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I would push my brush laiden heavy with paint colored red. It is the blood from the wound of a heart that was broken. A mountain of thick paste grows in front of my hastened yet unyielding path. With that same will, my heart will not fall; my love will be known again if by no one but me. And in its wake, a path, A trail, A remnant, A memory, A reminder. A mark for me to see. A smooth, soft, faltering but permanent memory of where I had been and where I’d never stray again- and again and again.

Lost in Time

I felt the sun shine on my face,
ignored the shadow left in my place.
Smiled at her with shy disgrace - -
Never saw me,
she was of grace.
She’s gone now
and yet close somehow.
Like we always have
and always will - -
be lost in time - -
Our hearts - -
ever still.

Where's Superman

She used to walk at the every front of life with a bounce and a smile.

She walked ahead of me and led the way, but I always was her Superman.

She used to start laughing first and her laughter was the last to end.

She laughed harder than me, but I always was her Superman.

She used to move with passion and grace and marvel those that watched.

She was more elegant than me, but I always was her Superman.

She used to make me know that everything was o.k.

She found the light quicker than me, but I always was her Superman.

She fights to move now and to smile and to hold and to live…

And I fight to find Superman.

Last Passage

     Her prow was as proud as the day she was christened --  a passage or more ago.

A few nicks and scars where she’d forged her and I through a torrent or two, to show. I’ve mine own to show from such times as well.

     Her elegant lines founded her taut rigging. A sight never lost to a seafarer’s eyes. She called to them as she did to me.

A song set to a maritime score.

Her whispered invite I’d not ignore.

     I never owned her. I piloted her, steered her, mended her and navigated her throughout the world -- and my life. All told, I was hers and only with grace allowed to offer a hand to her truest desires.

Her sails were boundless, clean and white. 

They billowed from her deck toward the morning light.

Though now, like me, she's worn from quests and plights.

Still has a sail, though, she’d meet with might.

     She knew the sea. It was her home -- where she was born.

There she was never alone.

One day she'd disappear on the far side of a cresting swell.

In her wake, a legacy:

A man,

A friend,

a boy, forever with her tale to tell.

Rebirth

Haste was about me when I was small.
Climb the highest tree;
no thought of fall.
 
I grew older
My sites did rise.
Climb any tree
no matter the size.
 
As I climbed,
did too my need.
A hungry want
I had to feed.
 
One day I stepped
from high so steep.
A fall that took me
beyond the deep.
 
I found the boy, with tear flushed eyes.
Sites set on trees
of a different size.

The Tale of Harley Stokes

The Tale of Harley Stokes

 

Harley Stokes was a snake oil salesman. ‘Course he never called his product that; it was an elixir that Harley sold. An elixir that was the cure for every ailment known to man.  From the back of his old covered wagon; one that he’d hoodwinked a family crossing the Dakota plains for, for two bottles of his miracle cure, Harley Stokes pitched to anyone that’d listen… and even to those that didn’t. Once Harley had grabbed a passerby’s attention by the shirt collar, it was only a matter of time before he had the money out of their pants pocket. Harley had the gift of gab. It was his only gift.

Harley Stokes was an unremarkable man. He wasn’t a man of stature or looks. Quite the opposite, Harley was short and balding and had a beltline that looked like it kept a keg. He wasn’t particularly clever. He wasn’t much for honesty or the good book that preached such things. But Harley could talk. He could talk fast and slow; quiet and loud. He spoke with conviction. Sometimes he even started to believe the words and promises that flowed over his tongue. Harley Stokes was a preacher of sorts. He praised his elixir like a man of the cloth praised the Almighty. Harley’s pitch was as much physical as it was an oratory. He’d raise his hands to the sky as if he were surrendering, “Hear me when I tell you that God himself has blessed me with this mission to deliver all of you good people from the evil ills that haunt your sanctuaries!!”. Then as quick as the fastest draw in the West, Harley would drop his hands and with his stubby index finger target some poor old member of his “congregation”. “You my dear friend. You are in need. I can feel your pain and I have the cure.” Harley’s ability to feel ones pain was greatly aided by his ability to spot a figure that was fatigue with sickness, or skin that was yellow with jaundice, or hear the all too familiar hacking cough of tuberculosis. Disease was not difficult to see; if you knew where to look. Harley knew. As easy as the frail are to spot, so to are those that prey on them. Most folks watched Harley’s show, as that was it was to them, out of boredom or maybe in the slightest hope that a real miracle drug had rode into their old dusty town like a savior. Harley paid no attention to the naysayers or those that mocked him. They weren’t the ones that he concerned himself with. Harley only needed to sell a few bottles. Those always went to the most desperate. Those that had almost lost all hope. Those who didn’t come to be amused or entertained by Harley’s pitch. Those who were in need of exactly what Harley was selling; hope. Harley only needed to sell a few bottles in each town he visited. In each he would find enough weak sheep in the flock to fill his purse enough to get him to the next town.

