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SECOND KISS (PROSE POETRY)

Posted by bardofthewoods on June 20, 2017 in Poetry

By Don Kenton Henry

Often I reflect on a memory I count among the better

And feel the fullness of her breasts beneath that cotton sweater

I feel the tenderness of her lips

The warmth of her breath upon my chest

All this

then some to come

under dim gymnasium lights

I recall the sweet taste of her mouth as she kissed me once more

It was the second kiss of my young life

I do not remember at what point it ended

Nothing of what transpired until then fades with time

Not a thing

Not all powers―either earthly or otherworldly―could have transcended us

Beyond innocence lost in what seemed but a dream

Wars were being fought around the world

Flags fell, then raised and unfurled

And there we were

Locked in a moment on that hardwood floor

Babies were born and old people died

In both cases, their loved ones cried

But no thought of things behind the arena’s door

A hallowed coliseum and only two of us inside

Men were in space and the world kept spinning 1,000 miles per hour

In the center of the court; in the paw of our regal school mascot; she opened up for me like a budding spring flower

Oblivious to our inexperience we were losing in the grip of first love’s spell

The tiger held the orchid

And the petals fell

Deep, below my lips

Deep in my genetic material

Herds of wildebeest crossed the Serengeti

The saber-tooth gave chase―deep, deep into her hips

Deep into the fertile jungle where she did lie

Somewhere in time, a wooly mammoth trumpeted

And some prehistoric relative of mine raised his club to the sky

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MY FRONT PORCH WITH UNCLE WALDO

Posted by bardofthewoods on May 24, 2017 in Amok

By Don Kenton Henry

“Ok, Junior. Take the usual seat here on the porch and let’s parlez about the latest Sabbatical you are about to take.”

That’s how it always began with Uncle Waldo . . . him telling me to take a seat. Always direct (most times painfully so) but on this occasion, he was more somber than usual.

“‘Parlez’ ― what’s that mean, Uncle Waldo?” I asked.

“‘Parlez’, why that’s French for shoot-the-shit. You know I served in France in World War II don’t ya, kid?”

“Yes, sir. Everybody in town knows that. Seeing as you lead the 4th of July parade every year wearing your ribbons and all those medals.”

“Yeah. I suppose. But what with your father gone, I guess the job of trying to figure out what makes you tick and keep you between the rails― as much as that is possible― falls to me. And seein’ as I’m your dad’s older brother and me livin’ with you and your mom and siblings, and all . . . I guess it’s only right. But Lawd, son, I don’t seem to be doin’ a very good job, do I?

“It’s not your fault, Uncle Waldo,” I said. I felt genuinely sorry for him. He had problems enough going on in his own head without having to figure out what went on in mine. He had a metal plate in his that had been placed there to go along with the shrapnel left in his brain. The shrapnel from an exploding shell lodged there when Nazi incoming fire caught him in the ball turret of his B-17 bomber during the latter days of the war. Awakening in a body bag after being taken for dead when his bomber made it back to base was disturbing enough but now he had to contend with the voices and music from the radio waves he claimed his plate and shrapnel picked up from as far away as WLS in Chicago.

“I’ll tell you, if I have to hear that goddamn In-Na-Gadda- Da-Vida hippie piece of crap of a song one more time, I’m gonna drive all the way to WOWO in Fort Wayne and shoot that damn DJ with my M1 carbine!” he’d say. And we were rightly afraid he’d actually do it! The fact that, that song by Iron Butterfly consisted of 17 minutes of incessant pounding bass was bad enough for any person of parental age (or someone not stoned out of their mind) but when you coupled that with the inability to adjust the volume―as was the case with Uncle Waldo―you can understand how maddening it must have been.

“It’s not your fault, Uncle Waldo,” I continued. “There’s just something wrong with me. When I get what seems like a good idea in my head, things just start going bad. I just can’t stop myself. It’s like one part of me says, ‘take it a little further, it’ll be fun!’ . . . Then everything just seems to go wrong.”

“Well, son. Let’s just review your first sixteen years and see if we can put our finger on what causes this sordid history to keep repeating itself. You finished your freshman year in fine fashion, didn’t you? That grave-robbing incident provided enough publicity to satisfy most budding delinquents but you couldn’t stop there, could you? You would think the Finn’s Landing Republican givin’ the play by play on their front page of you and that Bullock boy playing baseball in the mausoleum with Dr. Farrah’s head would be all the notoriety a kid could want! But a summer of working in the cemetery without pay apparently didn’t teach you any more respect for the dead than it did for the rest of us, did it? Cause by the end of the summer you were surgically insertin’ a bomb in a dead cat―frozen in attack mode―courtesy of your mother’s deep freezer. Then you put that gift from hell on a Senator’s front porch before setting it off! By God, son―that was one count of grave-robbing and one of terrorism all in a three month period! And you weren’t finished yet!”

