preview to "The Gospel Chariot" chapter 15

So… While the fired up congregation was seeking the little lost lamb of little Jerusalem, and while the deputy dog was sniffing and barking up the tree of the itinrate false prophet, and so as the psyched out sidekick was stumbling through the locust thicket - after having left open the gate to Chubby Davis’ goat pasture - while the local lowriders played forty dogs and dominos - and then again while the puppy was pouting and the deputy doubting what the prophet was spouting - while new crowds were assembling, into what was by then resembling a genuine artist's rendering of a free concert featurnig the Baldwin Sisters and the “Daughters of Eve” review. And while the preacher was mumbling while I myself I was fumbling - the whole experience being very humbling - Because I was the dumsumbich left the door cracked open.


Copyright © 2010 Jerry Buckley / Voice of One

Preview of "The Gospel Chariot"

....Back at the domicile upon gobsmacked six, the confusion was beginning to take concrete shape, like when Jello Instant pudding firms up and sets into blissful viscosity from liquid milk mixed with powder. The keyboard on the new laptop I’d bought to facilitate easier communication with the other side, was popping like Orvil Redenbacker - and the instant message box of the desktop soon revealed that all the saints in Haintville were upset that Isabella was nowhere to be found and that she was not answering repeated calls to come to around for a late night snack. It was to be a restless night - what with the pacing of the floors by the church hat and the closing of doors and the creaking and cracking and restless bed tossing by the CO-OP cap: but I suppose that’s rightfully as is to be expected in any haunted house situation ...

Copyright © 2010 Jerry Buckley / Voice of One

Concrete Lion

Stumbled up while on memory safari in the "picture drawer" in your Memphis apartment
Crinkled 8" x 10" glossy black & white Drama Club photo one corner dog-eared and bent
You - most handsome of a pair of concrete lions - guarding the pride on the steps at school
Statuesque feline harem all White Shoulders and Tussy fresh - embracing the morning's cool

Right here in my 21st Century hand - evidence beyond doubt of paradise here on earth
Chock full of good measure Seems like beauty oozes up from the Mississippi mud afterbirth
Each Southern Comfort wet-dream come-true kitten more alluring than the next in line
Implicit in each Judy Garland smile your life as her King Leo could be made near pure divine

Bobbie socks turned down to tease us for another two inches of peach fuzz porcelain glazed skin
Poodle skirts with saddle oxfords and cotton blouses shrouding waists oh so sugar wafer thin
That "genuine" silk scarf adorned by many so they told their Mommy - the latest fashion craze
But all the while an accessory strategic which veils a high hickey for a few short days

And you Dad, such catch by all considered - must have known for nearly ole time gospel truth
That half or more these bonnie belles should have given up their near about everything to you
Birthed your genetically perfect babies Enlarged her humble hips and spread your evening table
If she could just be your femme de la first choice - some time some way some how could be able

Arlene Johns or Betty Lou Sparks - always offering to help you study for you mid term tests
Here’s Dixie Leigh Harvey best - dressed junior jostling her coconut-contoured breasts
Caged all up in magnolia-bloom white and elastic - Such standing at attention-getters!
Playing peek-a-boo with me half century later Teasing through translucent argyle sweaters

Which dames here depicted? How many other poor sluts not captured and thus hereby shown
Mindful of you - your perfect hair on how many muggy cricket-chirp nights - as she would moan
While coaxing timid fingers into Tupelo honey Tempting her hopeful heart’s desire
or parked in your dad’s Rambler underneath sappy pines the air surround you both afire

Which ones settled down with what second-choice husbands once you seceded Serengeti?
Renounced the fertile delta and roamed toward preservation - some preacher school in Tennessee
Why beg to be excused from Eden’s early banquet table? Ambled off stalking more exotic lair
The scent thereby mislaid down which shadowed trail now strayed? Snatched in what secret snare?


Copyright © 2010 Jerry Buckley / Voice of One

'77 Songs (song lyric sort of thing)

I'm not saying I'm less than happy
about this sundae split in two
Not to imply I'm not content to be
in a big old lonely world with you

I'll not pretend I'm your provider
and I'm all right to tag along
I'm content to ride and let you drive
and sing your '77 songs

I'm only saying I don't deserve it
I'm just trying to say that's it's all you
You never did one single thing to hurt me
Stayed along and saw some hard times through

No I can't claim you were ever hateful
and I can't pretend I'd never lied
But I was never short of faithful
Fact is I never even even tried

I'm not suggesting that I'm in a hurry
Sometimes it's worth it just to wait
I just get nervous I don't worry
might get angry but I won't hate

I'm only saying I don't deserve it
I'm just trying to say that it's all you
You never did one single thing to hurt me
Stayed along and saw some hard times through


Copyright © 2010 Jerry Buckley / Voice of One

Lollygag

Would you mellow with me?
Could you yellow like chardonnay?
Wouldn't you like to have a seat?
Shouldn't think to be on your way

Will you ignore invention?
Let me ply you with lying lips
We'll lollygag less intention
I'll tingle every tip to tip

Won't you ferment with me?
Can take lifetimes to get just right
Perhaps it's partially ready
A few more yellow days and nights

Copyright © 2010 Jerry Buckley / Voice of One

Bewitched

In the blinking of an eye
Lost my equilibrium whenever you walked by
Scarcely could have been foreseen
Bewitched me when you twitched your nose at me

With the waving of a wand
Your "accio muchacho" took me away past fond
Upon the chiming of Big Ben
Sucked into a worm-hole opened up and let me in

At the closing of a door
Walked out upon whatever might have come before
Within the flicker of this candle
Let's stir up our very own little cause for scandal

Copyright © 2010 Jerry Buckley / Voice of One

Too Much Cotton (Tribute to Queer Eye for the Straight Guy)

Jump down: turn around
I'm wearing too much cotton
My eye for style and sharp profile
Guess I'd sorta' just forgotten

Stuck in a rut, with a bad hair cut
Sure could use a trip to Lanskey's
Some groom advice would be right nice
From them good ole' manly man-skies

I'm not fly but I'm your guy
Straight-focused never waivers
Just dress me up and take me out
You girls are some real life-savers

Copyright © 2010 Jerry Buckley / Voice of One

preview of "The Gospel Chariot" Part Two: "If a Devil's in the Way"

All was going well, Isabella and I were fixed in glorious trance state; spirit-gliding across the face of the Tennessee river bottoms and farm lands. We were leaving in our wake the blanched and dusty cotton fields of the Forkeedeer River and then the Piney River watersheds, as they gave begrudging leaway over to the rolling hills and wooded vastness of Natchez Trace State Park. In my minds ear I was kept hearing a voice humming, "So Long Marianne" and then later, "If It Be Your Will". For some reason I just couldn’t seem to shake the Leonard Cohen mojo for that entire stretch of the drive. We were "marching on to higher ground" with visions of promised habitations and oasis beyond the Tennessee River Valley in our heads. There were new vistas on the eastward horizon and there was balance on the slate - all old debts having been paid off and the old man sin having been laid off. All was in a harmonious flux - with the past year's sins having been rolled forward as was the manner - and a newfound optimism ruled supreme upon the day.

