Challenge Poem

Hello everyone!
Last poem of 2010. This is a challenge post response to my nephew. He wanted to see if I could do a poem about football. Well...here it is. I write about what I know. I was an offensive lineman in High School, and played two years of semi-pro football as an offensive lineman, and coached one year of semi-pro as the Offensive Line Coach. If you want the full effect of the poem, I highly encourage you to read it out loud with an old fashioned Blues beat in your head. It is more fun that way.

Talk to ya next year.

Lineman Blues

Just as I lean forward,
The fans scream from their pews.
The ref throws a flag at me,
I got those Lineman blues!

Refrain:
Lineman Blues...Oh...the Lineman Blues.
The Drive, it just keeps on foldin’.
‘Cause I can’t stop holdin’
On to dem ol’ Lineman Blues.

My body’s like iron.
Make a linebacker moan.
Just don’t throw a pass to me,
Because my hands are made of stone.

Refrain:
Lineman Blues...Oh...got the Lineman Blues.
The fans don’t really know me.
No autographs to slow me,
From dem ol’ Lineman Blues.

Can’t catch no endorsements,
Can’t seem to light a fuse.
Nobody wants to see a lineman
Wearing blue jeans or drinking booze.

Refrain:
Lineman Blues...Oh...the Lineman Blues.
If we win, they never name me,
Any sack, y’know they blame me,
With dem ol’ Lineman Blues.

___________________________________

Have a great new year, and cheer
for a lineman once in a while!

b

Christmas Poem

I've been out of the loop for a month now. But things are slowing down and I have time to write (and answer some challenge poem ideas). Today's poem is new, and I wrote it with the past and the present in mind. Christmas time, like so many things in my life, have changed since childhood. There was a time when I was quite the "bah humbug" type of guy. Guess I am going in a circle in terms of how I see this time of year. I'm still not the type to decorate or shop for gifts, but I see Christmas as meaning something again.


Never Sure About Christmas

I’m never sure about Christmas.
When hope loops like ropes of tinsel on a tree.
Brought out for display with the music of the times,
Then packed away
In boxes,
Forgotten until winter reminds us again
To decorate our lives for each other.

Your hope is beautiful.
Wear it year around.

I’m never sure why we shop
For our presents
While our pasts
Lie unwrapped and put to the side.
We run down the stairs,
Children once more,
Ripping the wrappings of our future.
Watching what others become.

I'll help you assemble your happiness,
You can steady my bike as I steer into life.

I’m never sure if I’ll like what I get.
Christmas is the stuff of uncertainty.
The mystery of cookies and milk eaten as I sleep,
Finding gifts I must figure out on my own.

I’m never sure about Christmas
Until I hold it close.
______________________________

Let me know your thoughts.
Have a safe and happy holiday.

Orn

My first challenge poem!

Hey everyone. This week I offer two poems. The first one is a Veterans' Day Poem I wrote many years ago. The second one is in response to the first challenge poem of this blog! Way to go Dawn. I have a second challenge already and I WANT MORE!! It makes me create something each week, and I love it. Make me earn your support on this blog. Okay...enough already.

This first poem I wrote back when I was at the University of Iowa (thousand years ago). I remember the inspiration was seeing the dark, grey sky reflected in a puddle on a cold Veteran's day. I was out walking. The breeze was making the water ripple. It was like the whole of the world had just cried itself out.

Fades in My Tears

Mute.
Grief-spent the sky stared
At its wind quivering reflection.
Threatened renewed anguish.
Autumn yellow fades in its tears.
I could not console it.

Wisdom.
Plentiful as the wreathes on cold granite
Decorates my mind
Dies in my throat.

Duty Honor Country Sacrifice
Confuses me.

The cost
Humbles me.

Blood-rusted oaks try to hold back
The sky’s tears.
I share it’s burst of pain
But cannot console it.

The effort dies in my throat.
Fades in my tears.
____________________________

This poem is in answer to Dawn Reed Vinkavich's challenge . She recalled the days of our high school days. In those days, we would muster our courage and alcohol, and visit the Black Angel of Oakwood Cemetary, Iowa City, IA. For those not schooled in local Iowan lore, the Black Angel was a statue/grave stone that was cursed, and frequently visited by the curious (and sometimes the brash). In all the visits I paid the Angel, I never once thought about the dead the Angel was meant to remember. Dawn, this poem is not a funny recollection of our teen days, but an acknowledgement of what so many of us missed. Rodina Feldevertova is Czech for "the Family of Feldevert. It is the name chiseled on the base of the angel.

Rodina Feldevertova

In your darkest nights
Amid the laughter of drunken
Mischief looking for bragging rights,
You hold out for dignity.

The mystery of your silent, menacing repose is
Broken by macabre photos
Touches from the curious
Whispers of what is wrong
About you

You did not ask for
The insensitive trampling
Of your solitude.

So many visit you
Yet forget your purpose.

You weep for Rodina Feldevertova.
They lie (unnoticed)
Beneath your open wings
(and) away
From our darkest hearts.

____________________________

May you all laugh and love beneath the wings of your guardian angels.
Until next time.

b

From the memory of a friend

A school friend of mine, Brett Duncan, commented on a poem and recalled memories of he and I catching bees when we were little kids. It got me thinking. Although I usually try to show two poems per post, I wanted to get this out. I wrote it last night.

Bees

Funny how bees (like our memories)
Find their way home.

Can bring back the stuff of love and flowers
(Honey gold thick on the bread of our lives).
Can sting us to tears
(from sacrifice and loss).

If trapped in a jar
They bang headlong against glass walls of reality
(They die)
No matter how many holes we poke
In the lids of our relationships.

If set free
We risk losing them
In the fading blossoms of autumn
(amid choices that were once ours)

Funny how bees (like our hopes)
Will dance to show where the pollen hides.
Will buzz from the beauty of a dew-jeweled meadow.
And give the cool of a petal’s shade
To a friend.
__________________________________

Let me know your thoughts.
b.

