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The fighting never stops for long before
the battle starts again; shouts serrate my brain
as casualties are tagged for hauling off.
My torso tenses as tanks rumble into place,
start shelling through the night.
Sometimes I bugle for my will to charge
through no-man's land, seize control,
force an armistice. But every time I'm routed
in mid-charge, captured, tortured, freed
once more to fight these ceaseless wars.
Other times I stage a brief retreat, rise
from bed, feel my toes sink into sand.
The desert drifts to ankle height beneath
old photos in the hall; grains fall from frames
of parents, children, others in my life.
I pause before the pictures, sink in
pondering who I was, am, might have been.
Sand tugs my heels as I wander back
to bed, crawl in, pinned down til dawn.
"I'm sorry,... we'll fight anytime," my wife asides
to guests who watch us brawl the night
before our wedding anniversary.
"We're so flexible," she adds sarcastically.
then turns to wallop me another verbal blow.
The guests have watched our marriage seesaw
for a decade, amazed that it's survived
for twenty-seven years of fireworks and coos.
At daybreak I stretch out my arm, realize
our skirmish left me in a single-occupancy bed.
Remorse squats on my chest, pushes me
into the mattress. I reach for the radio,
ask two sighing cellos to pick the knot around
my chest, let piano keys roll down my spine.
All right, okay, last night was my fault!
As usual I drove my point too far into the table,
proved it by my own example, flattering
that celebrity then asking her "Don't assholes
lead to freedom for problems of your kind?"
Now dawn postures by my bed, hands
on hips, nods toward the telephone.
I lurch to snap inertia's strands, dial the motel
where my bride stormed off to sleep.
She lifts the phone beside her bed, pauses,
floats a guarded "Yes...?" I take a deep breath,
push the words I'm sorry through the line.
Caretaker! take care, for we run in straits.
- John Berryman
Some days I wake with light, spread
my wings and fly. Other times I rise
with darkness lounging in my mind,
lean words like ladders on the inside
of the pit but my hands and feet keep
slipping as I heave myself toward light.
Today I leapt from the hole inside my soul,
tangoed with my shadow until noon, then
lost my nerve, trudged with guard-and-
prisoner steps until I stumbled, fell.
Now ideas writhe inside ennui, unruly
inmates growling only bullets in the warden's
brain can free them from their cells.
Suddenly a thought bursts free, skitters
like a cocained rat, sits back on its haunches,
roars, "Bring on the goddamned cat!"
Life is a strange teacher. First she gives
you the test, then the lesson.
-Anonymous
Pick your battles, choose your ground.
I crusaded fifty years before that order
carved a beachhead in my brain.
Persevere through pain and fear:
the prior oath I took to slay the dragons
I saw under every challenge, large or small.
I'd square my shoulders, grit my teeth,
drive forward towards imagined light.
In college that old vow clapped boxing gloves
and rugby cleats onto my paws, later marched
me into courtrooms, boardrooms, left my soulmate
barely hanging on til she could land a punch.
Then my kids and endless energy linked hands,
headed south, left me boney legs to swing from bed.
I heard soul's shout above my ego's roar, realized
not every challenge signals war, not every task's a threat.
Now each time ego flashes armor in my eyes,
soul jumps in front: "Is this one significant?"
A dozen times each day I step back, grin,
amazed to hear my answer: "No!"
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