Dirt Road Series, Part I

What is a hand in the air?

A second of force, 

slightest exertion?

It is less than the least, to say

You might not be alone, I saw

Your need, and we were here

In high-speed, passing neglect.

My Letter Arrived Two Weeks Too Late.

Today is the last time I’ll see

your birthday on my calendar.

Next year it will be left to memory and care

if its is to be kept and observed.

What I recall of what I wrote

means little in the light

Of the winter shade and the horror

That the lord has made.

In that time you have celebrated

Clasmir Palaski Day, but I wasn’t near

enough to give you a golden rod or 4H stone.

Even if the nurse’s head didn’t hang so low,

He still takes, and he takes, and he

Saw the texts but couldn’t read

And wondered all night if

Of you, again, he’d ever see,

As did I, he held my hand

Taking words, having left the screams.

We’re all beginners when it comes to love.

Home is Right Before Me

An inch beyond a step

But I can not reach it.

Running, kicking, pushing on

With all one’s strength—

To the left, to the right

In no direction do I arrive.

I can feel the breeze

It is clear as day

Yet invisible forces

Block the way.

Screaming at the top of my lungs—

The whole world gone fey—

For minutes at end, I learn

None finish feeling gay.

There will never be a reason for

Why we will die in mid air

Like this bee against the window.

You’re Spinning Out of Control

She told me. Recklessly I sped on.

The engine raced, a pedal pushed father by my foot.

Why is AC never enough to break the sweat

When you’re driving into the later light?

Tires nearly burst in every pothole

I turn the wheel to catch,

But none are deep enough

To stand me on the sideline.

When I feared traffic would stop my blazon

A woman walked out on me, wanton.

For that moment I dared all the harder to press

But for brakes did a heart make swerve in the chest.

That’s when the red light found me.

When that hot orange sun melts

Onto those cool, blue mountains

I will dance with the plants in the greenhouse.

You’re Anything But Devine

With those khaki pants so benign.

Thus sayeth your pants:

While your hair is carefully styled—

Wavy, sleek—and face perfectly tone,

Shirt and sweater making you doctoral

Against rebellious facial hair and a troubled brow,

The sag in the back is dismaying,

Exposed zipper in the front is a knock,

The room all around leaves much wanting,

You will do everything tonight but cock block.

I Hear Past the Din to the Air

That whips at hair for attention.

Blaring cars

Barking dogs

Laughing kids

Are all in sense but not in sight

Lending vision to the trees

And a soul to see its way

Toward inspiration and industry
Down the hidden trail. I go.

Unexpected, I have found my place
Among the rocks that send water cascading
Down their face to build pools that cool my own,

That rise high with sunny and shaded surface

For either satisfaction.

The whirl I thought the wind

Turned out to be the stream,

Hidden beauty I never knew,

Blooming laurel I thought I’d missed,

Catawba flower alive past its season.

I walk to find that I am much more wrong.

Goodbyes that Precede Departure

Take off smoothly compared

To the unsettling emotions that fly at altitude;

Of what it means and what they meant,

The one who inspired a heart to such heights.

This plane will never land

In those flowing fields but it will find

A soft landing in a country that cares

Without visas and welcomes

With long runways, open gates.

Residue still obscures

The mind’s view in finding a way

To clean up feelings that were never to arrive alive.

As hazy as the windows are I yet look

Through hoping that this plane will land

Where its passenger will be received.