At 50 cents, just one bottle could put enough oats in Harley’s old mare’s feedbag for a week. Another bottle sold paid for a bottle of rye which served as Harley’s elixir. Rye was one of the ingredients in the cure he slung. Rye, sugar, water, red pepper and whatever grew by the side of the road of the next town that he’d roll into next were the ingredients of Dr. Watts Elixir of Life. The label had that printed on it along with some kind of Latin gibberish that Harley figured made the bottle look more “medical like”. The lettering was printed over an outline picture of an eagle and a cross. 50 cents purchased one bottle. Three could be gotten for a mere one dollar and twenty-five cents. It was the least Harley could offer his most enthusiastic patrons; who were usually the most desperate of the desperate.

Harley finished his show. His pitch hit a crescendo with an improvised howl of sorts. It was a cocktail of drama and warnings delivered with a high pitched whine. It was nothing short of an alter call and it worked. At least it drew three patrons to answer the call. The town drunk, a deaf/mute and some old fella who’s malady wasn’t apparent although he did have a severe case of the shakes. As Harley collected their money he urged them to take a spoonful in the morning and just before turning in. “Double the dose if you’re fellin’ particularly under the weather”; his last bit of advice as he disappeared into the back of his wagon.

There he sat in the half darkness of the hot dusty wagon. He counted his money and mumbled to himself as he added up his take and calculated what he could purchase before leaving town. “Not a bad take” he thought aloud as he pulled a dirty handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the dust and sweat from his brow. He hacked a few coughs and damned the dust that he’d chugged during his pitch. “What’s this” he murmured to himself as he noticed a patch of wet blood on the handkerchief he used to cover his mouth, “Not again, damn.” Harley had gotten used to the chronic cough that had dogged him for over a year now. He wrote it off to all of the dust in all of the towns he’d been. He did suck a lot of dust down during his pitch. But over the past few months he had been perplexed and somewhat frightened by the blood that came up and wondered what to make of it. What he didn’t know was that he was dying. His tuberculosis was making its presence known more and more each day.

Just then the quiet was broken by a gentle breeze that pushed the old canvas flaps draped loosely over the back of the wagon aside. The breeze cooled the hot space. The stale stench of the wagon began to disappear and was replaced by the scent of honeysuckle. Harley’s gaze left the handkerchief and found the gentle movement of the canvas. The slow waving movement was almost hypnotic. It was calming like the breeze that carried it. Harley felt an odd sense of relief as if everything was going to be alright. His peaceful moment was broken by the sound of a knock on the sideboard of the wagon. It startled Harley. It was followed by another knock and the sound of a mans voice, “Mr. Stokes. Mr. Stokes are you in there. Hello.”  Harley’s first thought was, “Oh no. Someone is having second thoughts and wants their money back.” It was never a good sign to have a visitor after a sale. Rarely did anyone return to offer gratitude or a testimonial as to how well the elixir has worked. Even rarer were the times a body had second thoughts and wanted to make a purchase.

Harley wanted to ignore his visitor but it was evident that this man wanted to speak with Harley. “Mr. Stokes, just a moment please… I know you’re in there. Please Mr. Stokes.” The man was persistent. Harley sheepishly made his way to the back of his wagon. He straightened his collar and dawned his hat. He cleared his throat and pulled back the canvas. The breeze kissed his forehead as his eyes peered down to see a family of three at his gate.