Back When I was in Korea

This week, I thought I would share some poems I wrote when I was in the Army and doing some training in South Korea. They say that soldiers are happiest when they are complaining...so I must have been euphoric. The first two poems are about Army training in the field. I wrote them to amuse myself and my fellow soldiers. As much as I like to write free verse poetry, I love to write rhyming poetry (it just makes me laugh, I guess!). The 3rd poem is a poem I wrote in response to a challenge. A sergeant bet me I couldn't write a Halloween poem in less than an hour in the middle of the Spring. It was late at night, in a tent and it was freezing out. Its different...Happy Halloween.

This first poem (and the second poem) have some military jargon and acronyms that I will explain now, otherwise, it may not make much sense (there will be a quiz afterwards):

FTX: Field Training Exercise
O.D. (Olive Drab...the color of our uniforms)
PFC: Private First Class
LT: Lieutenant

FTX Contemplation I
(Korea)

The tent is green, the lights are white,
The ground is reddened clay.
My chair is hard, my butt is sore,
From soldiering all day.
The cots are up, the rain falls down.
Our night is cloaked in black.
The dawn has yet to make its day,
We dream of going back.
The tents - they rise.
The tents - they fall.
The tents - we fold.
The tents - we haul.
Inside the tents the world is O.D.,
Inside our clothes, we smell so grodie.
Sergeants, Captains, PFC.
Mud and web belts, and one LT.
Its just a job, its just a thrill,
To ward off boredom, and fight off chill.
You think of booze, but not of sex.
Nights are too long on an FTX.
You carry on bravely, and don your mask.
Ponder the questions you never dare ask.
And the rain just keeps falling,
As it did in the past.
_____________________________
In Korea, human feces is often used as crop fertilizer. It was common for a military unit to get permission from a Korean Farmer to use his field to set up tents in, but only if all the soldiers would defecate in the field before leaving (I am dead serious.) More definitions...sorry.

cammo: Camouflage netting used to hide tents and scramble electronics
TOC: Tactical Operations Center (where I worked when in the field)
OB bars: Korean Taverns that served cheap Korean beer
MRE (Meals Ready to Eat served in plastic pouches)
Mr. T's: Massive trays of ready to heat meals, perhaps the worst tasting food ever made.
Combat Trains (Support units that have food, clothes, equipment, etc.)
XO: Executive Officer (2nd in Command of the Battalion)
ENDEX: The End of the Exercise (some of the best words in the English Language)

FTX Contemplation II
(Korea)

The cammo net goes way up high,
To hide the TOC from passers-by.
We pack the tents and jump in trucks
Like human duffle bags and rucks.
We do this several times a day
To justify our army pay.
We shiver far beneath the stars
And fantasize of "O.B." bars.
We have no choice of what to wear
So mix and match without a care.
And when we turn to run or fight,
We break down TOC in dark of night.
We don’t move out ‘til light of day,
There has to be an better way.

Manure is our main TOC floor,
Manure makes my bed.
Manure permeates my clothes,
And clings around my head.

M-R-E’s, “Mr.-T’s”, a moon-pie and a coke,
We’re on a constant sugar buzz
So full of shit we choke.
Korean snows and radios make me want to laugh,
I pity those in the combat trains
With the XO of our staff.
“Safety” is the motto cheer,
Goat-fuck is the rule.
The locals folks ignore us here
As one ignores a fool.
ENDEX never comes too soon,
The trucks to leave too fast.
I’ve memories enough to share,
And dirt enough to last.
I worry about our training, though.
Were all the standards met?
Or are we hiding all our faults
Beneath our cammo net?
__________________________

This last poem still creeps me out a little. (What was I thinking?!?)

Rites

Bloodied, the moon approved the sacrifice.
Blessed the Blackest Sabbath.
A single tree, stained dark by countless lives,
Held innocence fast.

“Circle gather to call his name.
Washed in blood to feed the flame.”

Clammycold death touches her to the soul.
Grips her life.
Devours her screams as delicious.

“Circle join to be as one
Praise his name, his will be done.”

Hooded forms of soulless night.
Timeless dead
Performing rites of madness.
Rituals of horror.
Dripping.
Drooling.
Tasting.
At last, she sees no more.
The tree has its shroud.

“Circle flows his power gives.
Draws life from death, and deathless, lives.”

Without comment, the moon stalked away into the clouds.
The night, filled with guilty silence,
Awaited the dawn’s purging.

And the rites of Halloween live on.
________________________________

Let me know your thoughts. 'Til next time, take care of yourselves.

b

Hodge Podge

Today I thought I would share some poems that are...well, different. The first is an angry poem. The second, a poem that I hope displays some humor. I actually delight in writing funny stuff, but they are usually about and for friends, and the jokes are usually known only to a few, so I will explain a few points. If you like the humorous one, I will share more. Let me know.

During my stint as a therapist, I worked with children. Often, they had some pretty horrific backgrounds. Almost always, an adult knew about the abuse and didn't tell anyone because they didn't want to be involved. The metaphor of the poem came when I was visiting inlaws many years back. Racoons were rampant in the area, and the process was to trap the racoon and then shoot it in the cage. Then someone else would hose the blood from the driveway.

Never Touched a Soul

i flinch every time it happens.
close my eyes and ears
so my ignorance remains just so.
hose blood off the driveway
(its good for the grass, i hear).
i mean, i didn’t put it there,
the blood, that is.
made sure i wasn’t too close to the action.
looked away just in time.
habit i guess. (and a good one, i might add).
if i may be so bold:
take my advice
stay out of the dark places,
children die there, (in the dark places, i mean).
rotting in corners of closets
backrooms in basements.
i’ve seen it.
helped provide the apathy.
but never touched a soul.
never ever.
absolutely disgraceful nowadays.
how innocence is slaughtered.
so many monsters with time on their hands.
i’ve seen ‘em.
the houses they live in (the children and the monsters).
not to worry, just follow my lead:
tend to your lawn.
if i had a forte (love that word, forte).
it would be the cleansing of my conscience.
its as cleanas a whistle.
(i’m told blood is good for the grass).

