Sidewalks on Rock Street

It's not so much the sidewalk,
erupting as it is,
jagged plates of concrete
rocking under foot,
not the initials of lovers,
neither never old,
not the stamp of construction
(WORK GUARANTEED: 1908),
not even the oak's demesne,
roots reaching under mansions
while the limbs there blithely shade

(Time lapsed:
sidewalks coming up in waves that
break on generations), but

the results of our planting,
the beauty we create,
the destruction we perpetuate,
all so consequent in time
that we cannot imagine.


(Arkansas Magazine, Arkansas Democrat, January 19, 1986)

Kissing Cousins

Kisses end, and bubbles...pop.
Eyes avert, or they drop,
but kiss again, you know they will
(the loss there warrants more),
sensation blending all
toward what lies left in store,
tasting touch and smell, too true,
and visions, O!  See the floating orb,
glistening, gleaming there between them
(so seeming kith, yet kin),
a planet's worth of expectations?
Alas, adrift.  It cannot be:
They are first blood relations...pop.


(12/18/2013) 

Out of Context 21

Well, it was bad.  Maybe there wasn’t the horrific brutality The Veteran experienced in Japan, but it was bad.  I learned that, not from conversation with Rangers, but by reading books such as Twice to Freedom, The Last Escape, and Soldiers of Misfortune, the latter a book Clarence Goad recommended that argues many American POWs ended up in Soviet hands and were never repatriated, never heard from again.  Clarence would know.  He was an escaped POW who ended up in the Soviet sector near war’s end and had a devil of a time getting a US Naval ship to take him on board.  At first, they advised him that, since he was in the Soviet sector, he was required to turn himself over to the Soviets, not the Americans.  Clarence knew better and would have none of that.

            Micky Romine had an equally difficult time getting back on the American side.  The Soviets liberated his camp near the Elbe River, and that side of the river belonged to the Soviets; the Americans controlled the other side.  According to Micky, the U.S. and Soviets had a POW exchange program in the works, but the Soviet POWs had no desire to return to the Soviet side because they believed, since they had surrendered, they would face either a firing squad or a trip to Siberia.  The U.S. Army wouldn’t force them to go; therefore, the Soviets refused to return some 5,000 American POWs.  Many believe those POWs ended up in Soviet gulags, never to return.  Twenty-two G.I.s got lucky, though, and Micky was one of them. Disguised as a U.S. Army patrol that numbered exactly twenty-two soldiers and frequently crossed the Elbe River bridge, Micky and the others nonchalantly marched across the bridge and into the American zone, into freedom.

From "Prisoner of War: It wasn't too bad"--2008

Out of Context 19

Some things my brothers and I learned through demonstration and repetition.  If we slammed the door, we might have to go back out and demonstrate the proper way to open and close a door.  Depending on the severity of the slam, we might have to demonstrate it quite a few times.  Whatever the task, we were instructed that, “Quality comes first; then we’ll worry about quantity.”  However, in not many words, he taught me that quality was relative, or came in different forms.  We were rebuilding a wood and fabric aircraft, had the wings off and the entire airplane stripped down to a skeleton.  My job was to clean, sand and varnish the fuselage.  Well, I was putting on the first coat of spar varnish, and I thought I was doing a great job, being very meticulous: no runs, sags or brush marks.  I glimpsed dad watching me, and I thought, “Ah-ha! He is no doubt admiring my work and thinking how meticulous and conscientious I am.”  While that may have been what he was thinking, what he said was, “Who do you think you are, Rembrandt?  Put some varnish on there.”  It didn't take much thinking to appreciate the wisdom.


