I think about the day that’s coming
when I’m the guy in the boxing ring
with no nose broken & my eye swollen shut
saying No mas, no mas, because there does
come a time when you’re beaten, finished,
but there’s still so much time on the clock.
I like to think I’ll recognize the moment,
lift a glove to the referee & wave off
my opponent, no mas, my nose broken
& my eye swollen shut, still on my feet.
Still odd to realize he is 6’2″
and to notice a few white strands in his hair.
By day, he is a bookstore manager, a promoter
of writers and their books, a team leader,
a personal literary curator
for many. In other words, a heavy lifter.
His own book collection populates
every room in the house and on a weekly basis
his thank-you notes liven up
a score of mailboxes.
By night, he goes to ball games with his father
and bonds at comedy shows with his mother
and checks in with his sister when she needs
a sibling’s attention. His intention is to increase
our social capital with news of the outside world
and to introduce us to snacks
like eggs in a nest and sleeping bears.
He escorts our cat outside and cradles him in his arms
to guard him from hawks.
May life treat him well
and his birthday candles carry
our prayers to the gods.
Chorus:
He played Hell Among the Yearlin’s,
It was the only song he knew,
And after six long weeks on the trail with him,
We all knew it too.
He sawed it around the campfire,
Hummed it on the drags,
And when it came his time to scatter salt,
He rattled it on the bags.
……………..
He said he came from Old Kentucky,
Down on the Big Sandy river shore.
And his daddy played the fiddle,
When he marched off to war.
Before he died,
He left to John his favorite violin,
But the repertoire that came with it,
It seems was mighty thin.
X
His grandpap tried to teach him,
Just like he taught John’s dad,
But it seems he too had passed away,
Before he finished with the lad.
Hell Among the Yearlin’s,
Was grand dad’s favorite song,
John learned all the notes by heart,
And played them all day long.
X
We asked for “Little Joe the Wrangler”,
Or perhaps “Strawberry Roan”,
But John said he never learned any of those.
Didn’t know the tune or tone.
We begged him to learn another tune,
Most anything we cried,
But they came out like Hell Among the Yearlin’s
No matter how he tried.
X
I swear that tune stuck our heads,
It jangled all our nerves,
After a month of hearing it each night,
We made up our own words.
And every cowboy on the drive,
Could change up what was said,
With “Hell Among the Yearlin’s”,
Stampeding through our heads.
X
We’d made it to Red River,
And thought to hold ‘em there,
They’d fatten for a day or two,
And we had time to spare.
Some rest and relaxation,
Would surely soothe the men,
And the grass would help our worn out stock,
Who by now were looking thin.
X
When a rumble in the distance,
Told us what was on the way,
As the storm clouds gathered overhead,
We saddled without delay.
Just as we’d expected,
The cattle stirred about,
“Boys, we got to hold ‘em”
I heard the range boss shout.
X
Just then a streak of lightening,
Fairly split the sky,
The cattle bawled and bellowed,
Wheeled and thundered by.
I hung spurs to my cayuse,
And lit out for the leads,
Laying leather to my pony’s flanks,
And praying for more speed.
X
A thought it came unbidden,
And it plagued my worried mind,
John’s got his hell among the yearlin’s,
That he’s played for all this time.
We finally struck the leaders,
And turned them in on the herd,
“Hold ‘em boys! Hold ‘em”,
Were the bosses words.
X
We circled them and held them,
And got them settled down,
We headed back to the wagon,
And to our grazin’ ground.
An awful sight we found there,
The wagon on it’s side,
Ol’ John was crushed beneath it,
And there our fiddler died.
X
We buried him at day break,
Wrapped in his bedroll in the ground,
With our hats all doffed and in our hands,
We boys all gathered round.
But no words came to us,
Seemed we were all struck dumb,
So “Hell Among the Yearlin’s”,
Was the tune that we all hummed.
XXX
Bonny boy waits at the base of the hill
for his sister to join him, it’s the day
they go to the cemetery with quill-
dipped colors to write missives on the graves.
He kicks rocks, nursing a nagging concern,
she’d never be late on Day of the Dead,
something must be keeping her, a rough turn
of her ankle, or she’s taken to bed.
Morning sighs, the sun high, birds go hide
deep in the thick of bold bushes and trees
he should be sweating it’s so hot outside,
there’s a chill in the air, a bone cold breeze,
something bad has happened to sister dear,
their time together over, it appears.
The idea of someone is much more dangerous than reality
What we dream and hope and wish for
Is rarely ever what’s true
And as my hope rises
I feel my soul shift
As I push it down
My head knows
But my heart… my heart runs
Towards the fabricated reality
That I grip onto so tightly
My mind often questions
What I know to be fact
I was going to write about sorrow but I
don’t like where that’s going,
don’t like how it conjures
the ambiguity of having and not having,
the ruin of mistake,
the mistake of ruin,
a voiceless groan of catastrophe
that never fully arrives
and never quite leaves,
weighing us down like a greatcoat
on a sunny day in August.
No, I’ll steer clear of sorrow.
I won’t give sorrow a story.
Stories are all lies, anyway,
we invent to cover the truth.
Yes, I’ll steer clear of sorrow.
Instead, I’ll keep my peace.
Doing so requires discipline.
All of us are disciples.
You’re not carrying extra weight
because ice cream exists.
You’re carrying it
because you keep saying yes
when your goals are begging for no.
You’re not broke
because life is unfair.
You’re broke
because your wallet bleeds
from daily swipes,
late-night splurges,
and calling comfort “self-care.”
The job isn’t the prison.
Your mindset is.
You wait for opportunity
but never chase it.
You blame the ceiling,
never question the ladder
you refuse to climb.
It’s always someone else’s fault,
isn’t it?
The economy.
The schedule.
The cravings.
The President.
The parents.
The past.
The system.
Here’s the truth:
It’s been staring at you
from the mirror
every morning.
The problem isn’t out there.
It’s in the patterns.
In the habits.
In the choices you defend
instead of change.
Until you confront that,
nothing moves.
Own it.
Change it.
Nobody’s coming to rescue you.
You are the rescue.
It takes courage to stand
on a spire, peering down
parachute strapped to your
back, then jump
It takes courage to run
into the burning fire
or face an unseen foe
who shoots you
But a slower courage
a brave glacial courage
is wanted for that bullet
time of age, advancing
years falling past, endless
echoes of your eighteen
year old, thirty-something
fifty-ish birthday selves
advising, revising
and asking why does the
simple act of waking
and standing seem so hard
when once it was so easy?
extended light–
Her parents died in Nashville,