________________________________________

This next poem I wrote for a fellow intern when I was getting my doctorate in psychology. She came up from Texas for the year long internship. She could only afford an apartment in the worst part of town. Her deadbeat spouse did not pay the monthly car bill, so her car was temporarily repossessed, her dog was...well read for yourself. The episode with the crow is true. I love Edgar Allen Poe's "The Raven", so here is my tribute to her perseverance and Poe's poetry.
My Ravin’
(with apologies to Edgar Allen Poe and his poem, The Raven)

As I wondered in the ghettos, stepping over used stilettos, feeling knowledge rich, and yet so intern poor.
While I plodded, slowly walking, suddenly gunfire came a-pocking, with gangstas softly mocking, mocking at the year I had in store.
“‘Tis only gang-banging”, I muttered, “mocking me so poor.
Only this and nothing more.”

With fears I do remember, the Fall into December, double locking all my windows, and triple checked the door.
As I staggered, without hoping, my sanity a-groping, with drooling dopers doping, I gave a Texan’s roar.
“My car has been stolen”, I shouted, and help I did implore.
It was repossessed, and nothing more.

With my brave retriever, a tried and true believer, hiding in by bathtub, and frightened to
The core.
He was spinning, in a tizzy, I think he got too dizzy, I did not see it, (way too busy), he fell onto
The floor.
He bumped his head, I ranted, and called for help and more.
You need help, they said, and nothing more.

With my dog more was to follow, his head still being hollow, bullied by tiny foxes that left him running for the door.
I was cleaning, inward crying, I tell the truth (I am not lying), he caught a raven that was flying, interrupting my ghetto chore.
“Drop the bird”, I screamed, chasing my dog across the floor.
My focus became that crow, and nothing more.

With raucous cries in my apartment, in my closet’s dark compartment, the raven flew as if to seek some safety’s shore.
On my head, it tried to ramp on, it’s little head I’d gladly stamp on, the fuckin’ bird had stole a tampon, and flew out my bathroom door.
“Stupid bird!” I raved, “to be so hygiene poor.”
I drank a Blue Moon sixpack, and nothing more.

As an intern I’ve paid dearly, hear me shriek in anger clearly, it is your understanding,
that I do implore.
Colorado’s cold has made me shiver, I drank so much I shot my liver, I think of jumping in the river, the warmth of Texas I do succor.
“Heading South”, I chanted, as I never had before.
And you shall hear my ravin’, nevermore.

_________________________________________________-

Let me know your thoughts and reactions. Til next time, take care of yourself and each other.

b

Poems about my father and grandfather

A cousin of mine was mining through my grandfather's things (he died many years ago) and found a poem written about my father by a member and friend of his from the Rotarian Club in Iowa. It reminded me that I had once written a poem about missing my dad and a poem I wrote just after attending my grandfather's funeral. With your indulgence, I would like to share them with you.

My dad was, among many things, a clown. When I was a real little kid, he came up to me and my mom dressed as a clown during the WL parade...scared the bejesus out of me. He was "chased away" by a friend of his. I didn't know it was my dad until after he had died. I never saw him again dressed as a clown. Ironic that I became a pantomime in school and college. I have all of my dad's clown costumes and stuff. Funny how things turn out.

The Joy of the World’s Smile

Touching his reality with soft powder
He examines the stories in his face
Reflects the reflection
Smiles sad and wise.
Adds meaning to the blue cake tears
Resting on cheeks white as laughing stars.
Tattered gloves smooth perma-wrinkle clothing
Dance along scattered patches
Parts fire-orange curls for a hat
That has never seen better days.
Loving us so dangerously that no risk is too great
Needing so badly that no laugh is belly-big enough.
He speaks to us with eloquent silence.
Gives us slapstick as rich as gold.
With crazed colors in a riotous rainbow
We learn courage.
We see the tears trapped on his cheeks
And laugh at the pain he endures for us.
I try to catch his eye for only a moment
I want his smile to be for me.
Lights and laughter melt into the sand
Leaving only a silence
Which is both life and death.
Softly the shadows console his longing to be loved.
Do not cry, Mr. Clown.
Wipe the tears gone and share with me the joy of the world’s smile.
Sing to me songs with the magic of your silence.
Take my hand let me see
The sweet/sad beauty of your inspiration.

For a moment he turned towards me
Managed one last love filled smile
And the cheers of a thousand clowns filled the silent tent.
Then he was gone
Never came back.
But the silence still knows his songs.
I listen and remember.


Dedicated to the memory of my father, Ronald D. Butler
---------------------------------------------------------
Grandpa Butler was the patriarch of the Butler clan. He was a teller of stories, a professional speaker. He was a gentle constant of nature for a family lost in waves of grief from my father's death.


A Story Worth Tellin’

It was easy to touch
The world of his smile.
Draw strength from eyes
Which had seen more than I.
Listen to his wisdom behind the punchline.
Watch him recall breathtaking beauty
From the ugliest side of man.

He loved us
Although he wouldn’t have put it that way.
Cherishing stories of family.
And I think this is why
His death is so hard to grasp.

His is a story worth tellin’.
But I’ve no words to do him justice.
Cannot tell it the way he could.
The world I know is quiet.
Having lost its teller of stories.

I can see him.
Sitting back in his green easy chair
Laughing with the Hawkeyes
Half buried in clippings on a T.V. tray.
He laughs for the joke is still funny to him:
“Its all timing, “lil chicken,
I’m as close as your favorite story
I used to tell”.


Dedicated to the memory of Emmett F. Butler, my grandfather.
_______________________________________

Share with me your thoughts about your fathers and grandfathers.

Mental Illness

This week I want to express my thoughts about those with mental illness. I've spent almost 17 years treating those with mental health issues. I am always struck by how alone they feel. I wrote both poems in first person. I know I can never understand how it must be for them, but I want to convey that I am trying.