Copyrite © 2010 Jerry Buckley / Voice of One

http://www.thegospelchariot.blogspot.com

Rota Fortunae

Rota Fortunae thou most capricious of lovers
You've tickled me before with your fickle favors
Spinning yet another everyman in wheeled gyration
Constant only in turning - in change and variation

Wheel of Fortune spinning - lifted I climbed the clouds
En glorior elatus; once elevated then became proud
Until flipped once more spinning mortified thru descent
Only to be abandoned - and tortured as I repent

Our Lady Fortuna - who makes the mighty to mumble
Your charms captivate and us give cause to stumble
Evidence our heroes Samson, Nero, and Nebuchadnezzar
Great Alexander or magnanimous Julio Caesar

Lady of the wheel's turning - diminished I melt away
while yet another everyman will be exalted for today
Let he who is at the summit not neglect his goodly deeds
While status and well-being then compound his many needs

Lady Fortuna Rosa - glows in masked jealousy
She rides roughshod over every offered chivalry
Brought low - has she - many proud lord and king
And many to whom a heathen ruin did bring

Fortuna ever smiling hides detached behind a veil
Fortuna so beguiling - as she assures us all is well
Today then unapologetically turns treacherous tomorrow
So then out of happiness acquaints our everyman with sorrow


Copyright © 2010 Jerry Buckley / Voice of One

ON VISITING FLANNERY O'CONNOR'S GRAVE

ON VISITING FLANNERY
O'CONNOR'S GRAVE
Milledgeville, Ga., 1988

--MAXINE KUMIN

...but first, an historic detour just this side
of what the local intelligentsia
in fond self-deprecation call Mudville
to take the cart track up to Andalusia,
the family seat, a serene remove from town,
as in a good Victorian novel.

Here, from the first-floor bedroom window
even on those last dark days, she could see
her beloved peacocks pecking and fanning,
the tribe of philoprogenitive donkeys
ambling down to the farm pond in the meadow,
a grove of ancient pecan trees bending
to be picked. Not antebellum grand,
but commodious Andalusia, with real gardens
harrowed every spring with real manure,
so that it's touching but not surprising that
when Mary McCarthy remarked, years before,
she had come to think of the Eucharist as a symbol,
O'Connor, considerably put out
by lapsed Catholic rhetoric, flared,
"Well, if it's a symbol, to hell with it."
...

Not as I pictured her, enthroned
on high, fiercely Promethean
with eagles, say, or lions on the headstone --
but the square, unlandscaped family plot
sans even a drooping willow seems right.
Aligned with her father, three great-aunts opposite,
space for the mother who outlives her yet,
Flannery lies unadorned except by name
who breathed in fire and fed us on the flame.

[from Looking for Luck: Poems (W. W. Norton & Company, 1992), pp. 45-47]


submitted by Jerry Buckley / Voice of One

half-life

And so I blink and realize
a half life of nearly fifty five
Together in Tennessee with this incredible child

And rejoicing in such sweet climes
and dozens of soft landing lifetimes
Permitting lumps of sugar to sweeten up my karma

As if to offer such anointments
Could cover thousands disappointments
And many of them at her undeserved expense

So now in manic realization
Next weeks what 27th? Celebration?
Best go right now and buy two tickets to the Opry


Copyright © 2010 Jerry Buckley / Voice of One

Before Adam

Before Adam's first election
must have been the thought of Eve
Nothing less than pure perfections
should he so easily deceive

Before Cain fain claimed his brother
there was gain and thus defeat
Before Jacob conned his feeble father
and Issac took that bite to eat

Before Aaron's staff stretched fateful
when a night light led the way
Only then a remnant are found faithful
and just those few allowed to stay

Before Moses dreaded Zion's thunders
there were visions of how it ends
We kick the pricks against our blunders
and refuse half the help he sends


Copyright © 2010 Jerry Buckley / Voice of One

For Harper

Thrice blessed is she
Loved by her and him
and them and we
Until six times seven
is equal to forty-leven
We'll cherish this girl
She's our small slice of heaven

Copyrite © 2010 Jerry Buckley / Voice of One

Faulkner: On Technique and Style

... from "Light in August: A Study in Black and White" by Alwyn Berland

Faulkner was the the most ambitious writer of fiction in the twentieth century. He was a deliberate and devoted craftsman of structure and style in the great tradition of Henry James and William Conrad, both of whom he admired and by whose high standards he wished to be judged.

Distinguishing elements of Faulkner's Fiction:

1) Virtuosity in the innovative experimental use narrative and structure techniques
2) Stylistic mastery of a wide range of voices
3) Fecundity of immagination ( a Faulkner word )
4) Largeness of vision
5) Creation of a moral framework that both portray and evaluate human actions with a keen judgment that is tempered with compassion and humor
6) Creation of a fictional world in which social realisms are enhanced and sometimes transformed by a legend-creating and myth-making immagination.

Submitted 2010 Jerry Buckley / Voice of One

preview of "The Gospel Chariot" Part One: The great "Going Forward"

.....Well, wouldn’t you know it! As rarely yet occasionally happens in the Church: someone "responded to the gospel call" and "came forward" to receive water baptism for the remission of sins and to receive the gift of the Holy Spirit. One of deacon Parrish’s snot-nosed brats - (I’m sure at the insistence of his Momma the congregation’s ranking snoot) - had stepped up and "responded to the invitation"; a cause of great rejoicing for some and equally a cause to get restless for others - because the service would now be longer and we wouldn’t be able to beat the Baptists to the Piccadilly. And you could forget about hitting the buffet at Ryan’s Steak House - the danger being too great of becoming stampeded by van loads of the wildebeest COGIC faithful. - (Church of God in Christ: with world headquarters and ranking bishops holding court in the belly of the great Bluff City) Ravenously migrating out of the Sudan; be-decked on the first day of the Week in their finery and plumage - much of it bought on lay-away from Bert’s Men’s Store or Catherine’s Stout Shops in Memphis. A generous-hearted and gregarious albeit dangerous upwelling of brotherly and sisterly love - and fried foods. Working it Two plates per visit over in hot foods. Feeding as fellowship is the one mantra that most all brands of Christianity share.
"... and give us this day our daily fried chicken."



Copyrite © 2010 Jerry Buckley / Voice of One

William Faulkner on wasted time

"No, Not this. This does not matter. This is not anything yet. It all depends on what you do with it, afterward. With your self. With others." He looks at her, she does not look away. "Let him go. Send him away, daughter. You are probably not much more than half his age. But you have already outlived him twice over. He will never overtake you, catch up with you, because he has wasted too much time. And that too, his nothing, its as irremediable as you all. He can no more ever cast back and do, than you can cast back and undo."