Her name was Sara. A child of 11 years was she, though her soul was one hundred and eleven; maybe more. She was pure and light and she shined. If spring inhabited a person, it found its home in Sara. Her hair was black and straight and pulled back with a white ribbon. “She’s so clean” was Harley’s first thought as his eyes met hers. For a moment Harley lost his sense of reason as it became apparent that the young girl in front of him was the source of the breeze that had proceeded her. Nonetheless, there he stood staring at her. Sara stared back at Harley with a grin. She broke the somewhat awkward silence with a sweet, “Hello”. Harley was at a loss for words; a rare event for sure.  This young girl’s gaze was as hypnotic as the cool breeze that now surrounded them. His best effort produced and simple, beleaguered and understated “hello” in return.

“Mr. Stokes my name is Luke Joseph. This is my wife Elizabeth and this is our daughter Sara.” Mr. Joseph stood to the left of Sara and his wife was to her right. He was dressed like most of the other folks in the town as were his wife and Sara. Harley assumed that he was one of the local ranchers by their dress and demeanor. Barely taking his eyes from Sara and with his same understated tone Harley mustered up a stuttering, “uhhhhhhhhh yes errrrrrrrrrr I mean hello, what is it that I can do for you Mr. Joseph?”.  “Mr. Stokes, our daughter Sara is sick”. Harley heard the sense of restrained desperation is Mr. Joseph’s tone. He saw desperation on Mrs. Joseph’s face as the reality of the situation began to ebb into the sense of peace Harley found in Sara’s eyes.

Harley’s throat tightened. His heart beat hard in his chest. A response was not forthcoming. For the first time ever Harley wished with all of his might that a prospective sale would disappear. For the first time, Harley Stokes felt something he’d never felt before; a conscious. “Mr. Stokes, if it’s not too much to ask, We’d like to buy a bottle of your medicine.” Harley was still at a loss. Words still failed him. His eyes once again fell upon the little girl in front of him. It gave him a place of refuge from this spiraling scene. “Mr. Stokes, please. We will pay you double if we have to.” Luke’s pleads were no longer restrained. He all but begged Harley. Here before him stood the perfect customer. With little effort Harley could have sold the Joseph family 5 or 6 bottles of his snake oil and been on his way before they gotten their first dose.

Harley began to think. His mind muddled over his options. If he were to refuse a sale, the word might get out threatening his credibility, or folks might think he was out of product, or that there was something wrong with it. His newly found conscious would not allow him to sell his worthless elixir to these poor folks in the hopes of saving their divine young Sara. A dilemma indeed was at hand.

Then Harley had an epiphany. He spoke, “Mr. Joseph, I’d be happy to sell you some of my elixir to help your dear, sweet young daughter, but I have a bit of a problem.” “

Problem, what kind of problem” inquired Mr. Joseph.

Harley continued; as he regained his composure his tone turned back into a smooth sales pitch, “You see Mr. Joseph, I’m all but sold out of my elixir. I do have a batch, but…”

Mr. Joseph interrupted, “But what Mr. Stokes?”

“Well it’s missing a critical ingredient. So I’m afraid that I can’t guaranty the results.” Harley delivered his sentence with a humble smile, not generated by humility but more from a gratuitous slap on his own back for coming up with such a clever solution to his predicament.

Mr. Joseph persisted, “What ingredient? What’s missing? When will you get it?”

Harley needed to think quickly now. He’d hoped that his answer would have sent the Joseph’s on their way, but it didn’t.  Harley thought hard and spoke. As if from nowhere he found his answer. “A rare flower. It’s found in the hill tops growing in meadows. Uhhhhhhh north facing meadows. Doesn’t do well in the sun. Nope, won’t grow in too much sun.” Harley continued on with his tall tale, “It’s got a pretty lavender flower. Real tiny one at that. And it smells as sweet as uhhhhh,” Harley raised his nose opened his nostrils and took in a wif of air as if heaven sent, “well as sweet as honeysuckle in the summertime.” That was the sweet smell that had been in the air since Sara and her family’s arrival.