This first poem is about schizophrenia.

Laughing Into My Fingers

i hope someone visits me.
i should die -
give harmony to the hum
that sets me apart.
give i-teeth for a night’s sleep
without bad thoughts.

mysterious death-songs haunt my
breakfast medications.
by noon, my laughter
robs me of my dignity.

fearing to touch my television
or any other friend-
a voice tells me i am bad
and am lonely because of it.

i love my family
(even though they are killing me)

i’mfine noproblemhere canismokenow?
talk the talk walk the walk
i kiss the mirror with rotten teeth
trembling lips.

laughing into my fingers
i am unsure of my lucid thoughts.
_________________________________

This one is about Alzheimer's Dementia. I have several good friends who have relatives with this disease.

In Earshot of the Madness

you wag your tail and lift my hand with your soft brown nose and i can remember who you are and laugh because i remember and i love you
did i feed you today? i don’t know and i can’t remember
you look the same.
the ocean inside my head hurts me
its voice makes me sway
i hear my voice and i laugh at it
it is so far away
my life is so clear right now and funny how it seems so important
the details the little details that i had forgotten.
i’m laughing and i know i must look a sight.
feel the drool on my chin and wait for help.
i wet myself. dear jesus ...someone will come and help me.
my dog where is he? did i feed him? he licked my hand i’m sure of it.
i don’t hear you anymore
oceantime you understand drifting in earshot of the madness
screaming in soft, silent darkness.
he would lay his head in my hands you see
i’m sorry i just can’t keep a hold of my mind anymore.
no. no i’m not hungry so leave me alone.
noone knows me anymore don’t touch me
yes i know i smell of old piss and sweat just let me die.
don’t tell me he’s gone i loved him.
he was just a puppy
sad eyes of hazel
and a tail that could make me smile
just from watching it.
i should get up and feed him, its time y’know.


This poem is dedicated to those stricken with Alzheimer’s Dementia. Of all the madness that plagues our world, yours is the first forgiven.
_______________________________

Please let me know your thoughts.

b

More Love Poetry

Thought I'd do one more week of love poetry, then on to more serious stuff. Hope you like what you read.

Finding a Similar Dream

You are my dream.
You are my fantasy.
Realizing this I fear to wake.And so,
Am content
(More than I can explain with my soul)
To sleep in your love.
Live my days in our reality,
While the world looks on
To more important matters.
Such as finding a similar dream.
____________________________
The Music of Your Laughter

Before I met you
I wanted so much to love completely
That I could but watch others fall in love.
I was so scared to give myself
That I let life hold me like an empty, bitter wind
On a silent day.
Then my dreams carried me to you.
You laughed my fears into the sunshine.
What can I whisper but “I love you”,
When I listen to your breath
Soft and gentle in the darkness?
How can I feel anything but joy,
Rich and deep when I touch you as I wake?
I’m thankful,
And a little amazed
That my world could be so beautiful
When filled with the music of your laughter.
______________________________
Valentine's Day Thought

Gently (so soft, warm) we kiss
Knowing each other’s embrace.
Asking for each other’s love.
Trembling, I give.
Fearing it won’t be enough
To hold your smile forever to my soul.
Wrapped in your love
I’m safe from myself.
In your arms I’m free to wonder rainbows
Or race the stars.
In your arms I know that dreams can come true.
I’ll never find words to express the feelings
You leave in me.
No cage of thought could contain that much joy.
Know that I love you,
And hold me, forever,
In your smile.
______________________________

Take care and love well.
orn

Love

For the next few weeks I will be sharing thoughts about romantic love. Most are about the love I have for my wife. (She said it would be okay to share them). Since many of them aren't very long, I would like to show three poems today. The first two are poems I wrote to my wife after we got married.

Reasons To Watch For Morning

So easily the twilight turned the rushing day
To a shy, peaceful horizon
That we stumbled full gait into darkness.
Balanced tip-toe on the lip of night.
Held out our terror for the wind to taste.
Waited for empty black
To overtake the heels of life.
Someone screamed that day had been lost.
That no one would see the sunrise.
That heaven had been taken from us
Just when we needed it most.
With the last whisper of sun slipping my touch
I see you reach for me.
And the night is but an unborn tomorrow.
Twilight is a kiss from an almost forgotten day.
You give me reasons to watch for morning.
Until I hold you
I forget these things.
____________________________________
Mr. Webster

Mr. Webster defines love
As easily as I can see
Your smile in me.
He went on - next word, small print.
I lingered on love.
For me, your picture would have sufficed.
Good thing I’m not Webster.
Having you defines my life.
You are the language of my love.
The rest of the world can wait.
I’ll write my books on you.
__________________________

This last poem is written about two very good friends of mine, Shell and Raf. Seeing them together, in love, is such a treat. It leaves me grinning...and feeling young.

No Need for Cupid

Telling lies to a blind sun,
To a dark-deafened moon,
Life would have heaven hear
Our excuses why love fails.

The sun understands how
Flailing for another’s touch
Burns us as we clench our eyes shut,
Never seeing beyond our solitary shadows.

The moon knows the cold silence of night,
How it deafens us to words we need most.
Mute, we swallow with fear (our feeling words)
Until we are one with the lies of our lives.

Raf (brown-eyed and grinning)
With pirate intent, takes Shell in a gaze that undoes
The falsehoods of existence.

Shell holds her pirate close
(no flailing here).
Makes exception her rule.

Loving laughing tenderness,
There is no need for Cupid.
Hand in hand, a private joke,
To call each other “stupid”.