William Faulkner "Light in August" Chapter 17

Submitted 2010 Jerry Buckley / Voice of One

The Second Ball

In soccer, at the taking of a "goal kick", whereby the ball is put back into play, by the attacking team from its own defensive end, there are two major mantras which are bandied about the field of play. The old school version is all about "first to", or being the first player to contest the ball in the air; all about going out and winning the first battle, and not allowing your opponent an easy "touch" on the ball.

The contemporary and more enlightened refrain is all about "winning the second ball" in recognition of the fact that the ball normally ricochets randomly from one of the two opponents trying to be "first to" the header, and that the player in the best position for the rebound will most likely control the ball.

Then again there is the "second bite of the cherry" bit, which is all about following up a team-mate's shot on goal, to take advantage of any bobbles or rebounds off the goalkeeper. Many a winning goal is scored in this very manner.

In baseball, it's usually that second time through the batting order before many runs are scored. That's when the pitcher is more likely to get into trouble; after the batters have had a look at his stuff and the base runners have timed his rhythm in coming to the plate. After his elbow has begun to complain, and the sun has set, no longer glaring in the eyes of the batters, who now have a better look at his release point.

In cooking, it is well recognized that certain dishes, like lasagna and spaghetti, or especially cheesecake often taste better as left-overs, after the culinary magic has had time to settle in. Only after the dish is placed center stage on a clean plate all by itself, and can be encountered apart from all the noises and excesses of a large meal, do the flavors sing out loud.

In courtships, it is more often than not, that second date when things begin to get interesting. After all the awkward first encounter yada-yada has been survived and both parties are a little more at ease and have a better idea of what is to be expected from each other and from themselves; a much more fertile ground for growth and development.

Second honey-moons often are more fun that the originals. It can take some couples a few years to learn how to travel effectively as a team; and to have seasoned a few years and have earned the right to travel to exotic places without wondering whatever it is that fickle Fortuna has in store for the two of them back home.

And where would many of us be without "second chances"? What would our lives look like today, had not some special someone been patient with one of our lesser selves? Many marriages only begin to take mature shape after some one or the other has foolishly ventured to see how much there really was to loose. There's even that cliche concept of "Renewing our Vows" these days which allows us a sort of "mulligan" on our misfired marriages.

Let your mind wander back to the first time you attempted to roller skate, to drive a stick shift, The first time your made brownies or made love in an actual bed. Think of your first wobbly times on a bicycle, your first mangled chords from a piano or guitar. First casts from a Zebco fishing reel, the first tosses of a softball, the first time you tried to tie your dad's necktie your apply your mom's make-up. How many? Really. Of the things that make our waking hours worth-while, do most of us ever get right the first time out?

Point is: If things don't work out like you had once choreographed for your life, don't give up just yet. Try whatever it is you are doing at least once more. and if that doesn't work, then try a second approach, and a second approach the second time, if needs.

Be ever vigilant for that second bite of the cherry; and concentrate upon winning the second ball. Even if you don't always succeed, your life will be that much richer from the effort and from the experiences.



Copyrite © 2010 Jerry Buckley / Voice of One

The Decline of Man? / From William Faulkner's Nobel acceptance speech

... I decline to accept the end of man. It is easy enough to say that man is immortal simply because he will endure; that when the last ding-dong of doom had clanged and faded from the last worthless rock hanging tideless in the last red and dying evening, that even then there will still be one more sound: that of his puny inexhaustible voice, still talking. I refuse to accept this. I believe that man will not merely endure; he will prevail.
He is immortal, not because he alone among the creatures has an inexhaustible voice, but because he has a soul, a spirit capale of compassion and sacrifice and endurance. The poet's, the writer's, duty is to write about these things. It is his privilege to help man endure by lifting his heart, by reminding him of courage and honor and hope and pride and compassion and pity and sacrifice which have been the glory of his past....

William Faulkner / Dec 10, 1950

....
Copyrite © 2010 Jerry Buckley / Voice of One

Slosh

Soggy Saturated Agri-Arkansas
Mississippi River delta bog
Last week's sun-bathing fields
are today's temporary aquifers
Impromptu lakes invade outward and
upward irreverent toward civilization
Contemptuous of carpentry of masonry of this
Ribbon of asphalt and rebar conduit of travel

Strips of un-submerged land subdivided
patches of cotton, beans, milo and corn
Gnarled leafless trees, pipe cleaners contorted
into so many wee Zacchaeus perches
Green felt houses rectangular two windows
one door smoke curling upward and eastward
Remnants of pinking-sheer cut colored cloth
Elmer-glued onto grocery-sack covered board

Post harvest cotton stalks shiver inside
oversized Dollar General store galoshes
Community minded pecan trees suddenly
become sullen existential giants
Murky Monsanto flavored Kool-Aid smothers every root
Even the stalwart hawks - red-tailed and sparrow
have abandoned their posts for Folgers and fudge
Only the crayfish and turtles and ducks find any solace
Everything else is huddled back into itself Slosh

But tomorrow will bring a fast food frenzy
for migratory snow geese dropping in to fuel up
on worms driven to the surface of the mire
A rest stop somewhere near Turrell and I55

"Slosh" by Jerry Buckley / Voice of One

Copyrite $#169; 2010 Jerry Buckley / Voice of One

clacks on cobbles

My shadow walks a ways ahead of me
In tippy-toes toward my tomorrow
As daylight settles in beside the lee
So sets sentiment's sad sorrow

My echo resonates behind my back
In leather clacks on cobbles
It does it best to keep on track
As is skitters, hops, and wobbles

My heartbeat hums inside its cage
Like a ruby-throated sparrow
Its only thought is to turn the page
Awake to you again tomorrow

Copyrite © 2010 Jerry Buckley / Voice of One

Turn

Don't come dancing up to me on some summer breeze
which can dissipate and change direction
Nor glimmer up above me - some full moon cheese
in waning, waxing, rote reflection

Don't pour your love out on me in raging streams
for I am sure to be dashed on the boulders
Nor flutter to me lightly on butterfly wings
which must all too soon slip from shoulders

Just turn to me baby - don't stay in your tracks
Turn toward me twenty-four-three-sixty-five
Turn to me baby like the earth on her axis
The more you turn the more I feel alive


Copyrite © 2010 Jerry Buckley / Voice of One

Vandy Fan

It's difficult to be a Vandy fan
To sport the black and gold
I try my best to be a Vandy man
But it's beginning to get old

I've nothing against the Commodore
Nor his scholastic athletes
But be right nice if we could score
When our lads lace up their cleats

I've had a full fill-up of Rocky Top
And those butt-ugly orange clad fans
And I'd really love to cheer and hop
For our "Music City" manly-mans

Yes it's difficult to be a Vandy fan
And too damn easy to get a ticket
But I'll be back whenever I can
To watch 'em line it up and kick it

