c o mccauley

it was easy to ease by the shotgun-peppered stop sign

onto a one way main street that divided  battered rows

of weathered stores and bars

but it took a lot of hard knocks for an old five-and-dimer

to finally fight his way out of this tavern of a town

snagged along the backwater bank

like a dead-too-long oak tree stuck in the shoreline mud

the summers were thick and heavy along the tide waters

as i worked the nets and traps from a shallow eastern shore dead rise

a swollen wooden fishing boat so tired of the water

on friday evening we’d tie up on the tilted old pilings

of the cankered wharf to off load the final mess of shad and crab

as the scaled deck shimmered in the dipping sun

with the smell of fish guts still on my boots and jeans

i’d toss a six pack and some smokes

into the leathered saddle bags of my ’49 harley

and kick-start the short wind-cool ride

to the main drag and the familiar nowhere

stack the bike slanted along the side of the stirring street

lay back on the gas tank with my boots on the buddy seat

pop the top of a cool sweating pabst    light a lucky

sip a beer with a week’s jangle in my pocket

now the town and i touch for awhile

mix with the aroma of magnolia and fried catfish

the relaxed hope of a different tomorrow

the closed eyes of mindless peace

and in that “blue ribbon” moment i was almost home



he lives in the cold dark

sparked by reluctant ashes

from fires of forgotten graves

he screams and sweats and shakes

as he rolls his fighter once again

into the tracers of a dark dream

he cannot escape the napalm inferno

the crackling flesh

the bodies like raw meat on a spit

cooking in his oven of bombs

or people exploding like firecrackers

as silver-tipped cannons

sparkle from his wings

his ears thunder

as war speaks

remember me 

there is nothing more

for

only the dead understand



here the bone men dry

under stone

the grey-green grass

cherry blossoms

far from rice paddies

and unknown hills

young dreams undreamt

gather in the mist

safe from the shield of skin

the eager mortars

the hideous crack of guns

in the distance

across the bridge

of a great divide

a battering of drums

the steady march

of pounding boots

the rattle of rifles

ready on the sling

as the bitter sky opens

and new wars blossom



in those cowboy days of summer

playing in fields of tall grass that rolled

into sycamore woods

my sidekicks put on their best

Red Ryder or Hopalong Cassidy

and blasted the Code of the West

in the cap pistol sulfur air

I was different     wore my cowboy hat cocked

the draw string dangled in the back

a  candy cigarette stuck behind my ear

a thin black moustache from a burnt cork

and rode my air stallion

into revolution with Zapata

vamonos muchachos

es la hora de muerte!

with the moves of a bull fighter

I dreamed through the swinging doors

of saloons cool as a swagger 

licked the salt in the crook of my thumb

shotguned a shot of tequila

then a bite of lime

recited poetry to the chicas dressed

in peasant blouses and wide dancing dresses

hair as dark as their eyes

y tu corazon caliente

nada mas

then swung into a silver studded saddle

to rob the rich and laugh at laws

my Cisco Kid     my outlaw ways

my time young in the open fields

that never age

Grand Prize Winner 3/23/2013



               
*Captain Craig Button, USAF,  1970-1997

approaching the bombing range
you pulled your thunderbolt
out of attack formation
and mysteriously flew
safely
into a snowy rocky mountain peak

you could have been my wingman
captain

many’s-the-time deep in dark air
in that zen spot

just  before I threw on the throttle
    hauled the skyhawk’s nose over
    to set my sight on meaningless targets
        with no opportunity
    danced through reddish-white flak balls
        banging and puffing like popcorn
    snapped and cracked my head against canopy
        rocking and rolling against g’s
    
released laser bombs dead-on
    like polished razors
        concussions knocking
        my feet off rudder pedals

just before I rolled out and away
    into the cool conditioned night

I thought about hiding
    in a mountain

I know where you are
young captain
    though your dharma was darker
        we’ve been in the same bar
        drunk from the same bottle
            had our own ovaltine decoder ring
                that told us
        
    the mountain would always understand

grand prize winner--Ina Coolbrith Circle 78th Annual Poetry Contest

I stayed away for years
 
    mailed in my contribution to chivalry*

still
speechless voices kept me awake
    calling in my marker
    from that lonely asian game of poker
for a midnight ride
    to a moonless battlement
    that dealt with hidden hands

I made the pilgrimage to ease the sound of pain
    

black      black      translucent black
    cutting from the ground
        cold  clean marble
            clear as a mirror

decorated with small flags and flowers
cartons of cigarettes  mostly marlboro’s  
an occasional bottle of jack daniel’s or beer
    pictures of sweethearts and family

it’s hard to touch this tomb of names
it touches back
quietly
    silently exploding fragments of fire fights
    sending shrapnel of shattered comrades
        releasing the napalm dreams

sitting in the sun under the shade of defeat
I slip into the wall awhile
fire up engines with waiting wingmen
and gallantly fly into a silver sky
    where only gods are allowed
    where freedom is more than a  word
        and find the final victory



*

*1st place winner Poems About Journeys-ICC 78th Annual Poetry Contest
*Published The Gathering 4-1997 ICC poetry circle anthology

coming down

the stairs

i met a woman

who wasn't there

she wasn't there

again today

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