,
so soon exchanged
for sting of living on.
etched like stone,
from sharpened knife,
runs deep regret;
a searing pain,
like smoke in eyes...
his bayonetted memories.

yet still he tries
to turn this scene
into a work of beauty,
even sculpted art;
he changes battle lines,
with these bleeding leaves,
in hope of different end.
as he wishes in
his beating heart,
all his foxhole
friends and brothers,
lost upon these hills of green,
had gone home with him
to fathers, mothers,
living on to tell,
a story all their own.
instead ’tis he that
holds their story in;
’til his dying breath,
this his only sin
in living on...
etched like stone,
from sharpened knife,
runs deep regret;
seared in pain,
like smoke in eyes...
fading bayonetted memories.

~

*post script.

this comes from a short i came across years ago by an older writer who tells this story of his father, a WW1 veteran, who after surviving battles on the European front, returned to raise a family, while privately dealing with wartime anguish, accompanying survivor’s guilt, long before "shell-shock" was diagnosed as PTSD.  he, the son, observed on many occasions his father raking leaves into columns and rows, then moving and rearranging them. not till years later just before his father passed, did he ask and learn the profound meaning.  

i am a fan of veterans, foremost my father ((Korea) and my son (Iraq), and also a huge proponent of CAMP HOPE, who "provides interim housing for our Wounded Warriors, veterans and their families suffering from combat related PTSD in a caring and positive environment."

(the original author of what inspired my words above i looked for
that i might provide provide proper credit here, but failed to find.
any suggestions would be most welcome.)

~

lost a good friend
the other day.
the kindest friend,
my confidant,
the sweetest one i knew.
harsh the way he went
que sera, surreal,
and such a tragic accident!
walking on his way alone,
he caught his hand in hers;
his feet somehow
with hers locked step,
down he up and tripped,
and as he fell,
his hand outstretched
her golden ring
on finger slipped!
his feet now frozen fast,
his heart was stolen,
held within her clasp.
love, such a tragic thing...
burned by desire,
those flames grew higher,
'til all of him consumed.
x marks the spot
that he was struck,
blind-sided by her heart;
when flames die down
(if ere they do),
t'will be none left
of what he was,
none of his self
to be exhumed.
love, is a burnin' thing,
some say that love
is a fiery ring.
love captures hearts,
it blinds the lost,
love binds the heart,
to its life of cost,
requires giving things,
like diamond rings,
a giving up
of all that's mine,
for a life of sharing dreams,
the boundlessness of hope,
no waking up alone,
no walking on one’s own;
instead two feet
bound up with rope,
those single days are gone;
being buried long and deep.
goodbye to yours and mine
now living life together
high above its weathered stone.
and hanging from the gallows near.
a written sign with this,
“gone and married,
hearts on fire;
headed for
eternal bliss!”

~

*post script.

no hearts were broken
in the writing of this poem,
no feelings hurt,
and most importantly, no
friends lost... only gained!

when a friend posted a photo of
a sidewalk sign outside a café,
it prompted… no inspired, this write.
thank you, Raylene!

the sign read-
“i lost a good friend & drinkiin’ buddy
this past weekend in a tragic accident...
he got his finger caught in a wedding ring.”

LOL!

credit to Johnny Cash for lyrics
borrowed from his 1963 hit,
"Ring of Fire"

(a prayer for my wife)*

Wiping the dust
That collects in her mind
She's cleaning his room again
Trying to find
Something passed over
Some kind of sign
Answers to questions
Dear Father Divine

Like a blanket so heavy
Grief weighs her down
Keeps her from hearing
The happiest sounds
Keeps her from knowing
The pleasures of life
Keeps her from seeing
Dear Father of Sight

Hoping to glimpse
Longing to see
Looking to capture
Her dying memory
His fingerprints fade
His smell almost gone
His laughter grows distant
Dear Father of Song

The fear of forgetting
More real than you know
Erasing the mind
To remember no more
Like waves of the ocean
Clearing the shore
Of footprints we've made
Dear Father of Hope

Dear Lord may she know
Your grace and Your truth
May she find in this journey
Her heart wrapped in Your strength
May the sense of Your purpose
Dispel all her fear
May the joy of Your presence
Dear Father be near.

i ponder with wonder the posture created
when tripping forward brings me to my knees
how it allows me to rise up, my body less scathed
so much more quickly reconciled
than when a fall sends me tumbling
to my left, right or backside
perhaps the message is…
*"fall forward, my child!"

~        

of late he finds
his muse asleep,
with none to waken
none to stir;
slows the flow
from drops to drip,
his secrets deep
are held with her.
yet he endures this
momentary dearth,
knowing soon enough
the seasons change;
again will come
her joyous rains,
she will return
with current rushing;
drought adjourned,
her torrent gushing;
to wet his dry parched lips;
satisfy the cracked red earth,
nourishing the fallow ground;
restoring flow, reviving hope,
his muse rebounds to life.

begins a simple trickle,
blossoming of ’er fine mist;
touch of muse on every droplet,
silver prose in golden goblets.
calloused hands,
though not from fields,
smith no less in words.
spinning yarns in terms
tell of tales unheard;
in spilling words unwritten,
life discharging burdens;
though too late for some,
with many suns to go
he is slow learning,
heart yearning,
softened saudade
to a past unchanged
but head now turned,
heart re-affirmed
stepping to-ward,
to the forward...
again a future taking.

now they’re churning
forth like water,
each formed thought
a droplet breaking.
once free from all confines,
springing from prolific mind,
a garden fountain’s constant flow;
a hillside’s floral spray disrobed.
conceived behind these
quiet, hallowed walls,
his muse gives birth,
her cries of pain
with joyful echo ring,
clearly down these
ancient halls, and
out across the wooded hills.
this child is free,
no more this need
for silent screams, or
coloring between the lines.
breaking from entrapment,
unfettered and unwrapped;
responsive reading’s call,
believer’s whispered
prayer is heard...
his muse has been restored.