Heaven has no excuses.
It begins to understand that when
Raf and Shell unwrap their gifts
(each others’ hearts),
Everyday is Christmas.
__________________________

Hope you liked these poems as much as I enjoyed writing them. Speak your feeling words to someone you love. They need to be heard almost as much as you need to say them. Until next week, take care.
b

Military Poetry

I wrote a poem over the weekend that deals with military issues, and I wanted to share it with you. The poem shares what I sometimes experience as a psychologist treating soldiers who have returned from deployment. Please know that not every session is this intense, but many are. The poem addresses some of the combat traumas I hear, and is not a verbatim experience from any particular soldier.

Inside the Numbers

Fourteen seconds to see your world from
Four inches above sand
Stinking of sewage and cordite.
Eighty meters to your eleven o’clock is the
Birthplace of an ambush where 155mm rounds
Shook and shoved vehicles into ditches and chaos.
Thirty-five words shouted at blast-deafened ears to
Take out the sniper three stories up where a mother and
Her four children huddle unseen
Clutching each other, wide-eyed as random, angry bullets
Slowly find them.
Twenty-eight ragged, scorching breaths (and a thousand years)
To drag your best friend behind a brown, pocked wall
On a meaningless street three hundred years older
Than you’ll ever be.
One continuous scream into a faceless radio mike for medevac
While five pints of blood pump slower from a single throat shot
As your two hands try to stop the crimson flow of broken promises to
Drink more beer than you
Marry your kid sister
Get you back home safe
You stop talking as your hands form fists
Trying to conquer what is rising up in you.
(I wait three minutes in silence)
As you distill two years of guilt and grief
Into tears that collect on my office floor
Defying any attempt to make sense
Of such madness.

__________________________________________________

This second poem is also from my experience of being a therapist for soldiers. In many ways, it is perhaps more revealing of how it feels to do what I do. Sometimes all you can do is bear witness to how these incredibly noble men and women brave everything to get better. I suppose that writing about this is therapeutic for myself. Is so, then thank you for being a witness.

Therapy

As witness
I felt dumbstruck.
Such old tears from
So young a man.
So much loss
So soon.
So much ahead

We laugh our tears.
We dance with death.
We hold our fears
We hold our breath.

“Good work, today”.

Only you and your world have not known good
For some time.

Staring at the floor
Embarrassed by your own emotions
You apologize for tears still fighting
You for expression.

You are not weak.
Only younger
(and)
Older than me
Forever.

________________________________________________

Let me know your thoughts and reactions. Next week, I write about love.

Faith and Religion

Well...few things get more reaction than thoughts about religion and faith. I'm going to share four poems with you, since I will be on vacation next weekend and won't be able to do the blog. These poems were written as I struggled (and still struggle) to understand faith, religion, and hope. I placed the poems in chronological order, and it seems that maybe I've changed. So, here we go.

This first poem I wrote many years ago, when I was young, angry and unsure of what it all meant. I was not a fan of mankind then (still not much of a fan, now).

Dinosaurs of Christ

we live and worship
burning empty barns
like Dresden’s children.
TURN THE OTHER CHEEK I’LL SLASH YOUR THROAT
TAKE MY HAND YOU’LL RAPE ME
we are LAUGHING HATE AND LOVING VOMIT
we are what we despise and cannot accept
WE LIVE AND WORSHIP
WE LIVE AND WORSHIP
we are dinosaurs.
giants killing for the right to
fill in the blanks.
leaving shadow prints in forgotten rocks.
so curious that
memories named christ are significant to us.
murdered to show peace and love
how like a god to mock us
just when we need him most.
fat man in red/bunny with eggs
how like us to mock a brave man
who would wash our feet,
turn the other cheek.
who loved his dinosaurs.

(how like a god)
to love us
knowing we would never understand.
_________________________________________
I've always been disturbed by Easter, can you tell?

Easter Thought

And so
Without answers to his questions.
No toast for his cup of Maddog 20/20,
J.C. hung with the best of them.
Left but a corpse and a memory.
Bled love into the ground.
So we kill in his name.
Blood into the ground.

It defeats his intent.
But I’m not a god and wouldn’t know.
Perhaps this is good.
He’s never around to say.

with silent cries a man-god dies
we bleed his legend pale.
on plastic grass let’s sing a mass
with peter cottontail.

I question his method
not his madness.
I should be so mad
but am not.
Perhaps this is good.

There is no time for madness, J.C.
No more market for martyrs.
So lets ride, J.C.
You and me, J.C.
In the belly of the magical bunny.

How’s that for madness?
_______________________________________
I was starting to mellow with this poem. Still holding mankind to a high standard, and feeling that we fell short, but realizing there was meaning.

A Fragrance of Tired Roses

IT HAD ALL HAPPENED SO FAST WHAT WITH HIM BEING IN CHARGE OF THE MEN AND ALL THE SPEECHES AND THE TROUBLE WITH THE COPS AND THEM BEING FROM OUT OF TOWN AND STUFF AND WELL THINGS GOT Y’KNOW CRAZY AND NO ONE HAD THE COURAGE TO STOP AND FUNNY HOW THINGS CAN GET CRAZY TOO FAST SOMETIMES
The Crowd, fickle as hell, wanted blood.
As was their right.
It was said the critics crucified him.
POOR CHOICE OF WORDS
TOO SYMBOLIC IF YOU ASK ME
HE HAD IT COMIN’ IF YA WANNA KNOW THE TRUTH OF THE MATTER
MAKE AN EXAMPLE OF ONE OF ‘EM AND THE REST WILL TOE THE LINE
NOT ONE OF ‘EM WORTH A DAMN ANYWAY
So why the fear?
Beauty had yet to take one life.
Peace to cause one war.
If God came down to love us just once, say next Tuesday
He’d be dead by Friday.
And if more than one came to call
There’d be hell to pay.
BUT DON’T WORRY, LIL’ DARLIN’
THEY WON’T CAUSE NO TROUBLE NOWADAYS
WE SEEN TO THAT
CRUCIFY MY ASS, WE KICKED BUTT, LIL’ DARLIN’.
And
Beauty died without a whimper
Beneath a blind sky of sunshine.
Leaving but a fragrance
Of tired roses.
____________________________________
This was written as a gift for a friend of mine. She likes hummingbirds.