Submitted by Jerry Buckley / Voice of One
 Copyrite © 2010 Voice of One

Locket

Whittle two hearts out of ivory
Nearly pure as driven flake
Latched in shimmering serpentine
Slithered round your dainty neck

Fix a lucky locket on chain and key
Your cameoed crown encased
I can unclasp it whenever I'm lonely
Touch fingertips to your face

Engrave our initials on sycamore tree
Up there!  Where the fireflies play
Cut deep enough a generation can see
Then  forget us once we're away

Copyrite © 2010 Jerry Buckley / Voice of One

Equilibrium

Thank God for grand babies
And things that draw people together
Like pot-luck dinner Sundays
And parades through nice weather

Praise him for fall football
For plump cheerleaders and lousy bands
Grateful to have been a part
This world still wobbling in his hands

Echos through the stadium
Forbid it inconvenience our ears
Or upset our equilibrium
What's been granted us all these years

"My Favorites" Channel

       As you know, I have never been very good with gadgets.  I've never figured out how to use half the features on my cell phone.  I always need to have help in even setting the time on my digital watch: and so I’m now embarked upon another exercise in futility I am sure.  But I am doing my best to program my new XM radio satellite receiver - which you gave me for Christmas - trying to figure out how I can program one unique "my favorites" channel.  I realize that I am asking the impossible of my new toy, but I want to program a station that would only play the most special and magical of songs.
      It would only play for instance; John Mellencamp on Mondays - mixed with a smattering of Los Lonely Boys  -  so I could recall  the countless times we sang along together; and my mind would wander back to that Saturday night in Freedom Hall; jamming with them Indiana boys and dancing in place with you until my knee throbbed. 
       It would be programmed to not play any worn out Billy Joel piano songs, but would regularly render "Just the Way You Are" our adopted song, and I could think to myself how you liked the melody line, while for me it was all about the lyrics, wishing they could have come to pass for us both.
      Every evening at happy hour, it would play Fleetwood Mac, "Rumors" and our minds eye would transport us away on a "big ole jet air liner" to Cancun, where I would fantasize of a certain Skinny Minnie gringo all wide- eyed and wonderful, snorkeling the Isla de Mujers  -  her bubble- butt bikini pointing the way to heaven.  Tequila-giddily asking a Chihuahua’s owner in which language his dog barks. 
      In the cool of the afternoon we would float off in dream sequence to the relaxing underground river of sound and we would rewind that magic duet in Musica Romantica - and we could re-experience the power of the emotion shared by two exotic songbirds.  And marvel about  how a canto we couldn't comprehend would haunt us long after the time we would inevitably forget the tune.
      In the autumn, we would take a drive together - sun roof open - up to Big South Fork; and the tuner would know to only feature Keith Urban and Tim McGraw radio hits; and you would be all luminosity and giggles in blowing hair.  And the feelings you have for the music could be a catharsis for what you are so seldom able to feel with me -  but it would help you forget about your deprivations - and you would allow a small glimmer of the glow to flow toward me.
       Then again on Fridays it would play "O Brother Where Art Thou" and we would re-live the great depression together; ignorantly blissful and barefoot among the Mississippi pines.   John Prine would escort us down back roads in automobiles and pants to our knees, and Leonard Cohen could drone endlessly into the wee hours of the morning and we could re-visit honeymoon sentiments.
       Of course, it would be the All Al Green Channel on Saturday nights. You would be teasing me and flirting with me, when suddenly it would jump up and play us some Van Morrison, and we would hop in the car and drive the horny mile and a half to Friends Lounge, dancing unrestricted together until we were lathered in a summer sweat.  I’d perfectly hit the high harmony on "Brown Eyed Girl" - sticking my "sha na na" into your ear at just the right moment.  And then, I’d be doing my best Johnny Cougar strut and I would once again excite your body and you would want to touch me underneath the table in the  darkened corner.
       On holidays it would always remember to serve up  -with a side order of fireworks - Tchaikovsky’s "Overturn of 1812";  complete with deafening cannon fire and simultaneous orgasm.  I would be lying back on the blanket, along the banks of the Mississippi River  - with you carefree at my side.  And if I didn’t drink too much, and if I listened patiently enough, we would get to hear James Hyter sing six choruses of "Ole Man River" and then - as the tears would begin to well up inside my bosom - the magical evening would downshift into "You’ll Never Walk Alone" and I could then foolishly carry on  - mistakenly believing the world to be right again - and so to fall asleep sans struggle.

Heart Shaped Box

One single-stemmed rose should indicate indifference
At these my joys in you discovered
Nor dozens box-wrapped in baby's breath fragrance
Stacked one-on-top-another

This Hallmark card - such impudent inks unfold
Envelopes mute appreciation
For everything endured were the whole story told
Trials trailing tribulation

One heart shaped box thumps redundantly true
in piques and pulses until it's sore
Long past searching for anything novel or new
lays daffodils at your door

Bartimaues

Mine eyes are set and shining luminous
Since they first fixed sights near and true
Blind Bartimaeus alive and amorous
Longs for you and nothing but the you

The hills came alive with Julie Andrews
Satiate glaciers fed teaming streams
I pledged my love and my two pence true
And we would struggle to make the means

Cuddled - all cloistered in a pin oak tree
Coaxed hybrid life-lines from the nest
Good sons grafted from such dis-similar seed
Dad was  dandy -  but Momma always knew best

Maypole

You queried me the other night while we were getting into bed
What main-most things I'd miss about you whenever you'd be gone away
As if you had skipped a few chapters and had leap-froged up ahead
As if you were closing out the books upon before your very last cut-off day

And I likely pipped some ring-dang-doo or chimed your pleasant clime
Or quipped some school boy snippet in praise of your bonnie broad derriere
Thoughtless responses such as these quips can but flounder as they stall for time
Melting - I'd be like the wicked witch  - if I thought I'd lost you along the way

Should verdant vine  - profoundly rooted in the earth - yet slacking in support
Subsist to ascent another 'morrow had it no ascending ladder to inter-twine
Sit still love - let your stem be my Maypole  I'll wrap around your good purport
Root bind your self - here in my English garden - settle in - relax - unwind

mudspittle

Not necessarily graceful
Sometimes sheer force supercedes
Each intention to be civil
The will to win can over reach

Usually less exhilarating
There's all those "kiss-your-sisters"
Then afterwards less accommodating
What with the bruises and the blisters

Never is it very glamorous
Cheer squads don't study futbol
But it it's o-u-r  foo-kin favorite
The most beautiful game of all!

Flannery O Connor on Interpretation

There is always the danger of over-analysis coming between the reader and author, a danger of which O'Connor was keenly aware.