The Josephs stood speechless not knowing what to make of what they’ve just been told. All except Sara, whose smile had never left her face.

Harley continued, “But you see sir, that flower is rare and it will take me some time to find.” Feeling completely exonerated, Harley the salesman reappeared. “Now what I can do, NO GUARANTIES OF COURSE” Harley underscored his disclaimer with a loud baritone voice, “is offer you kind folks some of my unfinished batch for a discount. Ya see, although I can’t guaranty it, one never knows.” And with that, Harley had skillfully maneuvered himself from the corner he’d been placed by this almost hopeless family and actually made a sales pitch in the same breath.

Mr. Joseph paused for a moment. He looked down at his angelic daughter then over to his wife. She didn’t have to say a word. Her face was a picture of wishful hope and heavy desperation. “Okay Mr. Stokes” Mr. Joseph looked back to Harley, “we’ll take what you’ve got.” Harley reached back into his wagon and fetched three bottles of his elixir. Mr. Joseph handed Harley some silver coins and Harley exchanged the bottles. “Thank you Mr. Stokes” Mrs. Joseph said as the family turned to leave. “Uhh yes uhhh thank you… but no guaranties folks” Harley delivered his final disclaimer. Harley turned his back on the three and started back into his wagon. Just then he heard Sara, “Thank you Mr. Stokes.” Harley pretended not to hear and continued into his wagon where he dropped the coins into his old leather purse.

It was Harley’s routine to leave a town after a day of pitching his goods. He did that for a number of reasons; he wouldn’t be around when an unsatisfied customer would inevitably reappear.  Rarely was their a chance to make a second round of sales. No point in getting to know any of the folks in any of the towns he visited and the more towns he went to; the more money he could make. That said, Harley was tired and wanted a decent meal and bed to sleep in tonight. He figured the extra money he’d made from the Joseph’s would afford him just enough to spend the night in the local boarding house and a proper supper. Harley would eat well that night. He’d even take a bath and shave. The bed in the boarding house was soft and comfortable. Exhausted by his travels and by his worsening condition Harley fell into a deep sleep. Harley slept for hours and hours; a sleep that was only interrupted by the eyes of the young angel that had paid him a visit that day. He slept so late into the next day, that the owner of the boarding house informed him that he would need to pay for an additional night as she had to turn away a prospective guest for his room. Normally Harley would use his keen sales skills to negotiate his way around such a charge, but the thought of another warm meal and restful night’s slumber quelled such a thought and Harley stayed for another night.

The next day, Harley hurriedly checked out of the boarding house. He was sure that the matron of the house would not be pleased when she discovered the blood on the pillow case that Harley had left. “That damned cough” Harley thought to himself as he settled up his bill. “She’ll have to wash that pillow case for hours and even then so much blood probably wouldn’t come out.” Harley hurried to his wagon and began making preparations to leave. His thoughts were lost somewhere between his next stop and the amount of blood on the pillow case. He began to cough and his lungs burned. The blood had spewed over the handkerchief and onto his hand and the bed of his wagon. Harley cursed aloud. Harley was scared. He knew his cough was getting worse. His despair was interrupted by the subtle movement of the canvas draped over the back of his wagon. The gentle sweet scented breeze had returned. The sweet honeysuckle began to fill the wagon again just as it had when the Joseph’s had visited a few days before.  The breeze cooled him and the sweet scent began to ease Harley’s despair and lull him into a sense of calm and peace. Just as a few days prior, his hypnotic bliss was interrupted by a knocking on his side board. But this time the knock was not as hurried or hard. The knock was a bit softer and slower paced. A soft voice followed, “Mr. Stokes, are you there?”. Harley recognized the voice. It was Mr. Joseph. Harley froze. “Damn that’s all I need now. That Joseph fella wants his money back and I spent it all at the boarding house”, Harley thought to himself. But Mr. Joseph knocked again and again asked, “Are you there Mr. Stokes?”. Harley was in a spot, if he ignored the man, he’d have the sheriff there next, or worse, Mr. Joseph would take the law into his own hands. No, Harley would have to talk his way out of this scrape. After all, he made sure that family knew there were not guaranties. He cursed to himself, “I knew I stayed in town too long, damnit.”