a miracle amongst the flowers

giving was so very easy.
for heaven it always was.
a child a star it never seemed quite enough.

so an angel
(the most delicate of heaven) was chosen to
teach mankind of hope.
perhaps ...beauty.
dressed in the fires of autumn,
the laughter of the greenest springs,
blessed with the voice of love,
the angel taught the child and mankind the
songs of hope.

the child grew with the world
then died from it.
in grief, heaven took back its gifts of
birth, eternity , and hope.
the angel, who learned to love man from watching the child,
asked to stay.
so heaven returned its last gift
(as only heaven could.)

the angel transformed into a bird of rainbow beauty
with a song that only the wind could know
or the flowers to hear.

it was by this gift
that the world knew the hummingbird.
silent as a child’s wish on a distant star,
quick as a clever thought upon waking.
the hummingbird is a sign of hope.
a miracle to be glimpsed amongst the flowers
_________________________________

Let me know your thoughts about these poems or your own experiences with faith. Take care.
b

Relationships and loss

As much as we don't talk about loss of relationships in our lives, loss is a part of the human experience. I want to address this issue carefully. I don't wish to be maudlin, but I want to present two poems about loss. I hope that these poems resonate with you. That you will appreciate the relationships you cherish now, and realize the wisdom you've gained from those lost.

This first poem I wrote for my sister, after her cat died. I think those of us who have spent much of our lives with our pets can relate.

so little a thing


feathersteps follow me room by room
enter as i exit. watch me with a quiet kind of love.
i know you aren’t there. i drift into the kitchen
(it is cold and confusing)

i grieve too much.

i know death and can see him/it/they/her
coming down long lit hallways (where i work).
Pillaging in that drawn out way of his/hers/its/theirs.
Leaving the living dumb in its/theirs/hers/his wake.
It/she/they/he leaves and i am sometimes
too busy to notice.

THE SUFFERING IS OVER!
WE TELL OURSELVES THAT DEATH WAS PERHAPS FOR THE BEST.
THAT PROLONGING THE PAIN (in ourselves)
WOULD BE CRUEL.
And i could never be cruel ...not to the shy,
happy cat that loved butterfly hunts.

I WANTED TO TELL DEATH TO BE GENTLE WITH YOU
THAT YOU WERE SPECIAL
THAT YOU SHOULD BE WITH SUNSHINE AND BUTTERFLIES
THAT HE/SHE/IT/THEY SHOULD GO AWAY AND LEAVE ME UNSHATTERED
(over so little a thing
as the death of a cat).
WANTED TO MAKE YOU UNDERSTAND
THAT IT IS SO HARD FOR ME TO LOSE YOU
THAT DEATH WAS ALL I HAD LEFT TO EASE YOUR PAIN.

I miss you
look for you in lofts of sunshine
and watch butterflies now
with a quiet kind of love.
______________________________________________

This next poem was hard to write. I tried to place myself in a room where loss is front and center. What happens when someone is face to face with the death of one's soul mate? Unable to do anything but witness it. I said that loss is part of the human experience, but must it be so damned devastating to us?

In Rooms Empty of Miracles


Tracked with tear sand
Old trails on such young cheeks.
“Talk to me just once. Pleasegodplease just say my name”.
Just squeeze my hand. Please don’t go.”
So the prayer/chant/beg/curse
Whispered hope continues.
Hold hands but not too tight
Remember the tubes
And the nurse
And the Doctor
And the BEEP..BEEP..BEEP...
BEEEE...

Hate/Love sound of life in balance
Death with foothold.
Hold back the tears as if courage will open
Those beautiful sad eyes of blue
Sorry ...So Sorry.
Beg/Chant/Bargain/Prayer.
“I love you so
We love you so much
Please God, just this once
Please.”

She is led away by silent nurses.
Looks of knowing burn her.
Callused sympathy from the ward
Having seen so many tears with no end in sight.
“Its for the best”, breaks through her numbing grief.
She clutches a sofa of dingy vinyl orange
Losing herself in a world of emptiness and pain.
Trickle streams of love dry slow
In rooms empty of miracles.

________________________________________________


From time to time I will share my thoughts about loss. But not too often. Please give me your thoughts. If you have trouble posting on this blog, try registering as a Follower. If that doesn't help, email me and if you give me permission, I will cut and paste your thoughts into the blog for you.. Thankfor reading.

b

Newborns

Taking a chance this week. I've never given birth. I've never been a father. However, the two poems I submit for your consideration deal with the experience and feelings mothers' have towards their newborn children. To mothers reading these poems, please let me know if I'm close. If I'm not, let me know that, too.

Both poems are written from through the eyes (and hearts) of the mother.


While You Cried Life Into My World

You cling to me.
Clever eyes needing in a way
I never thought possible.
Your tiny sighs accenting my tears.
You will not remember this moment
When I bathed you in my happiness,
While you cried life into my world.
Your father touches your cheek
Shiny-eyed he kisses you.
He is silent.
You are love and he respects this.
My hands, his eyes/face all intermingled.
We are one, the three of us.
I know (as Mothers know)
I would give my life for you.
You sweeten my life as only a miracle can.
Holding you I dream of roses in a rainstorm
Touched by a ray of morning sun.

_________________________________

Melodies Learned From the Same Heart

Sing your life’s song, my little one.
So close are we that
I weep for joy, for both of us.
Your song/my song sweetens the sun’s smile,
Highlights the beauty of your
Tiny, perfect hands.
Holding you is more than I could have dreamed.
(Safe...so safe...Shush now)
There.

Your breath colors the flowers in my heart
Radiant warm,
Silky soft.
Little one, how I love you.
My eyes close with yours
As we sing/sigh melodies learned
From the same heart.
When your songs are your own,
I shall listen with silent tears,
Recalling when we shared the same soul.

