Brittle Grass

Steel sky whispers to the brow of the hill.

The grim father, his worn hand on the casket pall, bears the body of his broken son to the waiting rift in the frozen ground.

Brittle grass undulating in the bitter wind.

Walking

Six days ago, I walked with my brother.

The refuse of mammoth hunters at our feet.

Note

I am well, for connected days, but there are other spans when the light is not as full, the sounds are dim, and odors are empty.

I have lived well beyond my expected years, connected to this world by threads.

I miss you all, my family, my father, my brothers and sisters.

Your passing has left me damaged and the repairs are leaking patches on a worn out hull.

Forgive me for squandering these many years that you did not have the opportunity to hold in health.

I pine for you, I want you , I need you.

Burn

There is a fire in the cane field; flames fanned by high winds are licking the store-houses and stables.

There is nowhere to run.

This is going to burn us all.

I can't stop feeling this way.

It is not death that I fear, but the torment that is feasting on the souls and blessings of man.

I turn my head to hide my eyes, but the sound is there to remind me.

A deafening roar and crackle; the darkness of man is here and it will not be abated.

I will exhaust myself, beating and stamping the multiplying embers.

I pray that you can mercifully sleep away the night; unfortunately, I cannot.

Other Men's Boots

The roar of the guns and cannons was deafening as the men fired upon the inbound Japanese planes.
The blue Pacific sky was filled with flack and burning projectiles, like innumerable hornets released from a savaged hive, searching for reckoning in the hundreds of Kamikaze that bore down upon the picket.

The sailors howled in anger as the damaged planes penetrated the swarm of steel and dove for the deck of their ship. The angle and range to impact were uncertain so they ran port to stern and stern to bow in hopes of evading the burning havoc of ordnance and fuel that was hurtling toward them.

The dismembered wreckage slammed into the deck; the ensuing explosion rocked and twisted the ship, blasting hot, fragmented metal through the men, cleaving bodies and scattering them like chaff in the wind.

The battle lasted for fifteen days. The torn remains of their shipmates were stacked as high as a standing man and bloated in the blinding sun.

As the battle subsided they were allowed to bury their brethren;
shame, rage, and disgust washed over the mourners as sharks came to feast on the swollen flesh of the dead.

A halt was ordered on the procession as live munitions were lashed to the cadavers in hopes of speeding their descent into their cold, murky graves, fathoms below.

Carl "Junior" Stanger , who is slowed by injuries from logging camps, the second great war, and age, still carries himself impressively. Though stooping and shuffling a bit, he is still striking.
His glinting silver eyes reveal an active mind that contains unfathomable chapters and verse; his voice is booming with conviction and passion; his snow white hair and beard command reverence.

During his war, Carl heard a Voice that would lead and drive him through the many years that followed; restless, he wandered in the south western deserts and mines, searching.

For brief numbers of days he would return home to visit and share his spiritual experiences and life lessons brought to him by the voice of his God. His revelations were met with glazed eyes and discomfort, because His messages that came from Carl’s lips did not fall in line with our family’s accepted spiritual beliefs. From the moment Carl began to share his guidance, he was disregarded; believed to be "off" and "out there", he became the source of jokes and unanswered phone calls.

Shamefully, I admit that I believed my families opinions of Uncle Carl and accepted them as my own.

He knows all of this, and he is loyal to his spirit.

The pursuance of my beginnings led me to the place of my birth and to the home of my Uncle Carl.

His residence is a disintegrating trailer, strangled with Virginia Creeper and wasp nests that is slowly sinking into the earth.
I sat opposite to him, that August, separated by a veil of afternoon sun. The light settled on his hoary visage, radiated about him, flashing, manipulated by his gesturing hands as the conversation carried him over memories and time.

He shared with me the adventures of his youth, the work in the forests that broke his body, and the lone journeys through wind carved canyons, abandoned shafts in the ground, and the founding of the fading utopian idea that lay scattered, moldering among the hills surrounding his habitation.

As the hours passed, a calm settled about him and he began to speak of spiritual experiences. The words that poured from his mouth connected the fragments of conversation that had been hidden in my heart as a child.
I suddenly remembered his visits to our home and the images of he and my father sharing words in a similar light and a kindred manner.
Until my reunion with him I was unaware that he was one of the pioneers that settled the village with my father, and that my father was one of the few who accepted his council and communion.

I had to know the source of my uncles passion and vision; I asked where his spiritual journey began and he told me in a manner like one would describe a well known fact.

"I heard the voice of God."

He described to me the battle that he endured in the Pacific, and of the moment when a string of words, that would reshape his mind and his heart, resonated in his soul; in a tick of seemingly frozen time that fastened his feet to the wooden deck of a man made ship and locked his eyes on a man driven bomb one hundred feet above his head, he heard, "I will save this ship because of you."

Did Carl hear the voice of God?