“But Uncle Waldo, it wasn’t really a bomb. It was a burglar alarm! They just mistook it for a bomb!”

“Minor fucking detail, Junior. The Senator; Finn’s Landing police department―and the entire neighborhood they evacuated―took it as a bomb! Then how do you start your sophomore year of high school? By inciting a riot between the sophomore speech team and the senior football team! How did ya’ think that was gonna end, tell me!”

“Well, sir . . . ” I tried to explain . . .

“Don’t bother, son! We all know. It ended up with you on the bottom of the pile with the entire football team on top of you leaving you with a busted collar bone, broken nose, and all your teeth knocked loose! And it hurt your poor mother more than it did you, I think!”

“Well, I don’t know about that, Uncle Waldo . . .”

“Hush your mouth, son. Don’t you talk back to me! I’m one elder that won’t tolerate your backtalk. If the damn Nazis couldn’t take me out ― what chance you think you got!”

“Yes, sir,” I said, humbly hanging my head.

“Now let’s pick up your resume where we left off. . . . So you get out of the hospital and, while still wearing a brace for your busted collarbone, you saw a rifle off to hide under your jacket in order to shoot the tires off the opposing team’s school bus at Finn’s Landing football games! But before you can complete that mission, you decide to get in a little target practice by shooting that Shuler kid through the ankle. And where do the police find the illegal weapon? Why under the pile of stolen street signs in the crawl space of your mother’s basement of course!”

“Gee, Uncle Waldo. You make it sound really bad when you run it all together like that. It’s not like it happened all in one day or something!” (I muttered in my hangdog attempt to soften the blow to my already damaged psyche.)

“One day or three months! Why the Finn’s Landing police department saw less action when John Dillinger robbed the station, locked all the officers in their own cells and took every last one of their guns and ammo! Why boy, your reputation eclipses the great John Dillinger in this piss ant farm town!”

“John Dillinger,” I mouthed slowly. “Wow! You suppose they’ll make a movie about me one day too, Uncle Waldo?” I asked with all sincerity.

“I reckon I should slap you up the side of the head, squirt―is what I suppose! You expect me or any other sane person to glorify your behavior and we’re half way to figurin’ out what’s wrong with you! Is it any wonder the high school and juvie court tried to get you committed? And you gave them all the help you could, didn’t you? Feigning that schizo-shit like you did! Good lord!”

“Well, I thought as long as I had to go along with six months of counseling, I might as well have fun with it. Besides, I never thought they’d buy that act. Talking to the dead and little people coming out of the walls at night and stealing my homework and stuff! I mean who believes that kind of thing? Somebody would have to be really crazy to believe . . .”

“Why, yes!” interjected Uncle Waldo. And that’s exactly what you―Mr. Captain of the speech and drama club convinced them! That you, ‘Donald K. Henry, Jr.’ were crazy. Certified bat shit crazy! And it got you six weeks of observation at the Logan Mental Hospital where you took over the group therapy sessions and tried to orchestrate a coup! This, before you finally convinced them you were just a dumbass! . . . Well . . . that’s one damn diagnosis they got right!”

“I never meant to hurt anyone, Uncle Waldo. I was just trying have some fun.”

Uncle Waldo and I sat there for what seemed to me an eternity of silence. “Well, the fun’s over now, Junior,” he said. You dodged a lengthy term in the booby-hatch and your mother―God bless her!―took out a second mortgage on this house to give you a second chance by getting you into one of the most prestigious prep schools in the country. Howe Fucking Military School! Fourteen grand for one semester and a chance for a clean slate and a coveted diploma and what do you do? You beat up a superior officer and steal an eight hundred dollar Bell &Howell projector so you could show stag films to all your new found buddies! More zombie followers they must have been!”

“Well, every officer was superior to me, Uncle Waldo. I was just a plebe!”, I explained.

“There you go―smartin’ off again!” he said, at the same time raising his hand as if to cuff me. I flinched and reflexively raised my arm closest to him, as though to block the blow. But it never came.

His voice took on an even more somber tone. “You haven’t forgotten what it’s like to be knocked around have you, kid? Well, I’ve never hit you and I never will. It never did you any good, anyway, did it? I never believed in that shit. But the same can’t be said for your dad. And now you’re gonna get on a plane and fly fifteen hundred miles to the Rio Grande and live with an alcoholic who’s on the run from the law for castrating a homosexual and makes weekend runs into Mexico for cigarettes, booze, and drugs while engaging in the kind of carryin’ on that would make Pancho Villa blush. Why his resume makes you look like a piker. . . . . . . . . God help ya, son.”