___________________________________

Let me know your thoughts by leaving a comment at the bottom of this post. Take care.
b

Relationships: To the land and to memories

Today I want to start the subject of relationships. This first poem I wrote for my uncle who farmed all his life. This poem isn't about just him, but about how I see all farmers and their relationship to the land. So unique, so silent.. special and intense.

He Would Touch His Oceans

He would touch his oceans,
Recall the seeding of it’s life.
The graceful dignity of it’s death.
See the long, perfect rows of
Deep tasseled green carry the wind
In whispering waves,
Play with the rain,
Stretch slowly to the daylight
As if heaven bound.
It would smooth his brow for a moment
Then fade like memories of childhood.
Shadow-dreams to long for
When the rain stays at home
And the wind rapes the soil like an angry stranger.
His face shows the storms and droughts of life.
Lost friends,
Bitter sweat,
Self doubt.
Still he works the springtime pastures until harvest.
He is one with the earth,
His soul is rich with the spirit of life.
Planter of seas, can you smell the sweet summer
Rain couched in the twilight?
Hear the rustle of your life’s joy
Waiting for you like a windswept, silent lover?
Soft as moonlight it sings
For the grower of oceans.
Waits for daybreak’s first kiss,
And dreams of the care borne
In your touch.
__________________________________________

This next one is about my uncle specifically. It's about the occasional summer weekends spent on his farm. A little kid who gets to follow a busy farmer doing his chores in the early morning. My memories of a hero and he never knew it. I wrote this poem a few days after he died.


Shadow of a Hero

My uncle returns with a jacket
(made for a giant I pull it around me/adjust the sleeves).
Try to match his strides and end up running just a bit.
Watch him hoist mountains of corn onto his shoulder.

Sunlight tickles the morning’s toes.

Move from chore to chore.
His dog gives my face a licking.
Says I didn’t wash supper off from last night.
(first words he has spoken to me all morning, his whole face smiles).
We stop to have a cup of well water.

It will never taste as sweet as that day when I
Walked inside the shadow of a hero to milk the cows.
Grasshoppers make way for the farmer and his helper.
We check our shoes and go inside for a breakfast banquet.

I must leave the next day.
Stare out the closed car window,
Gravel tapping at the tires.
I wave goodbye
And grow old.
Replace dreams with practicality.
Watch the (bigger than life) shadows of experience
Fade with the growing day,
Until the sun overhead makes them disappear.

What I’m trying to say
Is that if I can catch the morning just right,
I can feel his silent laughter.
Recall the sweet taste of well water,
And for a moment, understand the contentment
He possessed.

_________________________________________________

Give me your thoughts about farmers and farming... and perhaps a memory or two.
Take care and we'll talk next week.

b

Going to Combat and Coming Home

Welcome to week three of my blog.

My dissertation for my psychological doctorate was on the experience of soldiers preparing to deploy from their homes to a combat zone. I interviewed 4 former soldiers for hours and wrote the dissertation. Two requirements of the dissertation methodology was to include the details of my own predeployment experiences into the dissertation, and to synthesize the collected experiences into something creative. So I wrote a poem.

Up-Armor

The leaves of our love
Go softly brown.
Fall silently.
I will no longer water us,
I am leaving soon - may not come back.
Touch you from my (self-imposed) distance.
Shadow my love with final meanings.
Armor with silence our precious mornings.
Lie awake (away from you)
As I hold you in the dark.
In my eyes, you find goodbye.
The need to be gone and come back.
I look away. My armor stays in place.
You look away (sometimes) when I look at you.
We smile (strangely) at those moments
As intentions litter the ground around my boots.
Our children (their laughter in the kitchen)
Do not understand why I am awkward around them.
They sense I am away when I am home.
In loneliness I will not share with you (or anyone)
I push away thoughts of death.
I will be tough – no weakness here.
There is so much to do before I go.
With so many depending on me to bring them home.
I fear failing more than my own death.
Last goodbye.
May be the last time I see, feel, hear, touch
You, our kids (my world as it was).
Promise to return/Take care of my family/Kisses for everyone/Hugs all around.
Hold you forever - then let you (everything I knew) walk out the gym door.
Its metal finality shuts you away from
My last “I love you”.
I join rows of up-armored trees. Steadfast.
A forest battling winter,
While dreaming of (tender/opening) leaves.
____________________________________________

The second poem for your consideration was written for my wife, when I was flying home after the end of Desert Storm. Deploying and coming home from combat is all about relationships. I didn't know it as a soldier, but I know it now. If you have loved ones who are serving or who have served, know that all the training in the world cannot shield the heart as easily as an understanding touch. Thank you Janet, for allowing me to share this poem and for being there.

eloquence

when i miss you so much that
i cannot stop the tears
i think of all the ways
you make me happy.
the tickle your laughter brings to my heart
the thrill of touching you as i wake
the way you keep my soul alive
when all the world is intent on its own self-destruction.

the tears stop.
my mind fills with you alone.
words then have no place
to hang their hats.
only my passion, burning silent, white-hot
has eloquence enough to say how i feel.

when i see you next
i’ll fill my heart/your arms
with my quiet speech of love.
talk to your lips
i’ve dreamt of for so long
and swear to an uncertain future
that i will love you
forever.

_____________________________________________

Well, next week I want to talk about relationships some more. I'm leaving the military theme for a little while and will talk about friendships, love, and loss. We have so many types of relationships and how they impact our lives. Please give me your thoughts about the topic this week and take care.

b

Military Poetry

Welcome to by blog. This is round 2 for my military poetry. Today I want to talk about how the power that military weapons and training can have on how and individual sees self and others. The two poems I want to share today are older, but I think just as relevant today. Please share your thoughts about the poems and what thoughts you have about this topic. There are a few of you that are having difficulty accessing the blog to post your thoughts. If you will let me know by email, and give me permission, I will cut and paste your ideas onto the blogsite post.