There are countless stories of men, under horror and great duress, experiencing unexplainable events; they report, with great feeling, that they would not believe what transpired unless they had been there themselves.
They understand that common sense and psychological theories will negate their irrational, absurd, and unbelievable attests; they hammer and chip-away at the occurrence, hoping to sculpt and shape the phenomenon into something smaller and manageable, and in the process, degrade themselves prostituting the purity of the action.

Carl and his ship were saved; they survived, battered and scarred, and managed to transfer many other wounded, dead, foundering souls and vessels to safe harbors.

I believe that Carl experienced something extraordinary during an unbelievable moment that triggered the expanding of his consciousness, leaving him void of doubt.

Nearing the end of this life he is collected; an aggregation of history, experience, and thought, still searching for traces of a Voice that only a few will truly hear.

I am fortunate to have reconnected with him and I find him much less threatening, having spent some time walking in his boots.

Lucent

The moon, he is near.

Stone creeps slowly, and water silently; drawn to his primal counsel.

The earth sighs, releasing her sweet breath of loam and dew.

Live things stir and are wakeful, lucent in the night.

Lamb's Creek

Lamb’s Creek is a long, lazy, cool collection of spring water and rain, dappled with sunlight and shadow.
For thousands of years, like an aged serpent, it’s glistening, dark body has undulated through the forest and tall grass fields, polishing stone and shifting sand.
Small, shimmering fish, dart in it’s shallows; larger, older, colder bodied things lurk, deep under the wet limestone banks, waiting.

My mothers family settled along the branch more than a century ago.
For generations, the creek was a place to hunt and a refuge from the permeating presence of Summer.

When I was nineteen, I chose a Memorial Day to return and feel the waters, and maybe collect a few geodes that had been washed from their places of birth.
Heat had come early that particular May. The Cottonwood trees were releasing their progeny; the young, suspended on the sultry air, innumerable in the afternoon light, were slowly making their way to the surface of the shade covered stream.
I followed them to water, jumped from the high bluff that was covered with fern and moss, and sank my feet into the cool with the others.
Earlier in the day, after visiting my parents, I had brought a kitten home to my young wife; she quickly, without words pulled the cat into her arms, where recently, had been an erroneously trusted friend.

When I was younger, my father told me many times, "You will have many friendly acquaintances, but few, true friends."
He could have been sharing lessons from experience, but, maybe he was offering counsel for behaviors I was exhibiting.
What may father had said about friends and friendship was so very true, but I would be long in understanding it.

The Sunday morning that my sister began my religious indoctrination, I watched my brothers and my father pull away; their bodies, blown in the wind and jostled, disappeared into the distance as I stood on the sidewalk, shackled.
I knew where they were going, and I knew what they would find, I had been with them before and relished the shared experience.
The wonderful, wild, and weird, were substantiated when our eyes met across the encounters between us; the fears, we each understood, were lessened and courage festered in our hearts as we stood, shoulder to shoulder, facing the unknown.
But, those times were over, and they, all too soon, would be gone as well.
I would spend much of my life searching to get back into that green truck with the souls I had known.

I faced the unknowns of my adolescence with a group of acquaintances; hooligans who are now found in addiction or prison, but one, a shining example, was a friend, a surrogate for the brotherly relationship I was missing.
Together we honed our talents, raided pantries, sought beautiful girls and their treasures held, shared stolen cigarettes between gulps of similarly acquired alcohol, wondered at the stars over frosted stubble in broad corn fields, endured punishments, and laughed at it all, but eventually, and unfortunately, we were to part ways.

As a young adult, continuing my quest, I suffered an acquaintance as a friend. As Lamb’s Creek, he stole through my life, eventually wearing and separating lands that were joined. I survived the encounter, wounded, with a religious respect for my fathers advice.
The concurrence left me bitter and guarded, but unconsciously I continued to prospect for my elusive brothers.

After Lamb’s Creek I found associations, for a short period in time. We shared an occupation as soldiers, and with the duties, shared many memorable times.
Those links, often called Brothers In Arms are scattered now, among the grass, under the wind. We drift in and out with one another through phone calls and letters place by me. Not real friends, but friendly, they are there, each validating our life experience.

Upon reaching middle age, the yearning subsided; I had experienced most of the grand events expected in this life, many without the presence of a proponent. The close confidants that held the proof of my life together were fewer, and further away, and frankly, I was no longer interested in parceling what was left to others. What more was to come, I was willing to face alone.

Yet, a few years ago, seasons changed, along with the currents of the wind, and like the Summer Snow on Lamb’s Creek, strangers blew into my life; serendipitously drifting beside me. Being apprehensive and tired, I held them warily at a distance, as acquaintances, but, they, being seeds of something I lost long ago, found purchase near me and have grown into entities that I am happy to know, and they, swaying in the wind with me, shoulder to shoulder have become more than friends.

They are my brothers and I am thankful to share what's left of this life with them.