(Read her letter of March 28, 1961, to a professor of English who shared with O'Connor his students' interpretation of "A Good Man is Hard to Find." Her letter begins: "The interpretation of your ninety students and three teachers is fantastic and about as far from my intentions as it could get to be." It ends: "Too much interpretation is certainly worse than too little, and where feeling for a story is absent, theory will not supply it. My tone is not meant to be obnoxious. I am in a state of shock.")

ECHO..Echo..echo

Embrace my echo
Now that my voice has gone quiet
Scrounge for my shadow
While you have what's left of  light

Imbibe my music
May it float on warm breezes
Anoint  my bruises
For whatever your reasons

Fix my frailty
Please poison my every pest
Remember me kindly
Sure hope we all passed the test

"In Memory of Greg Fulkerson"

Mon Aimi

Happy Birthday to you - mon aimi
It's easier written down than said - to wife
Happy Birthday!  Today and  every day
And to myself for being part of your life

Thank you for showing me the city of lights
And for the lock in at London Tower
Thanks for sharing with me your couch at night
And for any love you'd care to shower

Happy Birthday to you -  mon cheri  
Glows like Eiffel's twinkled evening
As years float by like barques on the Seine
I'll set time by your rise and leaving

Kneading You

Kneading you - again and anon
Prodding and plying your defenses
With friction, lubricant and pressure
Wistful to compel your falling listless
A sort of Raggedy Ann embracing Valium

"The other side - please"
Again it's a left-brain treatment
Mercy seat of torque and tension
Resides beside yesterday's resentments
A major source of a minor irritation

I'm jealous then - that these knots
Snuggling around about you like a noose
Have attached themselves so much closer to you
Than I am - from where I've set myself so loose
Encircling you - like a ring you can't pry off

"... as long as we both shall live"

"Recurring Themes" in the novels of William Faulkner

When asked about the recurring imagery of crucifixion in his fiction, William Faulkner  in 1957 replied, "Remember the writer must write out of his background.  He must write out of what he knows, and the
Christian legend is part of any Christian's background, especially the background of a country boy, a Southern country boy.  My life was passed, my childhood, in a very small Mississippi town ... and that was part of my background.  It has nothing to do with how much of it I might believe or disbelieve - it's just there."

A comment on integrity by Ayn Rand

Integrity: "Ayn Rand
‎'The virtue involved in helping those one loves is not 'selflessness' or 'sacrifice,' but integrity. Integrity is loyalty to one’s convictions and values; it is the policy of acting in accordance with one’s values, of expressing, upholding and translating them into practical reality.'"

The Method of Revision / some notes to self on the advice of Stephen King

Write with the door shut until you have a very good finished product.  Don't show anybody anything until it is prim and proper.  Share first with one person, your Important Reader, who is most likely your spouse or partner, or possible a mentor or colleague.  Celebrate the completed project and put the draft in a drawer for six weeks untouched.  Go to work on next project. 

Conduct the revision with the door closed.  Areas of primary concern and concentration include:

1. unclear pronouns  -  make sure it is absolutely clear who is antecedent
2. unnecessary adverbs  -  adverbs are not your friend - minimilist usage
3. recurring elements?  identify  - repeat - expand upon - make symbolic
4. keep asking "What do I mean?"  Can I "show" this without saying it?
5. check the pace -  Where will the reader get bored or confused?

Share your revised version with five or six important readers, requesting them to apply the same criteria.  Involve only those who will give you honest feedback and suggestions, or tell you when something doesn't work.  Revise once more with particular attention to those areas of your own weakness:

J B's  supplemental checklist for revision: "The Gospel Chariot"

1.   vernacular?  How would they say it back home?
2.   Biblical accuracy?  Is this the best archtype from scripture?
3.  punctuation & sentence length ?   effective use of the dash symbol
4.  point of view?  Am I still telling this "eye witness" or omniscient?
5.  respect?  Am I alienating too many readers - due to "blasphemy"?

Preserves

Preserve your favor lover - a little bit for later
Patted down with spices from all four winds
Offered with olives and sun dried tomato
Help me discover where the spice isle begins

Preserve my enrapture - another moment's pause
Saved to "favorites" in a folder marked "My Man"
Observe my devotion to your every worthy cause
It's your turn to take while I give what I can

Preserve your loving kindness - forever shown to me
Ice it down good and stick it up under the shade
Un-nerve you see - this tiny speck I've come to be
Show me unreservedly many ways I've got it made

Preserve your preference - please don't count it duty
Sugar soaked in Sure-Gel and put up in a in Mason jar
Hors-d-ouerve on occasions your a la carte beauty
Each course  more  savory  than the ones before

Preserve your affection - yet for me in waning phase
Sent to your hard drive and kept for no good reason
Conserved in clay vessels and cached in cryptic caves
Save a little of your sunshine for my monsoon season

Cicadas

Veiled behind a waning and gloaming light
This evens lost its appetite
But it’s too lovely out to go inside
Rather sit here alone and hide

This yellow wine is truly impressive
I don’t chardonnay that often
But it helps a little - my regressive
freeze-dried disposition soften

Dog day cicadas are mocking this town
Incessant other-worldly drone
Now that traffic has worn itself down
The red warrior mounts his throne

Time drags it's tail - a sullen slew-foot boy
Too  encumbered to join in play
Night marches forward like a wind-up toy    
Anticipates more wakeful day

Unglued

The hairs on my head are graying
My mirror says it’s sad but true
The ends of my nerves are fraying
As my handle-on-things comes unglued

The words from my lips are mumbled
Just mute to explain how I feel
The thoughts in my head are jumbled
They hiccup, they stumble and they reel

The weight on my heart is heavy
With an ache more than it can bear
Once-upon-a-time you loved me
Today you don’t know if you even care

The love of my life is jaded
Light years beyond way back when
The gleam in her eyes has faded
Will I ever see that sparkle again?

Straight Paths

I am the voice of one crying in the wilderness
"Make straight paths for the Lord"

And we followed in those paths, dutifully
Down shag-carpet stairways into Chevy station wagons
Eight miles into town to attend Sunday school at 9:00
And worship service at 10:15 and  Lord  afterwards
Allowing fifteen minutes for heart-felt fellowship, home again
Giggitty gig with Q-Mart fried chicken  to go - home again
To Mom’s  home-ade biscuits and mashed potatoes with milk gravy
The very Elmer’s glue of the patriarchs I am sure

And we discovered those paths - wide open sideways in Chevy coups
Noisily cavorting across murky river bottoms and county lines
To score some weed or to look up some chicks one of us claimed to know
Gulping a $3 bottle of fruit-puke wine on Sunday afternoons
Barrell-assin’ home before dark in time for Sunday evening services
Playing freeze-out through town so Dads shouldn’t smell smoke
No casual Christians we -  Besides we all had such nice voices
The Von Trapp Family singers meets Fanny J Crosby

