Capitol Limited

It was that subtle change in motion
or maybe the sound that woke me up
as we drilled through Whitehall Tunnel, my mind
had been back on Savage River
casting a deer hair may fly imitation
that I bought at Naylor’s Hardware
the other day.
A buck twenty
- the brook trout loved it.

The conductor bumped his way down the aisle
“Connellsville in twenty minutes” he said. A frayed
cuff on his jacket sleeve stuck out as
he steadied a hand on the overhead bin.

I leaned into the aisle and looked
after he went by as I thought I noticed
a slight limp in his walk.

Mechanic

Let me tell you about
that stooped old man; mechanic
all his days. Dirty rag in
one pocket, socket wrench
in another…makes you wonder
what he sees, squinting
into the innards of technology
and puts his grimy hand
on exactly the problem.

A Maple in Winter

A craggy old widow, she bends low
from the force of the old man howling.
She sways above her children
scattered round her feet. Sweeps
a snow crusted branch above their
heads, knowing someday she will topple to
lie at their feet and they will bend over her
in this wood.

Winter Walk

Diamond air, burns in my lungs
before each breath is extinguished
to vapor.
Hands warm in pockets, nearly deep
as snow that clutches my boots.
Another breath - crunch forward.
I lean into cold more than
branches on these toothpick trees
poking through, their
crystalline shelter.
I’m alone.

Stopping - I strain to listen
to the sound of nothing.

Dust

It's hard to peer
through the dust; squinting,
under a cupped hand
for the glimpse I
thought I saw.

When I find you
where will you be?
Or rather,
where have I been?

Rain

…something I’ve been messing around with for a couple of days. I haven’t decided whether to pursue it or scrap it. Thanks for looking.



Why does the rain dew on your skin;
clouding your eyes?
A twist of the neck
throws wet hair aside,
where I may stand to view
the passing storm

and anticipate the peace
to follow me home.

Natural Born Hunter

Short hair domestic
all black, ‘cept for her paws.
And - always on the prowl
she’s a natural born hunter I’m told.
For ten pounds of cat chow per week
I’ve just got to know

- why can’t you catch a mouse?

Zach's Barn

I.

I asked Zach once, while helping him stack bales of hay, when he planned to tear that old barn down and build a new one. Well Zach just sort of grunted and kept throwing bales on the conveyor, without missing a beat. Like those old blue coveralls he wears everyday, Zach is kind of funny about that barn of his.

Now Zach and I own two of the last few family farms in this part of the county. You see his place borders mine and usually at the end of the day, on my way home from one of my leased fields, I drive by and see the old boy from the road, just standing there in the middle of that barn. I can’t tell you how many times now I’ve seen it; a dark figure in the setting sun with his hands on his hips, looking up into the rafters, I guess. He never seemed to notice my wave as I went by, so I quit waving at him. Now it isn’t that Zach’s not neighborly; he just always seems to me like he’s trying to remember something and can’t quite figure it out.

Zach’s place and mine were originally part of the same farm. The land had been split in two a couple generations ago. That barn had been part of the old farm and was probably built in the mid 1800s; it’s seen many a better day. About a third of the roof is missing leaving the joists exposed to the weather. I can’t tell if it was ever painted; there’s not a trace of paint left anywhere on the sides. The siding that is left has long since weathered to a dull silver color that shows its age like an old widow’s hair. Much of that siding is gone so you can pretty much look right through the place. When we were inside stackin’ hay, the sun shown right through with picket fence like shadows that ran across the dirt and right up the hay bales stacked to the rafters. And then, there is the lean. That whole building leans at a skewed angle to the southeast, caused by decades of being pushed by winter storms. That’s why Zach doesn’t keep livestock in that barn anymore, or any of his equipment; only hay. Of course, it’s not like either of us keep much livestock or own much equipment these days anyway. The way that old barn leans, you know it kinda looks like it’s clawing at the earth, trying to cling to the spot where it was born, while time tries to push it aside.