Harley made his way to the back of his wagon and pulled the draped canvas back. Expecting to see the whole family, Harley only saw Mr. Joseph who was holding one of the bottles he’d purchased two days ago. The man looked different to Harley. The hope and despair that had been on his face the last visit had been replaced with sadness. Regardless, Harley began to prepare his defense that he’d surely have to provide to this man that was certainly there to seek a refund. Harley began with, “Uh Mr. Joseph, what brings you here? I’m just getting ready to move on. Not much time to chat. I’m have a schedule to meet.” “I understand Mr. Stokes. I won’t stay long. I just came to give you this” and Mr. Joseph handed the bottle up to Harley. “Well Mr. Joseph. There are no refunds. I told you that there were no guaranties. I made it clear the one of the key ingredients was missing.” Harley’s tone was quick and nervous. He struggled not to stammer. “The lavender flower” replied Mr. Joseph. “What’s say there?” Harley was taken aback by Mr. Joseph’s response. “The lavender flower, Mr. Stokes. The missing ingredient.” Mr. Joseph was slightly surprised that he’d had to remind Harley of such an important fact. Harley looked down at the bottle that was now in his hand, “Oh yes, the flower. That’s right the lavender flower. That’s exactly why I couldn’t guaranty my elixir. Why I can’t give you a refund.” He began to hand the bottle back to Mr. Joseph. Mr. Joseph held his hand  up and gently stopped Harley from handing the bottle back. “You don’t understand Mr. Stokes. I’m not here for a refund. I’m here to give you this bottle back.” Harley’s brow rose and his nose wrinkled up in bewilderment. “What’s that you say? Give me the bottle back??” Harley was now thoroughly confused. “Why on earth would you do that?”

Mr. Joseph paused for a moment and looked down at the dusty ground beneath them. He took a long breath and sighed. “You see Mr. Stokes, Sara wanted you to have this bottle back.” His eyes met Harley’s and Harley could see a tear start in the corner of Mr. Joseph’s eye. Harley was speechless. He had not other choice but to let Mr. Joseph continue. “Ya see Mr. Stokes, we lost her last night. She was just too sick and we lost her.” Harley didn’t know what to say. He felt his heart break. His heart broke into a million pieces. It didn’t make sense to him. He barely knew the girl; barely even spoke to her. But it made no difference; he felt crushed. Mr. Joseph went on. “When we left here a few days ago, when we got back to our ranch, Sara was determined to find that lavender flower. The missing ingredient flower.” His voice was softer now and was filled with sadness. Suddenly guilt gripped Harley like a tight noose wrapped around his neck. “Oh dear God” Harley thought to himself. But he didn’t speak a word. His eyes were lost in those of Mr. Joseph. Even if he wanted, he couldn’t have found words to offer Mr. Joseph. Mr. Joseph continued, “We gave her the other two bottles, but she got sicker. Didn’t hold her back though, she was determined to find that flower.” “I’m sorry” Harley said. “I’m so sorry Mr. Joseph, had I known I would have…” But Mr. Joseph interrupted, “don’t be sorry Mr. Stokes, it wasn’t your fault. The Lord took our angel. It was her time; nothing anyone could have done and you did warn us about the flower and all.” Harley did not feel worthy of the words he was hearing, but Mr. Joseph continued. “But yesterday, just before she left us, she found them.” Harley’s guilt and sadness abated for a moment and his curiosity took over, “Found them? She found what?” he asked. “She found the flowers. They were just were you said they’d be; growing in a meadow, in the shade on a hilltop”. Harley was dumbfounded. What was this man talking about. He’d made up these flowers. There were part of a sales pitch he’d concocted. What was going on here. “She found them, ya say. She found the lavender flowers?” So confused was Harley that all he could do was repeat what had just been told to him. “Yes sir, she did. She brought them back to our ranch. She crushed them up. She was so weak that my wife had to help her. She put them in that bottle” Mr. Joseph pointed at the bottle that Harley had almost forgot he was holding. “She did what?” Harley almost mumbled to himself. “That’s right sir. She told us to bring the bottle back to you. That you should have it back and that you should take it for your cough.” There was a quiet moment when Harley just stared and the bottle and tried to process all that he was feeling and all that he was hearing. “I don’t know what to say, Mr. Joseph” mumbling again Harley looked back up at him. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”  Mr. Joseph began to turn to leave and as he did he said, “Well sir, thank you for that. She wanted you to have it. That’s why I brought it back. I hope it helps your cough”.