~

*post script.

fellow writers have told me
their words most often
arrive in torrents. i share
this view... this experience,
where for days nothing, until...
the mind writes faster than the pen.

- saudade-
sau·da·de /souˈdädə/
a word with no English equivalent;
a sense of wishful longing,
melancholy, or nostalgia.
(Portuguese)

though a bit melancholic,
this is yet a hopeful song,
for after the dark...
the storm, comes the dawn.

~

in drops and drips
her palette tips,
a mem'ry full of
kaleidoscope tricks
its tumbling skips;
this is morning glory
at their best.
once at attention
she stands now
at color-filled rest,
unfurling her glory,
tell her your story;
she’ll drink in your weeping
sharing with others
in manifold colors
all of these losses,
your sorrowful world,
spreading her palette of tears,
colors a'running astray.
those tears can't really
be wiped away;
there's more where
that came from, dear...
a boat load of color
to drown in and smother;
beauty-filled dripping,
til finally the
balance is tipping
the other way;
and for just a bit
there as she sits
the river that ran
in colorful brilliance
is dried up,
and *******,
and only then is she
able to stand up
another day.
she is mourning glory!
still here on earth,
her feet firmly planted,
but awaiting the end
of her color-filled story,
and wondering...
will she ever
again
find that treasure
she once held so close,
this side of heaven?
she may have to settle
to weep with the flowers;
passing her hours,
one sunset closer
to her forever;
her bouquet of scent
drifts away... spent,
one flower fading
slowly is trading
at color-filled dusk;
she’s mourning glory,
her colors returning
to dust.

~

*post script.

this, these lines, are not quite as they started out,
not what i thought it was meant to be...
but then life... it never is, is it?

"with hope" by Steven Curtis Chapman:  
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=OfQ4TlYh3ik

~

last time I saw your face
sweet spring day
anticipation
regret
juxtaposition
holding on, letting go,
my son, young man

last time I saw your face
sweet spring day
recollection
hope
distinction
never go, clinging to
young man, always my child

~

*post script.  

she is haunted by memories.  this one shared with me just this week.

by Becky, my wife of thirty-five years and mother to our three beautiful sons.
her first poem ever... as far as i know.

yes, she is beautiful... and is all that is life to me!

In her painted chest lies beating,
Heart aflame in passioned love.
Words confess its she he's seeking,
Verse in prose is ink on wood. 
Know it's burning, read his longing,  
Fire intense, unquenchable;
Feel him bleeding, time is fleeting,    
Awake our dreams for earthly good.

Today as we tended,
Our garden of tears,
I considered so many,
Forgotten by years.
Ashes to ashes,
And dust to dust;
What more is left,
After moth and rust,
Have taken their toll,
On this fragile frame.
Does their memory live on?
Or just their name?
Etched into stone,
On a hillside of green,
Pushed aside by the living,
Generations between.
When flowers no longer
Are laid at their grave,
And visits made only
To a name on a page.
And all they accomplished,
Left to cynics and critics,
Does life really matter?
Or how it is finished?
Yes! Each matters to God,
Though forgotten by man;
Each remembered by He,
Who laid out earth’s plan.
And purpose fulfilled,
For which we were born,
Passes death’s veil,
A crown to adorn.
In that day we'll know,
Then His plan will be clear,
When sinners called saints,
To their home He draws near.

~

she made this trip without me,
just last Sunday afternoon;
embarking unexpectedly,
she her leave took far too soon.

her kennel still is in my car,
here her spirit lives in part;
’neath her throw, her bed... my heart
my hopes she never wanders far.

comfort comes in many shapes,
in sizes... unpredictably;
a heart entwined will skip a beat,
her absence leaves me incomplete.

i knelt beside to offer comfort,
her sleep’s relief came far too quick;
once protector, now deliverer,
for this my heart is ill equipped.

yet she, my loss a need fulfilled,
now her pain my bitter pill;
and so i lean to say goodbye,
my whispered thanks, a lullaby.

comfort comes in many shapes,
in sizes... unpredictably;
in presence fills a hole unique,
yet mem’ry's loss, is bitter sweet.

~

~

her smile...
’tis the thinnest veil
o'er a razor's edge,
it can ne’er conceal
her bleeding heart;
for it is not
in well lit fables,
in clichéd phrases
or muttered answers trite,
that the flame
of life burns best,
but in the gritty spaces,
between the rocks
and hardened places,
in bruising shades
of blacks and blues,
when it's tongue
of fire
shines brightest;
it is here
the pinpoint light
points deftly to
reveal its sight,
the truth it bares
to spite the stares
from dusk to dawn
slowly, surely,
ever so
devours the night.

~

post script.

*grief, like a wound that needs the air to breathe, the light to heal, if allowed to run a course of its own accord is indeed a gift, it will right the soul; but when it is not permitted, when it is relegated to only the space and time that others choose for their own comfort, it becomes a festering sore, a cancerous mess, eventually an ugly sight.  it is with great sadness that i say, our culture does little to help the grieving, asking these to suffer in silence, to hide in the shadows.  i am still learning to weep... to grieve well.  and, i have faith... knowing that one day mourning will turn to dancing!