Poems

THANK YOU, ROBERT LEROY PARKER AND HARRY LONGBAUGH

Some things I learned in school, but from you,

I learned what it is to be cool.

Lessons I learned from you:

just most of what follows is true;

few have vision, the rest wear bifocals;

never hit your mother with a shovel

(no matter how much you may be tempted to)

for it will leave a dull impression on her mind;

“Over The Hill” happens to us all;

the guy in the white hat isn’t always the good guy;

loyalty is one thing, but E.H. Harriman (a.k.a., “The Man”)

isn’t worth dying for;

watch your back both day and night;

a hole in the wall beats an ace up your sleeve;

when you hit your target, always yell BINGO!

and when you find yourself between a rock and a high place,

go take a flying leap.

Today, your names are merely Old West trivia,

but I guess anything’s better than Bolivia.

______________________________________________________________________________________

MORNINGS AT SUNDANCE

In the amethyst light of a new day, I gaze out at the mist shrouded treetops

bathed in cool mountain air;

I eagerly embrace the warmth of my coffee cup,

snuggling deeper into the coziness of my robe.

I bask in the stillness —

no hum of tire on asphalt,

no scurrying of bushy-tailed squirrels,

not even an utterance from the bird’s nest

perched in the pine outside my window —

just the shadowy slope of hillside.

Settling back, I sip my coffee,

relishing its rich, roasted flavor,

its lantern glow warmth,

savoring the moment as the mountains awaken.

_______________________________________________________________________________

THIS I WILL DEFEND

I am a Kincaid

descended from the Laird of Kincaid,

Lord Provost of Edinburgh Castle,

cousin to William Wallace,

defender of Scottish lands against Edward “Longshanks”.

I am a Kincaid

offspring of warrior poets who fought at Stirling and Falkirk,

kin to the ancient earls of Lennox, Galbraith, and Grahame.

I am a Kincaid —

in Gaelic, “ceann cadha” or steep place —

granted honor by the Earl of Bruce,

a family crest bears a raised sword above a triple tiered tower,

the mighty arm vested in the Kincaid tartan

bearing the motto, “This I will defend”.

I am a Kincaid,

my ancestors fought civil wars in Ireland,

supporters of the Stuarts.

Forced to fell Scotland and sail to Virginia,

they answered the call of the highlands, traveling by covered wagon

to camp by a hollowed out sycamore tree

in West Virginia

and settle the town that bears their name.

I am a Kincaid.

I love the sound of bagpipes.

_______________________________________________________________________

TEMPTATION EYES

A sunny summer day —

head down, lost in thought,

you walked toward me on a deserted path.

Straightening, you looked up,

hesitating only a split-second when you saw me.

Wary, unsure, you glanced away,

coming closer with each step.

Then you looked back at me

and boldly,

my eyes fixed on yours,

a smile on my lips.

I could feel your eyes penetrating,

burning right into me,

searing a path into the very core of my being,

the air between us charged.

Still, I couldn’t look away,

held captive by your eyes.

A look can carry a hundred words,

filling you like an empty cup until you’re brimming with

joy and desire.

It may last only seconds, but its effect lingers like perfume,

heady and sensual.

I had never felt so afraid or so drawn to anyone.

As you walked past,

it felt like you were walking right through me,

our bodies and spirits mingling,

forged by heat,

melting into one.

And then you were gone.

But the moment wasn’t lost —

I stored it in a keepsake box, locked away in my memory.

Not a day goes by that I don’t think of you

and the look that passed between us on a summer day,

bringing us closer than most people get in a lifetime.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

REMEMBRANCE

I stand outside the arched gate feeling cold as the stone walls on either side,

still unsure if I wish to enter, uncertain what nightmares still lurk within.

A breeze rustles the leaves of the trees on this side — there will be no trees on the other side —

a whispered warning?

the long silent cries for mercy?

desperate screams muffled by thick cinderblock,

drowned forever by the deadly hiss snaking through pipes overhead?

This compound, now abandoned, was once populated by evil intent too incomprehensible for words:

depravity

inhumanity

insanity

all clearly insufficient to describe the misery, the horror carried out on a daily routine 

with total precision like the gears of a giant machine.

A shiver worms its way up my spine as I lift my gaze to the iron lettering arcing above —

ARBEIT MACHT FRIE.

Like those before me, I enter one reluctant step at a time and gaze at the phantom remains of a

camp once teeming with souls bereft of hope, cowering from guards urging them on at gunpoint,

voices shouting, “SCHNELL!  SCHNELL!”, amid dogs straining at their leashes, snarling,

growling, lunging with teeth bared, mouths foaming.

Railroad tracks run through the camp where trains groaned to a stop, releasing a weary sigh of steam.

Wood doors slam open on each car,

bursting with a flood of wary passengers

to assemble

To the left  — you die

To the right — you live

Live to 

work

work

work

until starving, lice ridden, sick,

you can no longer work.

ARBEIT MACHT FRIE

Oh, such a lie!

Each May just before the school year ended they arrived –

GAUNEKA

FINALLY!

Page after page of smiling faces

Grouped by class, clubs, teams, band, homecoming, parades, and prom.

Packed full of memories to carry

With us long after our glory days were done.

Each beaming face full of promise

A reflection of carefree days before

Responsibility descended on us,

Making us cautious,

Before the call to jungle warfare in-country,

Before bullets erupted at Kent State,

Before Hippies and Yippies,

Before draft card burnings,

Bra burnings,

And flag burnings,

Before John met Yoko,

Before Dion sang about Abraham, Martin, and John,

Before Billy Jean beat Bobby Riggs.

Back when Watergate was just a hotel

When Sharon Tate was an up and coming star,

When Ali was Cassius Clay,

When Neil Armstrong was still a test pilot,

When Snoopy faced down the Red Baron,

When Maris and Mantle were all the craze

And Zeke from Cabin Creek made all us Mountaineers proud.

Looking at those once young faces

Signed with “Best Wishes”

Within the pages of my yearbook,

The Gauneka,

From all those decades ago,

The Boss was right –

Those youthful times indeed “pass you by

In the wink of a young girl’s eye”,

But how were we to know?

How were we to know?