The tracks of misfortune

Laid scores ago

Now give path to a crowd that passes

Through the graffiti filled

Bricks of an America

The majority blinds itself to.   

the sky was starry and filled with

coffee black pockets between.

I remember washing

away the fingerprints

of my second grade hands,

pure and harmless to

any man’s life. I was

drenched in confusion

and helplessness, but

not hopelessness. The Evening

News with Dan Rather

frightened me white. I

didn’t know war, I had

a terrible sense about

the word. It kept me

awake, pining for more

knowledge to rest

my agitated stomach.

Flashbulb photos of

Patriot missiles,

B-52’s, M-16’s, and

Stealth Bombers danced

on my brain, diving in

and out of my

trenches. Middle Eastern

sirens substituted

the usual CBS musical

intro, triggering my blood

to race impatiently through

my veins.

Just as quickly as Operation

Desert Storm came

to worry me,

the realization that

I wouldn’t be bombarded

by missiles arrived to my ears,

when my father told

me that men and women

as tough as grandpa were

overseas, fighting for

me.

A young man sat across from me

on the patio of a corner restaurant

his eyes were exploding with eagerness,

a glint that is common place for a man prime to

unearth the pastures of his life.

I watched as he gazed into the horizon just beyond

the confluence of the river.

He had a longing, a confidence, a passion to

start his life with determination, flare, and diligence for the ideals

he holds most true.

This man was smart enough to know that

what plays off the soft horizon

is something that he doesn’t want to face alone.

I looked at him and asked him,

“Who are you going to take?”

Without hesitation, he swung his eyes over to mine

and replied, “Kristin, the love of my life, the one I want to be my wife.”

It wasn’t a challenge, nor was it a sweat,

to sit down with Kristin’s mom and dad

in complete satisfaction,

because he knew

they had wished and waited

to read the first pages of a great love novella

so they granted him permission

to take their daughter’s hand

at the end of the church’s aisle.

It was natural,

it was supposed to be.

wouldn’t you know it,

at 9 O’clock

on a mid-summer night

I looked up and by God - the moon

was over half full.

The Cape Fear River

started moving faster

right to left

defying the direction

we were taught to read…

but I wasn’t fooled.

I picked up the message

almost simultaneously

as it read it reverse,

not saying I saw any sort of subliminal message

like the messages you may have picked up in the 1960s

as you scratched your records backwards…

but more like I was Terence Mann

looking at the scoreboard in Fenway Park

alongside Ray Kinsella as Moonlight Graham’s message
was delivered with intent…

in the same manner

the Cape Fear River

was telling me to enjoy the way

the half moon displayed so much more than words

when Lynryd Skynryd’s cover band

sang “Simple Man”

directly to me

as if the speakers

were placed over my ears

in the way headphones are

right to left…

I read and heard the message…

in the moonlight,

in the way the light shined off the river,

in the way I heard the lyrics -

“to be something I can love and understand.”

My soul needed me to drift upon this.

ruffle with the chill winds

of the New River Valley.

An evening walk across the drillfield

in mid-Autumn, rustles up emotions

as well as fallen leaves, golden and crimson

brigades of burnt orange and Chicago Maroon

step aside the tarmac paths, and stand at ease

to clap along a familiar beat

played by the drum-line driven Highty-Tighties.

Rhythm had risen

parading past Campbell, War, and Payne,

painting an uplifting vision

roars of cheers and scents of turkey legs

smoking from barbeques

engulf Lane Stadium

for it’s another day

our team rides off in glory

this is only half

of my Virginia Tech story.

The stars and stripes

overseeing Worsham Field

flutter in the pleasant breeze.

The robin birds sing softly

on the branches of the oak trees

outside of O’Shay and Lee.

Daffodils beside Newman,

radiant in full bloom

tackle the eyes

of those who walk past.

Old leather gloves

sat idle in closets for winter

are dusted and popped

in early afternoon.

A couple lies down a quilt next to Miles

hoping to cast a dream today

that will be continued to be sewn

many years into the future.

No matter the season

I know this to be true,

that there is no place greater

than this Virginian school.

nor could American Greetings,

so I had to pen a version

that catered to the way I see you.

Your slow rising smile

that initially thinks to be a puckered brow

wavers for less than a second

and rises like a strong swell.

Your cool demeanor

comforts others in a time when

weaker souls would crumble

and be cause for concern.

Your style, not subtle,

yet unapologetic

to the world you live,

is a depiction of truth.

Your unbreakable heart,

strong as a thousand steeds,

travels well with all you love,

commissioned for each of us.

Your spirit, is layered,

unchained, contagious,

demonstrative, prevailing,

and is arresting to all that can see.

last July 3rd

families indulging in

chicken and hot dog

picnics scattered in

late afternoon.

The heavens stared cold,

on the ant-like

civilization of Blooming Grove.

And with one swift drop

in temperature

God’s hand came down

and stirred the dirt

of the earth.

With that one twist

of the wrist,

my world was obliterated.

above a waterfall

his headdress weaves its

path, down his welted back

to rocks behind tattered and callused

heels, the drumming of

life, energy, and death

creates an awkwardness

in granite eyes fixated

upon the shivering cream

birches, woven together

across the ravine.

His pores bleed crimson,

a terrifying vision for

the sky’s freckled, pale

winking eye.

He massages nature’s

breath within his fingertips,

puttying the frosty air

into smooth sand,

filtering its contents

to the pool of sparkling stars

below his marble stature.

lying underneath the canopy

of your tall cedar bed

sawing away

at memories

ten years past.

Remembering how you were daddy’s girl

perched upon his leg

drying those

baby tears

with the fascination

of summer lightning

bugs; dancing, diving,

then disappearing

into the night sky

and trees beyond

like fallen stars

that slipped

from Little Dipper’s

casting net.

black, sooty depths of depression

not a place

for a man who was as quiet

as the dawn of a great snowfall

and as strong as the limbs

burdened by excessive snow.

His body hung

vivacious splashes of dye

strategically twisted into his shirts

in the same way the world

adhered to the symphony’s

of sense and sound

that gracefully fluttered

off his English tongue.

Bruised by living, loving, Layla

marooned his pale white chest

and showed us things

can only be seamless in a song.

This subtle British Royalty

unbolted his personal castle

of lyrics scuttling them wild,

permitting them to touch a chord

in every listener’s life.

There’s something in the way…

George Harrison.

There’s something in the way.