This first poem I wrote when I was a captain. I was helping a unit conduct a company level (a company is about 100 soldiers) live fire exercise at night (known as a CALFEX: Company LiveFire Exercise). This is when every soldier fires his weapon and the unit fires its larger weapon systems. We use real ammunition. It is incredibly loud. My job that night was to toss artillery simulators into a pit. Artillery simulators have the explosive power of about 1/4 stick of dynamite. It adds to the realism of the exercise. The excitement of being around that much destructive power can be thrilling, even intoxicating. It is easy to lose oneself, as I did that night.


CALFEX

Hell was beautiful last night.
Rage upon rage upon ruined ground.
Serenely watched by heaven and myself.
So like ...ruptured Christmas.
Red tracers Green clusters
White floating angels aflame.
Death rode the range
And won my admiration.
Giggling from my hilltop view
I rocked with each explosion
Rolled with man-made thunder.
Delighting in the effect,
I ignored its implications
And left my hilltop in darkness.

________________________________________________________________

This second poem is a little more difficult to share. During Desert Storm, there was a friendly fire incident in which 4 American soldiers were killed. It is known as the Hale Fratricide Incident. The Attack Helicopter Battalion (AHB) involved was a unit in the Brigade I was part of. I was on duty as a Brigade TOC (Tactical Operations Center) officer and was monitoring the mission on the radio when it happened. In short, it was pitch dark out, in the middle of a sandstorm, and the AHB Commander (LTC Hale) was in an Apache gunship with one of his attack helicopter companies. The wind was blowing so hard that the helicopter was literally turned sideways. What LTC Hale thought was to his front (Iraqi Armor) was actually to his side (American Armor in a skirmish line). He fired one TOW missile and destroyed a US Army vehicle and killed some of its occupants. There was a standing order prior to that night that no Commander was to engage enemy, and Hale violated that order. Hearing all this on the radio as it was happening was chilling and horrific, as I knew LTC Hale and it happened in one of my units. Hale, a rising star in the Division, was relieved of comamand and sent home within the week.


Absolution

On a laser light high
Screaming firebright,
The target hit was easy as pie
“Cause we own the night,
Do it to them before they do it to you,
And hey, be careful out there”.

We couldn't hear the night whisper,
“I cannot give back the dead,
Once they’re mine.”

Radios broke their trance with
Stunned uncertainty.
Squelched dread and gave voice
To numbed understanding:

“Oh God, I think I’ve hit friendlies”.

So we asked for absolution
For a sin within a sin.
Found penance too high.
Cut our losses,
Held high our hero’s head
For all to see
Before the fallen were cold to the touch.

We forgot that only gods are infallible,
That machines have no soul,

And the night belongs to no one
but itself.


___________________________________________________________


So give me your thoughts.

Next week I want to share about preparing for deployment to combat and returning home. Take care and have a good week.

b

Reason and Rhyme

Welcome to my blog site. I've not done anything like this before...so here it goes. I wanted to do this blog as a way to share my poems about war, relationships, and my observations about the world as I see it. Unlike poetry books, so often there is little feedback for the writer. I want to know your thoughts about what I've written. Not neccesarily about poetic structure, etc. (although I'll take what I can get), but what, if anything it makes you think about. I will present a poem or two each week (if I can). Some will be older pieces, and some very new. I will always start with a little bit about what I was thinking when I wrote the poem. Okay... enough preamble. Being that it is Memorial Day Weekend, I want to share two poems about soldiering and war.

A little military history about myself: I've been a soldier in the Army, and was deployed to Desert Storm and was later activated during Operation Noble Eagle (2002). Currently, I'm a psychologist working for the Army at Ft. Carson, CO.

This first poem was written while I was attending a Military Ball (sometimes referred to as a Military Formal). I wrote the first draft on a napkin at my table. Military Formals are steeped in tradition and ritual. At Military Formals, there is usually a small table near the Head Table. It has a white table cloth, black napkin, and the chair is turned into the table so it cannot be sat on. This table is for the fallen soldier. The soldier who died in service to country and is not to be forgotten, so we set a table just for him or her. I was struck by the thought that we do not leave fallen comrades behind in battle, but in order to live our lives, with every breath and with each experience, we must at some point, leave our fallen behind.




Military Formal


pinned
your flag was
silent
unflappable
unflapping.
dwarfed our merrymaking,
our leisure-taking,
a symbol out of time.

empty table for
soldiers beyond homecoming.
their futures
out of time.

medals/ribbons/gowns/toasts
music/dancing/dinner/ghosts.

table white and napkin black
in cold cargo holds
your last coming back.

our dancing for us
our drinking to you.
we left to the night
(without meaning to)

a fallen comrade.

__________________________________________________________________

This next poem was written when I was stationed in Hawaii. My wife and I visited the Arizona Memorial. It was odd that a place so peaceful was a site of such destruction. I felt so out of place. Walking on this memorial, reading the names of the dead, even as you realize they rest below you. If you ever get the chance to go there, please do.

Boson’s Call


With white-capped respect,
Silence deep and blue surrounds the dead.
Life looks on, trying to see past its own violence,
To understand the quiet place where they rest.
A flag snaps sharply at breezes too involved to be still.

Softly,
Coming from a razor sharp horizon,
The clanging of a single ship’s bell.

(I know it is only the flagpole in the wind.)

I strained to see faces long since mourned
Saw only the tomb beneath me.
Its hush left me soul-cold.

I had no wreath.
No tears for a loved one.
I could not give them anything.
There was nothing left to give such men.

Leaving the memorial
I softly whistled a Boson’s Call.
For a moment
The sea seemed to listen.

As if in reply,
Clear and high above the harbor,
The sun burst from dull clouds of gray,
Kissing light into the shimmering grief
Of the Arizona.


Dedicated to the men who perished during the attack on Pearl Harbor, 7 December, 1941.
May you know peace, and reside in that part of Heaven where sacrifice is valued above all.

___________________________________________________________________




Well... let me know what you think. If you think others will like what I've written, please tell them about this site.

Thanks

orn b