Harley doesn’t remember much after that. He doesn’t remember if he said anything more to that poor man nor does he remember seeing him leave or making his way back into his wagon. He sat and stared at the bottle he held in his hand for what have been over an hour. He just sat and stared and remembered the angelic face of his little visitor. “She was so clean” he kept thinking. Thoughts of this poor sick girl wandering the hillsides with her last breaths, searching for a damned lavender flower overwhelmed Harley and he began to sob. As he cried he pulled the cork from the bottle, spit it to the floor and began chugging its contents. The sweet smell of honey suckle was almost lost on him as he tried to drown himself in his damned elixir. As the last drops of the cure left the bottle and slid down Harley’s throat, he collapsed to the bed of his wagon. Exhausted from the happenings of the day, his emotions, the rye and his sickness, Harley fell into a deep slumber.

Harley woke the next morning to the sound of bells from the church at the end of town. It signaled that Sunday service would begin soon. Harley finished preparing his wagon to leave this town. He was numb. He felt everything and nothing at the same time. Harley didn’t plan his next step. He didn’t prepare to move to another town. Harley wasn’t sure what he’d do next. He was sure that his days of selling elixir were through. He made his way to the bench at the front of the wagon and urged the old mare forward with a few quick clicks of his tongue. The old horse began pulling Harley and his wagon toward the part of town where the sound of the bells sang their invitation to the Lord. Folks were making there way to the church for service. A few smiled at Harley and wished him a good morning. Harley just nodded back sheepishly. As Harley left this small town he heard the bells ring their last. He looked into the morning sun and instinctively reached for his handkerchief as he felt his lungs ready themselves for a cough. “Cough, cough, cough” three loud and full coughs forced themselves up and into his covered mouth. Harley habitually looked into his handkerchief as he pulled it from his mouth. Only there was something very different. Something he’d never expect in a thousand life times; no blood. Not a sign of blood; not a drop; only the sweet smell of honeysuckle.

Harley paused and took in the sweet calming scent. After a moment, he looked over his shoulder and back at the town. The sun was coming up just over the top of the small church. Rays of light framed the cross atop the bell tower. Harley thought of Sara. He wondered if they’d pray for her soul that morning… as he began one of his own.

Sadness for her Loss

Sadness for her loss is as enduring as the love I hold for her.

Time stands still,

stopping the moment I lost her.

Since then only a charade marks its passage.

Last Sound

What will be the last sound she hears

Will it take her fear away

Will she even hear it

Will it even matter

Will it come from me

Where will I find it

It never came before

 

always not there

 

It must come now

It is our last chance

For me to be heard

and

 

Her

 

to

 

 

hear

 

how much

 

I love her

The Death of Ego

Standing alone
Crowded by the nothingness next to me
muffled by the silence
smothered by emptiness
lied to by a truth born in darkness
exhausted by the pace of stalemate
torn by calm stillness
Shredded, deafened by the
quiet of nothingness

Such is the death of ego.

Grace

 

 

She haunts me no more.

She finds my heart.

Solace

She brings to it.

Not stifled by the temptations of fear.

Her victory knows no such salvation.

Her’s is Grace

and her Grace is Truth.

Her Grace is Love.



Two Roads

Two roads ahead,
One wide
One narrow.

I thought long and hard
and chose the narrow.

Then thought left me;
heart at my side,
with tears of joy

I chose the wide.

No Loss

Trouble me for my mind
and there is no loss;
for I am in thought.

Trouble me for my heart
and there is no loss
for now I am true.