And we trampled those paths - back and forth from work to school
In fuel sipping Datsun tin cans; then home again to crash then back to work
Until that one day when we were stopped dead in our tracks by some odd girl
Sliding into home base - where new paths are sought and tread
And escape routes gleefully become a thing of the wistful past
Returns home  -  monogamous  -  with near monotonous regularity
My Chevy truck could drive it blind-folded if she had the road to herself
Drags up steps to a greet a loving dog and outside to toss a baseball

And so we traced those paths - to jobs and sometimes to promotions
Or skeltered down indistinct pathways ending in yet another cul de sac
Dutifully in Nissan sedans - to baseball games and Boy Scout meetings
Soccer practice  and tournaments  Sunday schools and birthday parties
Step meetings and marriage council appointments - weekend retreats
Then follows another's Benz back home to sit in rooms large as caverns
Where familiarity and loathing stage a yin-yang dance one with another
Maintains, then those paths - At least for now -  For the sake of vows taken

Natalie

She’s short but so sweet
Designer dressed neat
Sure enough double hand full
Uber stylish and hip
And smart as a whip
Many respects more than ample
She’s country élan’
And chocked full of fun
Next to a sure bet gamble
She's a "Tiffany's"  child
Neither meek never mild
All she is we all are thankful

Perched

Six starched pairs  cotton khakis slacks
Boots and belt and six crisp cotton shirts
Gone and I don’t know when I'll back
Do you know how much this hurts?

Toothbrush, paste, floss, Listerine
Shaving cream and men’s cologne
Keep one another's good company
Me    myself    and I’m alone

Thirteen channels - eleven inch screen
Perched on a three drawer dresser
A Sally Field movie I've already seen
Reminds me just how I miss her

standard equipment

Boots?  Required   Style? Optional   Mud? Mandatory
Shirt? Button-up, Stripes optional - but impressive
Belt? Just take a look at the patrons in the BBQ shack
Only an enlightened few around here are keeping it trim
Misfit loners eating pig salads instead of jumbo sandwich plates
Who jog three miles rather than drink three beers after work
Trousers?  Wranglers -boot-cut; or  Carharts for the big dogs
Most times a round relief resides in one of the posterior pockets
Optional -  Work pants which match a shirt with your name on it
Hair styles?   Oh my goodness!   Such wide variety on display
Neat National Guard high and tight, and your basic car salesman cuts
Scruffy, glassy eyed buckaroos sporting 1980's mullets; or worse
Dude who haven't stepped inside a barbershop since Kurt Cobain died
Old geezers with more hair on the inside of the ear than on the head
Some twenty-something year homey in sweatpants - an 18 inch horse mane
Swishing out the opening in the back of his Realtree camouflage crown
Caps? Mandatory of course!  Unless your are a salesman or a banker
Mangled straw Stetson’s allowed but only if you ride in the rodeo
Over to State University or up the boot-heel or else you farm big plots
And in such case it is sometimes customary to have the audacity to flaunt
A Texas-sized set of ass-kickin’ steer horns mounted on the front bumper
Of your badly mud caked - mandatory - GM  Ford  or Dodge pick-up truck

Flannery O'Connor on Faith

...Faith is the freedom to with-hold one's final ascent from the determinism of one's theories about how the world works.  It keeps us from leaping to conclusions which betray us.  It is a matter not of what we know, nor even of what we don't know, but only of whether we allow ourselves to claim that all the evidence is in.  It is this skepticism which keeps us free - not free to do anything we please, but free to be formed by something larger than our own intellects or the intellects of those around us....Faith doe not force us to abandon comprehension or to adopt a transparently false theory about the world .... it recognizes that it is not master of what it surveys.

John Burt on Flannery  O'Connor's concept of "What You Can't Talk About"

Game Ball

It’s out there now   groggy on the soggy, sprinkler-soaked lawn
A once nearly-bursting bladder - nearly totally now - deflated
Shimmer-red octagonal panels, scratched and color- faded

One last Friday's frantic semi-professional fixture - Wilson official game ball
Rebounds now the final and futile countdown scrambles, the clock almost expired
Another anti-climax of a yet another loosing season, and two dozen dreams retired

Kept guarded then as momento, for a decade, on a crowded closet shelf
Packed away - mostly out of sight and out of mind -  a token cherished memory
Passed on in appreciation it was,  to a young part time soccer referee

Then with passing permitted through neglecting of vigilance and vision
To become a kick around back yard practice ball for twelve year-old boys
Wallows now in its puddle of inertia   No more thunks that  thunking voice

Too ugly even anymore, insists my wife, to bring that damned ball inside
But I can’t point fingers at the boys outside, oblivious as they were, to the claim
That such a spherical symbol of a time and place when everyone knew my name

No  it wasn't autographed by the team -  I've sort of thing about things like that
But it was coaxed across some magic carpets by  enfamous Stan the Pizza Man
and 'twas banana-bent corner kicked by long-haired and handsom Yilmaz Orhan

mea culpa, mea culpa I admit near totally   in retrospect at fault
That such keepsake should be squandered, one I’d hoped to keep nursing along
So every now and then my nostalgia simmers into the rhythm of a Memphis song

The later in the game it's gotten  -  the more I  think   about those Friday nights
when I was one of those men in the middle - the whistle fixed in my firm fingers
The scoreboard clock - even then still  tic tic ticking, because it for no man lingers

Circumcircular

Around and around I paddle  small town to sleepy city
Forward   sideways  backward   bobbing from same   to same
Rarely the chosen one anymore  no longer what you'd call pretty
One of the last taken a rag-armed outfielder in a sandlot game

Over and once again red duck Drake the foremost first pick
Or one of my strutting sisters younger than myself  more agile
And damn those cheeky New-Kids on the blue duck clique
Nobody harbors any nostalgia for an old bird frail and fragile

So every night I swim without complaint  a circumcircular spinster
A guarded gleam gazes hopefully out past distant downcast eyes
Looking to the day some young tow-head  hay-seed youngster
Picks me up and turns me over and selecting me wins first prize

Happy Father's Day

Happy Father’s Day, today my Father
I really wish that I could call you Dad
You insisted it was never any bother
Your smiling firstborn ever made you glad

Seems now to have been just another stage
Supporting role well rehearsed and played
Punctually turned forward pianist’s page
Everyone knew you’d always make the grade

So with this ten bucks off discount coupon
From the local super outdoorsman’s shop
I scoped and searched for some wee token
Fact is, I shopped until I nearly dropped
.
But you never cared much for casting plugs
Not much a one to punt, pass or kick a ball
Maybe that’s why I shrink your hugs
It hurt too much to watch your fall

Ayn Rand's gospel of productivity / a backward glance

"Productive work is the central purpose of a rational man’s life, the central value that integrates and determines the hierarchy of all his other values. Reason is the source, the precondition of his productive work--pride is the result." ....Ayn Rand

As as willing and  well-read student, I'd come to adopt the "logical positivism" of Ms. Rand during the "great awakening" of my graduate school years, and had gone on to incluculate many of her assumptions in my affairs.  I'd loved the way she had adapted the novel to basically preach philosophical arguments, and had admired her fierce loyalth to the "No Bull S..."outlook.

