UNANSWERED TEXTS

    









-For Cassy, my wife

Did you miss me?

Are you on your way?

What do you want?

How about Thai food?

It’s Tuesday, they’re closed.

You don’t want pizza.

Wish you’d answer me.

Then I’d know what to bring.

One day I may be texting…

as I take my last breath.

Even then, you wouldn't answer.

Then you’d feel guilty forever.

Hope you’re on your way.

I’ll figure out the meal.

I’ll decide. Imagine that!

See you when I see you.

Answer when you get this.

But not if you’re driving down the road.

REMEMBRANCE DAY

                           -For those who served- family,friends, and neighbors.

I think it said, WW I, machine gunner

on the grave of an Uncle I never met.

A cousin of my grandfather was burned

and gassed in the trenches of France.

He never was quite right after that.

I got a picture somewhere of him.

Mr. Brooks still suffered from malaria

and Mr. Spalding spoke of his days as

a Fighting Sea Bee in the South Pacific.

Gail, a man at the beach, always smiled.

People said he must still feel lucky to

have survived the Bataan Death March.

As kids, we’d play patriotic songs from

old 78 records and our grandfather sang-

“Nothing can stop the Army Air Corps”.

He’d laugh after adding “But the women!”

He made Lieutenant Colonel and they gave

him a twenty one gun salute at his funeral.

My Dad’s brother, Walt was a marine,

a tunnel caved in and injured his back.

Jim Stewart was a medic in Vietnam,

he always seemed to have a scowl on

his face. Must’ve seen way too much,

is what people would say about him.

Eddie, a guy from work, used to tell us

about sneaking under the barbed wire

into the village to find a Mamasan who

had plenty of hot chicks for boom boom.

He’d be in the bed and have his rifle right

alongside him in case Charlie showed up.

Uncle Chuck was a Navy radio man but

he never really talked about it too much.

Art Martelli told me of his river boat,

Chieu Hoi and about trying to win the

loyalty of the locals by going up river

and handing out gifts of cooking oil.

Mr. Brown came back to Newark from

‘Nam and was still hooked on heroine

after twenty years. He’d always nod off.

John, another man at work, had a fifth

of White Label every day for breakfast,

he cursed in Polish, and cried sometimes.

Clayton sailed the world for decades

before coming back to his home with

faded green tattoos and stories to tell.

Cousin Joe was a recruiter who handed

out plastic combs and cheap Bic pens

labeled with  “Aim High- US Air Force”.

Kathy was on a ship in the Persian Gulf,

I think it was a sub tender. I remember

our father wearing  US Navy sweatpants.

Phillip, another cousin, went on three or

four tours of duty to Iraq and Afghanistan.

I think he's home now from our latest wars.

SCARED FOR YOU

 

-for Tracey,my sister

You used to call to talk about

what we went through as kids

way back in the 70’s and 80’s.

In our 40’s, closing in on 50 and

we’re still talking about what

some say, we should just forget.

While others say never forget,

but try to forgive, free your mind.

You text me now instead of calling

to tell me how you were standing

in line at the grocery store when

you remembered how she was

always standing in the background,  

and never once telling him to stop.

Finally she texts-

I was scared, scared for you. I was

always scared he would kill you.

I text her back-

I always knew I would get away.

JUST BENEATH THE MOUNTAINS

     -for Larry,my father

There’s a farm carved from wilderness

by a man who called himself a pioneer.

It only exists now the way I remember-

Angus cattle dotted the grassy hillsides

and walked to the salt lick at sundown.

Purple martins swooped to catch supper

doing us a favor, eating those mosquitoes.

Laughing children darted through rows of

bushy tomato plants in a forty acre field

on noisy four wheelers and mini bikes.

Horses smiled like people and hung their

well groomed manes and heads over the

rails painted in distinct John Deere green.

And when I drove up, he’d be seated on

the front porch admiring the mountains.

Sometimes he’d be watering his flowers

on the driveway beyond the metal gates.

Once, I found him with arms folded and  

leaning back in a beat up chair waiting by

the tack room with a grin of contentment.

SIGN IS IN THE HEAD

-for Jack, my Papaw

A million seeds arrived from Florida today.

Last week, peat moss was trucked in from

Canada and was stacked at both ends of

the prepped greenhouses.Weeds chopped,

poison set out for mice, little seed thieves.

No more smoking, tobacco causes disease

for the young seedlings that’ll pop up once

the heaters make it nice and toasty inside.

He shows me the stipple board and vacuum

that will drop the tiny seeds into plastic trays.

Orange Kubota tractors with water and hoses

are ready to go, but we won’t be planting yet.

In his kitchen he drinks coffee at the counter

and points to a tall, fancy clock in the corner.

The stoic face of Moon Man rises on the dial.

If you want them plants to grow right, then

you have to wait for the sign to be in the head.

After so many generations, he still followed the

Cherokee way of waiting for a full moon to plant.