The Cleansing Power of Fire

November 2, 2009


I wept until I could weep no more.
          The rainbow did not
          appear in the sky.
          The ground was still rock hard.

I cried out so loud my vocal cords were raw.
          The wind did not
          blow or breeze.
          The trees did not yield their fruit.

I beat my fists bloody against the wall.
          The stars did not
          hold the answers.
          The earth continued to move.

Where else can I go?
Who else can I turn to?
          Let it burn.

Addiction: Living Death

November 24, 2004

Not sure how this one slipped through the cracks. Couldn't find it in the folders it should have been in. Fortunately, I have a hard copy.

I am not now, nor ever have been, addicted to any narcotic or drug (except cigarettes, but I quit them). The poem is about a variety of addictions. Let's face it; our favorite sin is our addiction. The Bible tells us that sin is death. So while we are committed to sin, we are walking around dead. Check out Romans 8. I'm still trying to wrap my head around everything in that chapter.


Addiction: Living Death

Flies swarmed about his head
     screaming curses in his ears.
Sickly sweet stench invaded his nostrils
     like the impotent rage of a rapist.
Grainy blurred images
     imprinted on fading brainwaves.
Caked eyelids clenched shut,
     anal retentive against the light of day.
Collapsed and drying lungs
     heaved and hacked breathless sighs.
Lukewarm mucous clogged the vocal cords
     that may have spoken if they had something to say.
Internal organs oozed precious fluids
     flooding the chest cavity.
Flesh clung to brittle bones
     like an insecure lover.
Standing in the loosened waste of his bowels
     his feet could not, would not move.

The Leaning Tree

January 200?
I wrote this one night while cooking at the Waffle House. I wanted to have something to enter in the Post & Courier and South Carolina Arts Commission sponsored South Carolina Fiction Project and the deadline was only 2 days away. I wasn't able to work on it again until the day of the deadline. I spent all day editing and re-writing, managing to get it posted 5 minutes before the post office closed. I didn't win.


The Leaning Tree

          He rode out on Purpose, the gray-white mare he’d left on the farm three years ago when he went away to school. The sun had already been up for an hour, hidden by a ceiling of slate gray clouds. Probably going to snow. His breath hung in the still air like a ghost. The only sound, the muffled crunch of snow under the horse’s hooves. Everyone in the house was still asleep. Spent. Unprepared for the effort of the past few days; stress they thought they had prepared for.
          The horse sauntered through the farmyard; past the rusting F150; past the bare clothesline, tiny icicles dripping off the sagging lines; past the dog pens, now empty; through the already open gate to the woods on the other side of the field.
          The sweet scent of pine caressed his nostrils like a friendly cat. Purpose gingerly picked her way along the deeply rutted two-track cut by Dad's Ford, the John Deere, and mother nature. The road wound and forked through the forty acres of forest that surrounded the main house and farmyard. He and his three older brothers, all of them moved away from home and starting their own families, had hunted deer and ‘coon and rabbit with their dogs out here. Large mounds of snow-covered branches and roots were scattered in clearings on either side of the road. Dad had said something about selling some of the trees to help pay Mom’s hospital bills.
          A year and a half ago he had learned about his mother’s cancer. His first year at State had been more intense than he'd expected, but he kept to the books. Being the first to go to college made him push harder. Now with Mom gone it just doesn’t seem to matter anymore. Maybe I should just quit. Save time and money. Come home and help Dad.
          The two-track rolled out to an open field. Brown and broken stalks poked up through the snow. The bleached gray slat barn was supposed to protect the aging John Deere from the weather, but little mounds of snow sat on top of the huge tires and seat. He had made some weak promises to his father to fix the roof. Animal tracks criss-crossed the whitened field like impatient doodles. A hawk circled over the far end, the future looking bleak for some rabbit or squirrel.
          The cornfield butted against the apple orchard. Harvested fruit (the farm’s main source of income for over two generations) was now applesauce or cider vinegar. Large empty crates, stacked rank and file, stood around the perimeter of the orchard; a makeshift fortress. Smaller crates cluttered the orchard floor; some stacked two and three high near the trunks, others strewn about carelessly under the unprotecting canopy of the leafless trees. As a boy, he had learned hard work picking up drops. And he had watched as Mexican migrant workers worked even harder to pick the red ripe fruit for their few dollars; all seemingly content.
          Leaving the fruitless trees, the land slowly sloped up. A small ridge—open, unplowed, and left to its own. Dried up Queen Anne’s Lace stabbed the snow here and there. Clumps of dead grasses not flattened by the snow peeked out at the world. A single maple tree stood at the top of the ridge. Three main trunks rose to form a wide canopy. The trunk to his left had been recently struck by lightning, its deadened limbs bent to the earth.