I'd accepted on faith, that the proper place to be in life - animated toward a goal which is worthy and  to which one was well-suited to endevour - to be the guaranteed ladder to success up Maslow's hierarchy of needs.  I'd come to expect or at least  have the right to anticipate a fair amount of self satisfaction in life, however limited my financial successes.

Working for a commission, one learns to see the glass as half full, at least in theory;   throughout the years and on most days.  And I'd read the proper positive-programming books, and listened to the peak performance tapes, and attended the seminars in hotel conference centers and ball-rooms to keep the flame burning, so to speak.

I suppose it's this lack of positive feedback from the universe -  more so than the empty pockets - that explains this empty hour-glass feeling, and this place where I am right now.  Where the sands inside the shape, are  fewer   and    further   between:   after  the torrent has slacked  into a river, which  tapers  to  a stream,  which   fizzles    out    into    a      trickle,     that   tails   off    into   a    drip   drip    drip        drip           drip                   drip

Pink Red You

One persistently perceptible pink-red rose
Continues radiant at late autumn’s close
Her kindred siblings retired - long past red
One pink-red rose  one proudly raised head

One particularly part-Labrador black pup
Starry eyed tumble of overflowing cup
Begging to run free - discover better ways
Please don’t make me wear the leash today!

One surprisingly Motown sense of rhythm
And one pink-red rose in motion with them
Its flower burst fragrance remembered forever
And one romantic, slow-float dreamed together

One perfectly proportioned book of ledger
A pinch of everything that’s good and proper
Snugly fit together a tightly laced running shoe
Inexplicable and irreplaceable pink- red  you

Your Turn

It’s your time to twinkle little star
To smiling thus illuminate and thaw
Distant worlds within your orbit from afar

Your clime to blossom bashful flower
Unfolds unfettered unto summer sure delight,
Uproots and throws out thistles dull and dour

Perfect for the lead role in my film feature
Someone wanted to cast you as ugly duckling
Transfigured here this unmasked graceful creature

Your age, little Star to afterglow in kind return
Erase and spiff life’s near sighted clouded board
And write here in tidy bold block letters "My turn"

Lantern

Banished to the caves again
Love’s sour pickle satiation.
Listless leaking fountain pen

Angry at the world tonight
But mostly at my own self delusion
Seeking easy paths to make it right

Cursing at my luck once more
Flirted with but never took to bed
Fortuna - fickle lady whore

Called to mind, a Bee Gees tune
Garden-picked and hauntingly familiar
Like dish must have been with spoon

Reminiscing your touch - at midnight
Tonight however distant ever drawn
A lunar moth to your lantern light.

...Or Maybe

I’ve forgotten just now, whether or not
and what sort of tulip bulbs I planted last fall
Unconceivable to me it is that I’d forgot
but my eroding memory balks at any easy recall

Did I follow suite as per usual and bury
hundreds of pink pastels on promenade?
Or pregnant are we expecting tulip Shirley
with her charming changing-color fade?

Which species featured in which dollar store sack?
or color-picked by my wife on Christmas spree?
was woven in equal measure among narcissus and lilac
Up frong behind the Darwins so the neighbors can see?

I really have forgotten, I'm dazed and a bit confused
how these liquorish licked lavenders from Digger O’Dell
will co-mingle the mojo of whatever colors I’ve used.
However mix-matched, I reckon only time will tell.

Relic

I am a wax Christmas candle left to melt out in the sun
Goofy guy with macro hair and thigh high Adidas shorts
I never once then had to slow down wherever I would run
But nowadays I’m crawling;  reflux gags and nasal snorts

I am a Butterball turkey stuffed into a pair of waffle Nikes
Wrapped in Ace bandages basting in some smelly ointment
My once suave silk skin these day sprouts a forest of spikes
And this shag-carpet back begs chiropractic appointment

I am a no longer treasured trinket, cigar box souvenir
Stored now in a vacant closet beside baseball, glove, and bat
My once un-containable smile sedately snarls into sneer
And where rippled muscle reigned supreme, now loiters layered fat

I am a toy top    spinning   before school;  first grade
Beginning   Whirling madly with all the joy of discovery
Now nilly -willy wobbling  Inertia slacks and slowly fades
Wanting re-strung, re- flung  Ten small steps to recovery

I am a handcrafted relic flint, rescued from a farmer’s plow
A tank-topped teenaged tuff on a kamikaze Kawasaki
Archived and guarded on a shelf to show to a future now
Who can measure a craftsman’s skill?  Ancient contemporary.

Rosary

I keep a rosary dangling from my rear view mirror
Pendulous representation something far away superior
Simple rosewood relic  blood droplets linked with rope
So gaunt yet so strong, this thin taut tendon of hope

Looking ever forward and slightly to my right
Guarding a sort of blind spot with its beacon of light
Vigilant.  Unlike some talisman's rabbit’s foot hold
More akin to a family photo nesting in you billfold

Fortunate me! This rosewood emblem looks the other way
Unworthy as I so often am to gaze upon that face today
Let me fain retain a visual of a spear- torn side in sight
Behold one blood sopped brow recall one Holy Roman night

Circa 1886

It was our personal private clapboard galleria
Circa 1886 traditional pioneer family habitation
Gasping now the last breaths of a departed generation
Outflanked by more contemporary brick fascia dreams
Two-car garages cluttered all up with import SUVs
Bass boats or lawn mowers  mechanal muscle machines
Defiantly standing firm on seven thistle-choked acres
As renegade wisteria vines smother white-washed walls
while solemn ghost-rider ancestor stand sentry in halls
Integrated carnival and depression glass relics
Crammed elbow to elbow on communal knick-knack shelf
Each some gothic story to tell now kept quietly to itself
There,Aunt B’s hand sewn quilts  each scrap a stitch in tune
Careful in the kitchen there a film encases the gloom
 of residual pork sausages and country egg sunrises
and skillet cooked splatter-burgers with freezer fries
Redbooks and Reader’s Digests heaped up in head high stacks
Was the latest news  those yestdays, but nobody much looks back
Look! On top of Grandma’s Singer parked Papa’s replica Conestoga
Hand crafted to  acurate scale and whittled in complete detail
Propped up there in the corner still  his axe for splitting rail
Decorative bags stuffed fat full of Christmas past and mildew
brim full of baubles boxes and bows  Re-gifting as a virtue !
School Days photos levels 1 thru 12 uncle Eddy was scarecrow thin
Moth-pocked and moulded church clothes and bonnets from way back when
Her great-granny's glasses and jewelry transport us back to the day
when the greatest of sins was to throw anything at all away!