From "Ranger Fathers"--2006

Out of Context 17

Ranger Red Gilbert’s thievery, however, had more positive results (Red told me this story down at Ft. Benning).  During the invasion of Sicily, prior to landing, Red and other Rangers broke into the ship’s galley stores. The stock was in a wire cage, but Red had wire cutters to be used ashore if necessary.  Once in, they found ice cream and had just polished off a five gallon bucket of the sweet, culinary delight when the ship’s loudspeakers announced, “Attention on deck!  First boat team, man your boat!”  Being in the first boat, Red made for the landing craft, but not before grabbing another bucket and balancing it on the stack of mortar tubes that hung at his midsection.  On the way to shore, the bucket was passed and each Ranger scooped a handful.  Red said that he was later asked if he was scared during the invasion.  He replied, “No, I was eating ice cream.” 

     

From "Bon Appetite, Ranger!"--2011   

  

Out of Context 11

           “I’ve got it.  I would like coffee, though, if you don’t mind, and a few of those Toll House cookies.”

            “Yes, sir,” said Ariel.  As he headed for the kitchen, thunder rumbled overhead. 

            “Boy, oh, boy. Brewing up a big one,” repeated the wizard.

            “Sounds like it, sir,” called Ariel.

            The wizard backed up to his recliner and collapsed into it.  From the chair, he had a view of the picture window where he saw tree leaves beginning to dance.  More thunder sounded.

            “In like a lamb and out like a lion, this year,” said the wizard.  “This should prove fun to watch.  Did I tell you lightning struck this tree once?” he asked, but Ariel didn’t hear, and the wizard continued sotto voce.  “Well, it did—long ago.  I was a young man in this house, the new wizard, and I was in love, like you, and everything was in front of me, not behind.  Oh, I say long ago, but it all seems so recent.  It went by so quickly, so quickly.  I’d say I’ve had a good run, but quite frankly, I can’t.  I feel like I just got on my feet, just got up to speed, and I’m looking at the finish line.  I suppose that’s the way of the world, or for the lucky ones, in any event.  Like Willy said, ‘If you get old, you’re lucky, I guess.’  No, no, I have no complaints, no regrets, other than the brevity, the ephemeral nature, the transience of it all, but then, we’re not gods, we’re mortals.  God has the forever of infinity: That’s his cross.  While we…we must give-way, make room.  That truth is inconvenient, but necessary.   So why do the living abhor and ridicule the dead—it’s not their fault, is it?”

            “Were you speaking to me, sir?” asked Ariel, bringing in a tray of coffee and Toll House cookies.

From "A Quachita Fairy Tale" 1981-2013

           

Out of Context 9

The Ranger Centre, by the way, is right behind the Andrew Jackson Cottage, where President Andrew Jackson’s parents and two brothers lived before immigrating to the United States in 1765. Andrew Jackson was born in 1767, either in South Carolina or North Carolina (history isn’t quite certain). Roughly one third of U.S. Presidents had Ulster Scots surnames and ancestral heritage linked to Northern Ireland.  Although not the father of a president, but perhaps more important, James Rogers, along with his wife, Mary and four children immigrated from Londonderry, Northern Ireland to Boston around 1730. On November 7, 1731, James and Mary had a fifth child they named Robert Rogers, known today as The Father of the Rangers.

Ironically, the first Ranger arrived near Carrickfergus in 1778, not 1942.  It was a ship, not a soldier.  The USS Ranger, commanded by John Paul Jones, attacked the Royal Navy’s Drake in the dead of night (appropriate for Rangers). They muffed the attack and skedaddled back across the Irish Sea, but returned to Carrickfergus a few days later, did battle with the Drake, and captured it: an important victory for our young country against, at the time, the greatest naval power in the world. Some 160 years later, the RMS Queen Mary hauled American troops from New York to Belfast.  Ships were important for Rangers, and Belfast was a ship- building city.  As Northern Ireland contains most of Ulster’s counties, some refer to it as Ulster.  Belfast turned out ships that were christened with names such as HMS Royal Ulsterman, HMS Ulster Monarch, as well as HMS Royal Scotsman.  It was fitting that the Rangers, born in Northern Ireland and trained in Scotland, were transported into battle aboard those three ships.  In addition to the North Africa invasion, the Royal Ulsterman was a HQ ship for Operation Husky, and later transported Darby’s Rangers to Anzio: from the beginning to the end.  Carrickfergus was the beginning.  On the city’s coat of arms, there is a Latin phrase, Gloria Prisca Novatur, which translates, The Glory of the Old Made New. That motto could be applied to every generation of Rangers.