          He slid from the saddle to the ground and let the reins drop.
          When I was a kid I used to pack up peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, potato chips, and pop to eat out here.
          I smoked my first...and last...cigar by this tree. I thought I was so cool, until I coughed my lungs out and puked my guts up.
          My back was against this rough bark when Darlene first kissed me. A few weeks later we discovered more than a kiss under this tree.
          My hunting dog, Bones, is buried right over there.
          Mostly, I just came out here to watch the clouds slide by and the breeze blow the grass.
          Yeah, this is where I made my decision to go to school upstate. Stayed out here until it got dark. Mom was so proud that I was going to college. Any college.

          And in the shelter of naked branches, he leaned back and wept. For as long as it took, he wept and sobbed. Puffy snowflakes floated down to frozen earth. Wiping his chapped cheeks, he took the reins of Purpose and walked her home.

Down

(July 14, 2008)

Looking down all he saw
was concrete
merely millimeters
from his glazed eyes.

Cracked and bleeding toenails
scratched the rough surface
trying to regain
lost footing.

Calloused fingertips fumbled
for a hold,
grasping at pebbles,
digging in sand.

And his spittle oozed
over dried
and crusted lips
onto the hot pavement.

No one saw or cared to see
or dared to be
the one who cared
enough to lift.

Senseless (in memory of Ricardo Bailey who died of a gunshot while just being there for his cousin)

(November 7, 2006)

I had not worked with Ricardo for very long. He was a nice guy; had a good time at work. I closed the restaraunt with him the night he was killed. I think that's why it impacted me so much.


Senseless.
No sense.
Make sense
          of the violent,
          of violence,
          of vile, of bile
scattered on the ground;
shattered on the ground;
splattered on the grounds
          that there are no grounds;
          it's groundless
          on the ground
found
          emptied,
          unloaded;
lost
          life;
                    left behind
          life
found;
fill with sense,
          sensation,
cessation of senselessness.

Midnight Daydreams

(May 2004)

Daydreaming at midnight
     when REM should be producing
     Freudian or Jungian or Lithuanian images.

Daily lethargy induces
     drowsiness
and any inclination toward movement
     is postponed.

Propping up the pillow of low expectations
     keeps the thought of even putting on slippers
     unlikely.

The alarm should be set
     for an early wake-up call
     to dream in the daylight.

Dog On A Chain

(May 7, 2002)


Wow!
Look at this! Look at that!
What’sthatsmell?
What’sThatsmell?
What’sTHATsmell?
It’s...it’s...it’s...it’s...

Whoa!
A ball!
Get the ball! Get the ball! Get the ball!

Hey, hey, hey, hey
this, this, this
is, is, is

Hmm...?
Where
does
this...

Gotta run, gotta run, gotta run...
Wow!
Look at that!
Wow!
Look at this!
What’sthatsmell?What’sThatsmell?
What’sTHATsmell?

Aaah...

Gotta run, gotta run, gotta
Whoops

Okay.
Anyway.
Okay?
Sigh...

What?
What’s that?
It’s a cat!
It’s a cat!
Get the cat!
Get the cat!
Get the ca

Cat! Cat!
Cat! Cat!

Okay.
               Okay.
Anyway.
               Anyway.

Need to
drink some
water.

Need to
drink some
water.

Gotta run
                         (gotta run)
     Gotta run
                    (gotta run)
            Gotta run
               (gotta

               Anyway.
               Anyway.

               Anyway.
               Sigh...

Between The Lines

(somewhere between 2000-2004)
I wrote this after hearing about a suicide.


I left it up to you
          to explain
          my departure;
          to conjecture
the reason I left.

I didn't give a reason,
          didn't have a reason;
          reasoned that I had
          too many reasons;
but you can sort it out.

My life is out of control
          and I can't control
          what I can't control
          (but I'm in control).
I leave it to you to handle what's left:

What's left of my head
          on this page or the pillow.
          Think of me always this way—
          that I've left what was left
of my life too fearful or fed up or fouled up
          to live.