Most of the poetry on this page is read to music, and works the words around the Vietnam War, as well as shanty life in a small, mostly irish fishing town, along the Chesapeake Bay.
As with the songs, you can hear the recording by pressing the first button, and download the poem by pressing the second button.
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
Copyright 2010 c o mccauley. All rights reserved.