II.

Standing inside I gaze up to
bald rafters, no longer able
to hold back the rain, or
the birds that come to roost
in these boney shadows of boards
bleached silver.
Broken only by arthritic black knots,
scars from another life,
with another purpose.

Light

When the wind pulls
the breath
from my mouth, creating
the emptiness
of a sigh

for cold light to spill through.
A pin point rising
to fill the space between
the fingers
letting go of desire.

Oh, they could hold on
but probably won’t you know

that void all too well.
A brief respite
illuminating your smile
turning to leave in
that brightness.

Shadows

when the breeze
exhales
in my ear beneath

your long shadows spilling
over me, illuminating
what only I
am allowed to see

it’s what you gave me
or left for no one
in particular really

but it was a relief to be
out of the sun for awhile
only a step or two from the rest
with a long reach into the day

and you smile.

Green

Its odd how I know you
were here. And after weeks I
wander in to drop my
boots in that spot by the door where
they always sit. My cat is hungry she
hasn’t been fed today
or the other day
as you were in a hurry when you
packed. No perfume on your wrist
but boots on your feet that look
just like mine
by the door.

Running Alabama

How long is this heat?
Every breath scorches ice
in the lungs just throw
one leg out in front
of the other. Not
much further now, head
up - breathe,
keep going,
try to catch the sun
blazing the shirt to
my back anchoring
me with sweat, dragging me down,
to a wet coolness,
on an aluminum can
that would be in my hand
now, instead of nothing
I’ve gained from an
afternoon run
in Alabama.

Morning

If I lean forward enough
I can peer into the valley that
your body has pressed into the sheets
catching your hair in a
cascade, it spills off your back
and swirls around.
First a rise,
then ebb
with each breath.

One arm, the shores of a reservoir,
with head submerged in the
deepest part
the other, a ridge line
extending down
the climb up could be treacherous
the trek down, could be also
either way I may stumble
- and regret having trespassed
here.

He Always Does

Spinning around
arms outstretched
grinning and giddy like a
child you once were.
It’s your dance Janine
the same dance you always do
to music that only the both
of you can hear
- he always stands

over there - smoking
you see him and stop
wavering just a little
unbalanced fingers entwined
behind your tangles.
Janine you know he can’t
avoid your eyes
inviting, vibrant and
deep, oh how deep.
How could he turn away?
But he does turn away
Janine
- he always does.

He steps on his
cigarette and leaves.
Oh well, just a little shrug
then a laugh as you
begin turning
it’s your dance again
Janine, but you know
he’ll come back
- he always does.

It is What it is

Daylight and darkness
a torrent of rain on
parched earth
you beckon me to
join you – to follow
with a wave of
your arm.
The laughter that
rolls from your lips
is the unspoken
promise of embrace
but we see that
it is what it is
and feel the force
that propels
opposite poles.

The Carpenter

Part One

Trying to plane a piece
of red oak, I thought
it can be done with long hard swipes;
but, against the grain?
Bearing down and pushing hard
I labored with each cut
to smooth the edge,
perspiring. I was determined.

Cutting too deep, the blade dug in,
my sweat soaked hand
slipped from the handle;
striking my palm on
the edge of the board.

I yelled – threw the tool,
hard against the wall.
clutching my wrist
I cursed at the pain.
A long jagged splinter
was embedded in the
center of my hand.

It was bloody and swelling
purple around the wound.
My fingers grew numb
while pain ripped up my arm.
My heart throbbed, I grit my teeth
and groaned, I pulled out the splinter
as quickly as I could.
But, part of it remained
In my hand; I couldn’t
get it all.


Part Two

In time my hand healed;
feeling replaced numbness.
I can move my fingers again
and feel the coarseness,
feel the curve
of a piece of timber, as I
run my hand down it’s length
even though a part of that
splinter remains, when I
bend it just right,
I can feel it deep down
nudging against a nerve,
an occasional reminder…

And there is a scar
in the middle of my palm
a dark circle in the skin
that replaced a deep hole
and the blood.