Nothing's Too Good

Burberry cashmere shrouds her China doll neck
Cost way too much money.  But oh well, what the heck?
Ann Taylor classics draping delicate shoulders
Like a fine cabernet, getting better not older
Prim Prada pumps protect petit perfumed feet
Some flaming gay stylist does her hair up so neat
Personal trainer, keeps her physically fit
Some heads will be turning, there’s no doubt about it
She knows, but won’t tell, Victoria’s Secret
Skin soft as suede, Estee Lauder helps her keep it
Leisurely lunching at Bistro P. F. Chang
Nothing unusual, drops some bucks for her bang
Mercedes Benz transports where ever she travels
When she gets home at night I start to unravel
She brings extra lean bacon, and whole grain bread
I’m crazy ‘bout this goddess!  Gone out of my head!
 Nothing’s too good for my baby.
 If you knew her, like I do, you’d see
 Nothing’s too good for this woman I love
 But she’s too good for the likes of me

Drained

Ghostly sound sucking swirling
Hissing slow refrain
Filthy oil-skimmed water circling
Clock-wise bathtub drain
Problem is these waves of water
Nagging soggy ears
Resemble-gurgles my persona
Circling dreadful spheres
Annoying drip  obnoxious bother
Valve not quite full closed
Plinks of this fools living water
drip drip  down fortune’s hose
Last coins drop on empty hour
I reap what I had chosen
Drip  Drip  This towel stinking sour
My valve not quite fully open

Out

Out of time and out of space
A dropped and broken antique vase
Out of fashion not in step
Some old geezer just thinks he’s hip
Out of energy and pace
Furrowed lines so easily traced
Out of options, out on a limb
A scented candle burning dim
Outside grace and out of favor
Chewing gum done lost its flavor
Out of money and low on gas
Always walking on the grass
Out of cigarettes and beers
And these damn glasses hurt my ears
Out of patience with myself
Unread book on a cluttered shelf
Out on the bases: down for the eight
Way out of balance on my slate
Out of pitons, end of the rope
A class five climb with little hope
Out of my head over you.
All you are and all you do.

New Arithmetics

You and I
1 + 1 which = somewhat > 2
1 x 1 which = a whole lot > 1
what convoluted arithmetics we have to learn
to come up with the right answers in relationships

seems to me
only way to get a grasp on the subject
is to make every attempt to un-learn
everything they taught us
in grade school mathematics

about long divisions since
two divided by anything will undoubtedly
end in a fraction and subtractions: because
2 - 1 does invariably = something
< or = to zero

Two Tickets to the Opry

And I blink and realize
Half life of nearly fifty five
Together in Tennessee with this incredible child

And rejoice in such due times
A dozen soft landing lifetimes
Permitting lumps of sugar to sweeten my karma

To offer such anointments
Covers thousands disappointments
And many of them at her undeserved expense

Struck  in manic realization
Next weeks 27th?  Celebration?
Best go right now and buy two tickets to the Opry

Before Adam

Before Adam's first election
Must have been the thought of Eve
Nothing less than pure perfection
Should so easily deceive

Before Cain fain claimed his brother
There was gain and thus defeat
Before Jacob conned his feeble father
and Issac took that bite to eat

Before Aaron's staff stretched fateful
When a night light led the way
Only then a remnant are found faithful
and only those few allowed to stay

Before Moses dreaded Zion's thunders
There were visions of how it ends
We kick the pricks against our blunders
And refuse half the help he sends

Good Man

They will say he was a good man
A doting Papaw to his and theirs
A sober and faithful husband
Who knew how to show he cares

They will call him a gracious servant
Always sipping from a half full cup
One who kept most every covenant
Always the first one to follow-up

Some will recollect his intelligence
He had a sort of gift for words
Others will recall his belligerence
Some good linens soiled with dirt

Preacher will spin, he's gone to pasture
To some blessed resting place
Then will pray he's found his answer
And a smile to grace his face

         And I say to you, "Why do you call me good?"
         There is non good but one, that is God.
         But if you would enter into life, keep the commandments.
                 Matthew 19:17

Gyroscopic

As a December sky strays from its drizzle to a deep
and with woebegone eyes waxing; worried to weep
When my detached visage sets-up distant to deeper
Truth and whole truth is, I don't deserve to keep her
Wearied I waiver from LockTite - on down to dizzy
My thoughts are gyroscopic- all mind-bending busy
Seeking a semblance of some sort sense of balance
Away! on a quest to recover Lancelot's lost chalice
Throbbing from the heart strings- that well up inside
Such  unspoken words; found so convenient to hide
The north wind curses me, and  I'm blown off-track
Wish to God could make her want to have me back

For Shannon

Pen up a poem to Shannon
Some wee warm words how I feel
Reverence every effervescence
SweeTart zest of citrus peel

Write a song for Shannon
Shake up a tonic for itching ears
Isn't this the whole wide world enthralled?
Listen for her joys and fears

Tell a tale of Shannon
Cast her in a movie with Sharif
Green splattered Eden yonder hill & vale
A heart's been stolen and she the thief

Write the book called Shannon
To reduce to words should be my curse
Fair Shannon speaks to my bumbling best
She wraps herself inside her verse.

knock-knock

Knock-knock.  Who's there?
Anyone I know behind that stare.
Knock-knock.  Well then?
Still the same as it's ever been?
Knock-knock. Go away.
Rather be by myself today.
Knock-knock. Still here.
Get so lonesome if you're not near.
Knock-knock.  Don't crowd.
You've no reason to act so proud.
Knock-knock.  You're nuts.
You don't love me, hate my guts.
Knock-knock.  Poor child.
Get like this every once a while.
Knock-knock damn it let me in.
Any idea how long it's been?
Knock-knock. Say what?
Only want me for what I've got.
Knock-knock.  Not true.
You know I love every bit of you.
Knock-knock.  Don't say.
Where were you all those other days.
Knock-knock.  Chill out.
You don't know what your talking about.
Knock-knock.  Me chill?
You yell so loud, your voice goes shrill.
Knock-knock.  No shout.
Just get emotional when we talk it out.
Knock-knock.  You're blind.
And you act the same way every time.
Knock-knock.  Time out!
You know I really don't mean to shout.
Knock-knock.  Boo-Hoo.
Always something going on with you.
Knock-knock.  Get real.
You know I can't help the way I feel.
Knock-knock.

Twogather

Clasp hold of my humbled hand;
we'll stumble together through a life span
It's forward marching and straight ahead
as we relish every little nothing said

We can chart a ship towards eternity
where it's forever you and forever me
We've shed our skins of yesterday,
awaiting brighter futures taking place

Velcored tightly forever to this as real
and every moment we can steal
Super-glued - fastened side-by-side
There is surely nothing left to hide

We're homeward bound and nearly where,
well-now-there-then baby, two may share

Frozen

Take my hand and hold it
You've already stolen my heart
Touch my life and mold it
May it complement yours equal part
Keep my dreams they're frozen
In you Love already come true
From any and all others chosen
For the rest of my life only you!