My Brother David

He loathes the city with all its bright lights, glitzy neon signs and noise that makes it impossible to think. It seems to demand every second of his attention, always screaming at him, “Focus on me and don’t you dare look away.” Yet, it has never offered him anything in exchange for his obedience, except a headache.

He is an open field of wildflowers, a tree lined ridge, the coolness of a slow moving creek, a dog at his side and a pole in his hand. He needs the softness of grass under his feet. He is a country boy.

My Heart Weeps for You

My heart weeps for you my dear

Or perhaps it weeps for me

I just can’t seem to find

The way to make you see

That each spark is precious

And to waste it is a sin

How can I make you understand

That you must free yourself from within

Yes my heart weeps for you my dear

Because you will never know

The future days of happiness

And how our love could grow

My heart weeps for you my dear

Or does it weep for me

Because the love that we once shared

Only exist in my memory

Everyone’s a Poet.”

When loves gives us a call, we have
to answer the door.  Part of that love it
seems is the need to pour our souls out onto paper.

Is it because we are so inspired by the feeling we have that we can’t resist it? Or, as I believe,  is it the fact that we know our partner is going to goo goo ga ga over each and every word. Because love is also blind and deaf. 

So go ahead, write away, even if it’s:

Gretchen, your so fetchen

Debbie, you aint heavy

Jim, you’re so slim

Or

Girl, you make my heart twirl

Trust me on this one… they’re going to love it.

Another cup of coffee…

William is only in his mid-thirties but already has a receding hairline and a thin spot on the back of his head that shines in the sunlight. He’s more than a few pounds overweight and can barely walk down the block without stopping to catch his breath.

Every workday at noon, for the past month, William has eaten at the Main Street Cafe. He always sits at the table in front of the window and reads another book by Ivan Doig, James Joyce, or E. E. Cummings.  Or perhaps he’ll just sip his cinnamon latte and slowly eat his tuna salad or chicken salad on rye and watch the crowd stroll up and down Main Street.

Now the cafe itself isn’t anything special. It’s the same one as in every other small town spread across America. Just another rundown café in another rundown town. You know the one with the cute little hand painted special written in neon colors on a whiteboard displayed on an iron tripod just outside the front door.

Inside the shop, the walls are covered with license plates from all over America and even a few from Canada and Mexico. Old photos of all the Little League ball teams they’d sponsored over the years hanging behind the counter along with amateur photos of people holding up huge catfish or posing with an eight pointer.

For William, the coffee is always a little weak and definitely overpriced. So most people wouldn’t even go there if it wasn’t the only café on the square.

But coffee isn’t what brings William here every day anyway. He’s here because he’s in love with Martha. Because he sees the real Martha, the way her curves bulge against the seams of her uniform. Her fish hook smile that can catch his heart and reel him in every time she flashes it at him. He’s here because of the warmth he feels in his cheeks every time she looks at him with those brilliant blue eyes.

He’s here because of the way he feels his heart pound against his rib cage when she walks close. Or the way the lump gets caught in his throat whenever she greets him each morning. The way his hands shake like an inmate on death row if she accidently brushes against him while clearing the table.

William has tried a hundred times to make the words come out but they just won’t dislodge from his throat. So he always lays a $10 bill on the table for a $5.99 tab and smiles at Martha before he heads out the door.

“What’s the deal with that William?” Charlotte asks.

“I don’t know, but I wish the hell I had the nerve to ask him out.” Mary whispers.

Pool Party

“Man, I swear it’s the hottest summer I’ve ever seen.” I tell Jimmie “This sidewalk feels like it’s burning right through the soles of my sandals.”

It hadn’t rained a drop in seven days and there still isn’t a single cloud in the sky. The heat waves shimmer up from the street in front of us. I give a little chuckled as I think about that scene I saw in a movie; the one where some old cowboys were walking across the desert with no water. Maybe it was one of those spaghetti westerns with Clint Eastwood or some John Wayne flick.

Jimmie responded by wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, “Right on Man, I sure as hell could use a cold one.” He took of his t-shirt and rubbed down his hair and armpits with it, “and when the hell did they get a swimming pool at John’s place?  Last time I was at his apartment, the place looked like it was ready to collapse.”

“I don’t know man, he just said to come around back when we get there. Maybe he’s having a heat stroke or something but you how he is, always scheming up something.”

We hear Tin soldiers and Nixon’s coming from about a block away. The music gets a little louder every time one of the little trickles of hot breeze hits us in the face. I hear them laughing each time the music hit a low spot. I wonder how they could possibly be so happy in this miserable heat. As soon as he sees us John gives a big wave and yells, “Water’s cool and beer’s on ice.”

I look at the group and jab Jimmy on the arm. “See what I mean man,” and nod toward a couple of empty chairs. Everybody has their shoes off and their feet dangling in the water.  So Jimmie and I make a quick round of hugs, cheek kisses, hand daps and what’s up man, then I grab a Coors from the ice chest and snag one of the aluminum lawn chairs. The nylon straps on the seat are a little ragged but they hold as I plop down and let out a sigh.

The afternoon sun is still burning my neck but I can see the sun is pushing the shade of the maple trees across the yard. I kick off my sandals and stick my feet into the cool water of the blue plastic baby pool. John puts on a new album and we all let the music from ‘The Dark Side of the Moon’ flow through us.

The shade finally reaches us and it feels like the temperature drops fifteen degrees as it slides across the pool. I look around at the circle of friends, Kim, Alice, Debbie, John, Jimmie, Danny and Kate. I’m thinking that this feels like I might be in Heaven. Kim hands me a joint…I take a hit… now I know I am.