From "Just a Wee Deoch an' Doris"--2010  

Out of Context 8

put me and Charlie to work running the Hilton’s movie theatre, where we introduced and played various Ranger videos.

            It is not difficult to describe the feeling of being surrounded by Rangers the day after 9/11.  The feeling was of absolute security, confidence and pride.  Charlie and I had stumbled into the camp of the greatest warriors in the world, an extended family consisting of WWII Rangers, some Korean and Vietnam era Rangers, and active duty Rangers, the latter soon to find their way to Afghanistan; all of whom, despite the age difference, had a calm demeanor that said, “Listen, if we’re buddies, I’m the greatest guy in the world; if not, don’t tread on me, pal.”  Rangers: Quintessential Americans.

            So Charlie and I were out by the pool, taking a break from the theatre, when we heard someone shout, “HEY!”  We looked around, but couldn’t determine the source.  Then we heard it again: “HEY!”  We looked to the far side of the pool and saw a man sitting on a bench, bandages on his forearms, his hands resting on a cane between his legs.  A tall blond woman stood by his side.  He thrust his chin at us:  “HEY!”  Charlie and I looked around, then at each other.  We pointed to ourselves, a silent, “Us?”

            “YEAH, YOU!  COME HERE!”  He wasn’t a large man, but he had a large and commanding voice, so as commanded, we went.  And that was our introduction to Stephen J. Meade and his lovely wife, Joan.  As it turned out, Steve just wanted company.  He wanted to know who we were, where we were from, what we did; he wanted to know about our Ranger father.  As it turned out, Steve was also a member or the original 1^st Ranger Battalion, as was our father.  In fact, in June of 1942, it was Capt. Stephen J. Meade, and he commanded  A Company or the original 1^st Battalion.

From "Colonel Stephen J. Meade: a Ranger Always"--2007

Out of Context 1

around, I found that Chandler was an English surname meaning one who makes and sells candles—a good person to know during an age without electricity.  In fact, a man by the name of Chandler was aboard the ship Hercules that in 1610 landed in a place later known as Jamestown.  Attebury, too, is an English surname and means , “the dweller at the borough.”  An Attebury of note popped up in one Francis Attebury (1663-1732) who was the Dean of Carlisle and later in life, the Dean of Westminster.  Churchill withstanding (no need to go there), the big one is Beckett—as in Thomas Beckett, as in Saint Thomas of Canterbury—who was the Archbishop of Canterbury from 1162 until his murder in 1170 by the king’s knights right there in the cathedral.  (I visited Canterbury Cathedral a few years ago and stood where Beckett was slain.)  Apparently, he and King Henry II of England didn’t get along.  Beckett had the king in a tizzy, and the rumor goes that Henry II, thinking aloud, said, “Will no one rid me of this turbulent priest?”  A few knights overheard him, took it as a command, and did the dirty deed, cheaply (for you AC/DC fans).  Now, while Godiva, or Lady Godiva, is not a street in Canterbury...


from "Bridge of Doon"--2011 

Sons of Hounds

At Achnacarry and Spean Bridge,
the cry of Camerons, Commandos and Rangers
could be heard all the way up Ben Nevis:
"Sons of hounds, come hither and get flesh!"
Those warriors are with us still,
but the hounds are fat, aye, overfed;
they sleep there on the master's bed
and will not come when called.


(2013)

The Last Match

You can give me the world's last match,
and I'll strike it for you, keep it lit
long enough to light democracy's torch,
or whatever blown out torch you carry,
not that I care that much for planetary fires,
but I've smoked a sun full of cigarettes,
and I can light a match in a hurricane.

