Shadows

What stranger was that

who walked past my grave?

I looked to the unyielding sky

for the cloud whose shadow

gave me a shiver and found nothing

but emptiness in the infinite blue.

I lay down in the sweet grass

beside a mirror bright lake,

waiting for halfdreams

and reveries to come.

The cry of an osprey

wheeling above

invaded my slide 

into drowsy contentment.

What alarm is this,

this sourceless shadow,

this chill at sunny noon?

I looked up and saw nothing,

not even the bird whose cries

had disturbed me.

It must be that stranger

standing over my grave.

Then I slept without

any dreams to remember

and when I awoke,

I was hungry for bread

and thirsty for wine.

But my bag was empty

except for a much-thumbed

old book I’d lost and now found.

So I read a verse,

my grandfather’s favorite,

and the shadow and hunger

were gone.

C-rations

We ran through a couple of quick launches

of our mobile nuclear missiles before lunch.

Butterflies flitted through the grass

of this German meadow

somewhere north of Stuttgart.

We waited in the chow line for the mess cooks

to fish the canned entree portion of the C-rations

out of a big cauldron of steaming water.

Wilson was already whining,

Oh man! Anybody wanna trade?

I got ham and motherfuckers!

Nobody did, because everyone

hated ham and motherfuckers,

that’s what soldiers call ham and lima beans.

Why don’t you trade with Saylor?

That Alabama farm boy’ll eat anything.

Except even he hated ham and lima beans.

I lucked out - frankfurter chunks

and baked beans in tomato sauce, beanie weenies.

Then we grabbed the boxes with the rest of the meal:

the so-called bread course, desserts, and smokes.

I got crackers and pimento cheese spread,

a can of fruit cocktail, and four Lucky Strikes.

Sergeant Burgess was right behind me

in the chow line. He says, I’ll trade you

my pound cake and peanut butter

for your cheese spread and fruit cocktail.

You got a deal, Sarge. You keeping the smokes?

No, I brought my own,

you can have these Pall Malls,

I don’t know how you can stand your

unfiltered Camels or Luckys, you barbarian.

He says, How’d you like your first time

in the Battery Control Center?

Out of the sun and in with the big boys,

where we pull the trigger.

I said, It’s not bad, what are we

practicing anyway?

He says, eagle strikes.

What’s that, eagle strikes?

Well it’s like this, if the Russians

look like they are getting ready

to come across the border,

we’ll hit ‘em with these birds.

They’ll find out that God

don’t look like Karl Marx.

We’ll make Hiroshima look like

setting off a cherry bomb in the boy’s bathroom.

Ivan and Boris will be roasted and toasted like

marshmallows that got caught in the campfire.

Their bases will be nothing but a pile

of charred toothpicks and kitty litter.

We nuke them first? Before they launch?

Before they even cross the border?

Damn straight! We aren’t gonna let them

catch us bending over with our pants down

and no vaseline. We fire off these birds

and get out of Dodge. Double quicktime.

Lemme have that chow, here’s your poundcake.

No thanks, I’m not real hungry anymore

but I’ll take the smokes.

Suit yourself, don’t wander off,

we’re gonna do another count at O-thirteen hundred.

Okay, I’m gonna just find some shade

and have a smoke. See you there.

I sat back against a rough barked pine,

watched the butterflies dancing in the meadow

and lit up a Lucky Strike.

Realized what I’d actually signed up for,

escape from home, great beer,

nuclear war and German pussy.

I could stand the Army chow,

but mass murder was not my picnic.

Only God and Richard Nixon could help me now.

Candles

Flame to wick, flame to wick,

from hand to hand

until the circle in the church

was a flickering ring,

a delicate thing,

and we began to softly sing

silent night, holy night.

And half a world away

in manger square

the pilgrims cradled

their candles and rejoiced.

In other homes that night

the candles in menorahs

were lit and songs

were sung as well.

I've lit yellow candles

in buddha caves and temples

to honor that other man

of peace and wisdom.

This is what candles are for,

birthday parties, romantic dinners,

worshipful ceremony, and maybe

the occasional power outage.

But have we not seen

enough candles, flowers

and teddy bears

on sidewalks?

If wishes are granted

when we blow them out,

my wishes now will always be:

No more cold wax congealed

beside wilted blooms

and smiling snapshots

marooned on sidewalks.

Inventory

thirty-six by twenty-nine

three windows, gold curtains

four doors, one fireplace

two brocade-upholstered sofas

faux Louis XIV chairs

one coffee table

grandfather clock

desk telephone

six flags

oval rug with sunburst center

and presidential seal

large thousand-pound oak desk

made from a failed Arctic expedition

small Remington bronze

portrait and equestrian statue

of the Indian killer, Jackson

letter from Nixon

custom black Sharpie markers

zero scruples or compassion

The gutter

I heard the gutter roar,

the torrent in the street

rushing to join

the ever swelling sea.

And the arenas thrilled

when the smirking fake

who spilled and spewed his hate

was echoed in the halls of state.

So now I must give a measure

of grudging thanks

that the mask is dropped,

their leering lust made plain.

Before I closed my eyes

to sleep last night,

I let the pages of my Bible

open to where they would

And read the psalmist’s plea:

Lord, how long shall the wicked,

How long shall the wicked triumph?

How long shall they utter and speak hard things?

And all the workers of iniquity

boast themselves?

They break in pieces your people,

and afflict your heritage.

They slay the widow and the stranger

and murder the fatherless.

Yet they say the Lord shall not see,

neither shall the God of Jacob regard it.

Understand you brutish among the people,

and you fools, when will you be wise?

He that planted the ear, shall he not hear?

He that formed the eye, shall he not see?

The gutter still roars this morning,

this dark season has not ceased,

The fever in this diseased republic

has yet to break and the question hangs

like the fog clinging to the mountain.

How long shall the wicked triumph?

Will the throne of iniquity have fellowship

with You and frame mischief by a law?

Fate

Is this to be a frogless,

scorched scrub state?

Meadows choked

with broom and thistle,

a thirsty fate

that waits for

the inevitable flame

to climb the ladder.

The bridge

I kind of thought I’d just ease

into the evening of my life.

No drama, no trauma

no surprises or trapezes.

Familiar places, familiar faces.

Sprawled out and dozing 

in the same spot on the couch.

You might say it was the epitome

of everything Is just fine.

If anyone asked,

I could nod my head

And say, yeah, it’s all okay.

And it was.

Life’s warm evening,

not a sunrise or a noon.

That all evaporated

like a summer pond.

All those assumptions

-gone.

And suddenly

I was surrounded

by all the memorial objects

of another person’s life.

The scarves and scars,

hotel soaps

and refrigerator magnets.

Shoes.

Where were mine?

Gathering dust

on the bookshelves

in the closet.

And my island home

was being gutted

day by day,

week by week.

I might have thought

that God forgot.

But it was me who had forgotten

that there was a warm hand

If I would just reach out

to take it. There always is

if our hearts are open.

To joy as well as sorrow.

There was a bridge

to leave that island

and I’ve crossed it.