Part Three

A carpenter I knew,
haven’t spoke with for some time;
stopped to look in on me
or, so I thought.
He put me to work on
a project he said
was aspiring for me.
He told me how he knew
I could do it. The job
wasn’t too big. He handed
me my plane.

I showed him my hand,
I described what had happened,
I was unsure.
He deftly smiled,
his eyes exude confidence.
I had forgot; he was standing
quietly behind me
on that day I described.

But, no worry
he would help.
He could steady the board,
he could mark
all my cuts.

I was still doubtful as he
revealed what he wanted
depicting a plan,
drawing shapes in
the air with his hands -
I was stunned when I noticed;
ugly dark scars on both of
his palms – right through
- to the back of his hands.

No Title | First Draft

This doesn’t have a title and I know it’s pretty rough. I can’t quite seem to get it to sound right, so feel free to edit.

It’s kind of funny…I was talking with PB in the lounge earlier; we weren’t even really talking about writing (rewriting a little) and this just kind of came to me. Not sure why, maybe he’s just an inspiration ; )

Anyway, as I said, it’s a rough first draft so if you have any input I’ll see what I can do with it on the 2nd, 3rd,…or 4th rewrites.

Thanks,
-Steve

I built it for us when we were young.
It had blue siding and white trim
framed by a lush green lawn.
There were pink azaleas along the walk
and a red brick fire place with rough hewn mantle.
I would stoke a blaze to warm us
as we held each other on cold damp nights.
Then I tore it down.

I built a white foursquare
In its place. A wide porch
to sit in the evening and sip tea.
Shinny brass knocker hung on the door
to announce a guest that would see
a long mahogany staircase to our room upstairs
where we would lay in bed
and talk of our future.
Then I tore it down.

I built a Queen Anne
in its place, with gabbled roof, turret and
a trellis for the faithful roses
whose cherry red pedals shaded Palladian windows
to watch passerby admiring such
a home, and spoke of us;
but we never heard them in our separate rooms.
Then I tore it down.

I built a cottage,
but not in its place. Only four simple rooms
and not much space.
There is a woodpecker on the fence post
that woke me this morning
and there are trees and wildlife
and a garden so green.
My home is far from where we used to be.
to enjoy by myself; I finally saw
that when I tried to build beauty,
all I really built were walls.

Broad-Winged Hawk

Talons gripped tight
upon a perch looking for prey.
Eyes are intent – there is no sound.

High above, patiently waiting
the raptor knows it is only
a mater of time. Then

the head leans forward as
wings draw back, like a runner at
the starting block waiting for the shot.

Stoop nearly straight down in
a parabolic arc - stretching wings at
the last moment, before touching the earth.

So full of life; from
where did it come? Perhaps from
the unfortunate creature, that never –
thought to look up.

Mary's Woods

Aimlessly floating, with each faint breeze
a thin ripple of color comes,
drifting…

down.

To the left, to the right
orange, brown, and red is all I can see.

Released into the air,
they flit all around.
Like monarchs in flight,
hardly a sound.

Spinning and turning,
end over end, a slow…slow
summersault
to the…

ground.

A colorful journey,
for me to see.
In Mary’s woods…my God!

This is home for me.

Darkness

Slowly awakened when the cat gently purrs.
Darkness softly surrounds me
with the only light showing,
from a snowy white screen; as my television
hums softly-
it is truly peaceful and safe.

A cricket gently chirps’, leaves softly rustle.
Will anyone else hear them?
So far from other lives;
if I can’t see them, are they there?

Friends send messages,
from a place far away, where darkness
is taken, by burning fires, bright flashes.
Barley a silence for them to hear, only
noise and destruction –
it is never peaceful or safe.

A mortar explodes, a round sings overhead.
Will anyone else hear them?
So far away from other lives;
if they can’t see me, am I here?