I know of others like me,
soldiers, quite serious people,
who make fire for the incompetent,
but you'll give that stick 
to a politician,
and you'll get what you deserve,
the phosphorus wet with perspiration;
at best, the lighting match held head up,
the momentary flame, then a wisp of smoke in history,
the spent head nodding down like a napping president.



(1985)

Waiting out a Summer Storm

Electrical rage,
fractured dimension, flash
and fissure of mortality,
Occurring, it seals itself, but
in that trice, between extremes,
light and noise, divine voltage,
vision of another side.
Sometimes, you think
the wall will shatter;
sometimes it cracks
so close, you know you
could leap through, but if you
did, what would they do?
What would they do
without you?


(Arkansas Magazine, Arkansas Democrat, July 12, 1987)

Hawk

Squirrels hide and bark
in water oaks hanging Spanish moss;
crows and cardinals taunt,
circle and dart, yell
(that's all they can do),
while the hawk from a kill
watches with those warrior eyes.
When I stand to admire him,
he flies.


(August, 2013)

Polio

At five, I couldn’t walk.

Doctor’s diagnosed me with polio.

A pretty word, polio,

and that short for poliomyelitis,

still pretty though.

The Greeks were good at that;

some Romance languages good, too,

but less so, while the English is ugly:

Gray…bone.

In any event,

my mother laid hands on me and prayed,

and I was cured.

It doesn’t bother me that you don’t believe,

but why the look of disgust?


(July, 2013)

Blue on Blue

Blue on blue, the sky and sea,
God colors each to hue,
and, love, what he shows to me,
he shades and shows to you.


(1974)

The Last Leaf

Quiescent, like the last leaf,
its failure to fall, I suppose
I must have one more poem remaining,
but I'm reluctant to shake it free
and see it fall like this
with no pretty pirouettes
in the music of the wood,
nor will it find its way to water,
silent ripple or tsunami;
it won't make a plash,
but fall brittle and brown
beneath a canopy of arthritic arms
and fuck you fingers
where the leaves have been leavened
to the point of compost, so that
I no longer know what's mine:
It's rotten like the rest,
and I see no need to add to this,
to pluck this last quiescent leaf
while you so hate the forest.


(January 1990)

Faux Pas

Even at play with your own best friend,

it’s inappropriate to grab tail.

You can see it in his eyes, disappointment

bordering on disgust, not quite anger,

but it could go there

if you grab again while he’s staring in your eyes.

So you wait for him to turn,

then you snatch and pull.

He spins around, Bow-Wowzer,

and there’s that look anew.


(May, 2013)

Phan Rang's F-100s

Standing on the ramp with a view of the runway, you could see the afterburner light off, and the Hun, loaded with bombs or napalm and heavy with fuel, begin a slow crawl toward Charlie Mountain and disappear on the runway's horizon before rising above it, and they were off on the day's first sortie, off to fight, while we in Life Support or the mechanics stayed and readied the next group of fighter jocks and airplanes. During the course of the day, flights returned with pilots wet with sweat from the long taxi; aircraft without bombs and low on fuel, but with film cannisters full, film they reviewed in the pilot lounge with Life Support leaning against the wall to watch, the wall that held a North Vietnamese flag and an AK-47. The film, a forward view, showed nothing of consequence, jungle or a river getting closer, closer until you could discern trees in the jungle, a boat of some sort on the river. Then the view shifted to bombs falling or cannisters of napalm tumbling end over blunt end, sparking sunlight with each revolution, toward inconsequnce, as far as the eye could see, and then, not even that, just jungle again, just a river.  In seconds, the jungle errupted with fire and the river into towers of water. Some flights did not return.  The major was found at the base of a tall tree that caught his parachute; his tree lowering device failed to work, and he unlatched himself from the harness, no doubt hearing the enemy, but the fall broke his neck. Some were even less fortunate.  That little first lieutenant, Frenchie, completed all his missions and was heading home, back to "The World", when the C-130 he was riding in got shot down on the way to Cam Ranh Bay. It broke our hearts.        

(Photographs and news regarding the 135th Tactical Fighter Squadron,

Phan Rang, Vietnam, 1970-71; third photograph by Steve Ketzer, Jr.,

all others by USAF.) 

Hitler in the Mirror

Touring the 45th Infantry Division Museum in Oklahoma City, the aircraft, tanks, tracked and wheeled vehicles outside,and inside jeeps,weapons and uniforms,all standard military fare,except for a room of original cartoons by Bill Mauldin and a history of the 45th insignia, originally a swastika, by way of and for the many Native Americans,who, since 1920, served honorably in that division. They forsook the swastika in 1933, for obvious reasons, and became the thunderbirds. But, nothing came to life, not like seeing Napoleon's stuffed horse and dog in a dusty room in Paris, then I entered a room filled with treasures taken from the Eagle's Nest in Berchtesgaden, the apartment and bunker in Berlin, including furniture and a dining room table with chairs, place settings with Nazi napkins, knives, forks and spoons one could easily imagine sliding into the mouth of Goering, Goebbels, Himmler, Rommel, Chamberlain, Loyd George, Mussolini...Eva Braun. Alone in the room, I quietly circled the table so as not to disturb the guests.  Passing a mirror on the wall, I looked into it and saw Adolf Hitler staring back.

Woodpecker

That woodpecker,
his beak chattering
on the aluminum light pole,
won't listen.
Maybe it's too noisy to hear.
Well, good luck, buddy.

Carrabelle

Where the Carrabelle River
flows into the gulf, oddly,
Crackers outnumber Yankees.

When asked about dogs on the beach,
the young desk clerk tilts her head to say,
"Well, I don't see why not."

Camp Gordon Johnston,
where troops trained for D-Day,
hangs to history by its fingertips.

The Franklin Inn,
the Fisherman's Wife,
Hog Wild Bar-B-Q,
&

Fathoms bar,
sunglasses & grey beards,
tattoos & desert camo netting,
sea breeze & my dog, Pinky,
with a cup of ice.

Carrabelle has no stop lights,
but you may stop if you like,
and if you don't like it,
just keep on going, pal.

The Forgotten Coast
is best left forgotten.

Apologies to John Prine on Valentine's Day

Fist through drywall,
fist through a door,
dishes all broken
right there on the floor.
Well, it looks like something
Picasso would paint,
a mere matter of canvas,
but, honey, it ain't.
It's the sins of our fathers
and our mothers, too;
the sins of the Nazis
(Whoa!),
the sins of the Jews,
so shake it, don't break it,
and I'll tell you what,
those old men there
were checking your butt.
Sunrise, pot pies,
Rice-a-Roni,
white bread and mustard:
It's all baloney.
Now, you're leaving me
for another jerk.
I don't understand it,
but whatever works.
I'll gird up my loins
and pack up my clothes.
You know,
I always loved you
in that there pose,
arms all akimbo,
head to one side,
hair pinned up in back:
Take him for that ride.

Now wasn't that a Merry Dish

Four and twenty tarantulas
all squirming in a pie
with lumps and bumps and crevices
and sockets there for eyes.

Four and twenty tarantulas
all hungry for a mouse
or a hapless hummingbird
(they're waiting at your house).

Four and twenty tarantulas
press on the soggy skin
and angled legs protrude
like hair on head and chin.

Now, when the pie burst open
the spiders freely crawled,
but, oh, look at the pastry
still splattered on the wall.


(1988)

To Sleep, Perchance to Dream like a Dog

It begins with a twitch, the flip of a paw,
there on the floor before us,
a finger to the lips, "Shh...she's dreaming,"
then flipping paws, all legs jerking,
after that squirrel, no doubt, or...who knows;
she may catch it this time,
in her dreams.
Now a growl, a snarl,
probably for that pit or rotty
(I wouldn't do it, Pinky;
don't turn this into a nightmare),
muffled barks through fluttering jowls.
Quiet again.
Her tail's wagging, "Look at that!"
Now running again, just running, running.
O, to be outside the fence,
free of leash, free of chain,
forever.


01/03/2013