(Uncle Waldo left off the part about my old man throwin’ the forty pound boar raccoon in the back door of my maternal grandmother’s Better Homes & Garden home. Awakening from the collision induced coma it suffered making contact with my dad’s car, it proceeded to trash virtually every inch of my grandparent’s home before being clubbed to death with wrenches and crowbars. Those were shop tools wielded heroically by five or six garage boys my grandfather summoned from his Chevrolet dealership to rescue grandma. In my opinion, the blood stains coordinated surprisingly well with her expensive floral print wallpaper. Also absent was any mention of the year dad ran two thousand pounds of pot bi-monthly from Mexico to Chicago, sliding past Rio Grande Customs and Border Patrol by posing as the “starched shirt and tie traveling salesman” with sales brochures scattered across the front seat of his Buick Electra. He cleaned up really well when the occasion called for it.

I guess Uncle Waldo knew this story was going to be limited to five pages for contest purposes.)

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COME HOME POET MAN

Posted by bardofthewoods on May 9, 2017 in Poetry

By Don Kenton Henry

So you thought you’d seen it and heard it all, my friend

And that life ran true without ever a bend

That other’s words were sanctified and you trusted without end

To every orphan, stray, and stranger you shared your home and heart again and again

You were not a stone

But reality is that perception is often a façade

For what appeared linen walls were often made of brick

And seeing through them, like a lover’s words, was too often a trick

But you listened and you trusted and they kissed and they lied

To your face with insincere flattery and guile

Picking your heart like a pocket all the while

So you asked yourself

Why try to hide

It’s a house of mirrors in want of a God

And when once you gave, you now deny

And now, time has lined your heart with armor

And your soul is steeled by life’s lessons learned

Never giving into other’s schemes

Or even the most well-meaning of intentions

You proceed with circumspection

Sharing neither your dreams or confessions

Safe but alone

Your former self has become a distant reflection

An island with no connection to a greater, higher thing

You’ve become a stone

Suitors elevate what they cannot have

Admirers hold you on a pedestal

And your hubris runs amok

And love is always finite and nothing good perpetual

You trust nothing to luck

You are safe alone

In your mind, you’ve become famous as a sagacious judge of character

You approach romance like a business plan

Trusting nothing to fate

Your reality is manicured

Self-served on a gilded plate

Kismet and serendipity in which you once so much believed―

Which in your poet’s heart once had a home . . .

Have been evicted

You’ve become a stone

Judgmental words of critics abound but are dismissed with resignation

Their acceptance is not sought

Self-absolution rationalized by denial born of adaptation

from pride’s hammer is what’s wrought

You are pragmatic in the throes of preservation

A stone repels all rain and hail

Against the elements it doth prevail

You gird your mind with an elevated perception of self-worth

and your loins with the company of co-conspirators in mutual, consensual exploitation

Conspirators for whom you cannot care and therefore by whom you cannot be hurt

To the point your wisdom has become a curse

Oh, please do not remain a stone

Let the poet man come home

Let him find his heart again

Let him see a world with less sin

Let his resurrection now begin

Permit the poet man not die alone

Permit his poet heart seek not to roam

Forsake the persona jaded by years of infidelity of others

And his own

Oh, please poet man do not remain a stone

Call poetry and love and fate

And tell them to come home

Let them find a way down a friendly road to an open gate

Where once more the poet man trusts each

Where love owns the mortgage on a heart that lust once leased

And where that heart heeds the call of what your soul doth preach

Hearken to your poet heart o’ poet man

Come home

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WORD WEAVER DREAM BELIEVER

Posted by bardofthewoods on April 12, 2017 in Poetry

By Don Kenton Henry

Woven of your words is a cloak in which you wrap your mind

A verbal and written tapestry which serves counsel to your soul and a shelter to your heart

What a beautiful dreaming word weaver are you

Stitching thoughts of love, and loss, with rhyme

But there are holes within your cloak

And through them blows the chill of self-doubt

And sometimes colder, darker thoughts penetrate within

And you loathe what so clearly should only be loved

So we will weave patches for these holes

Patches from your words

And we will thread them with my hope for you

And this new cloak you will wear with grace

And it will carry you through time

To a loving, more forgiving, more accepting, better place

This cloak will protect you and keep you safe

It will fend the hurt from loss of the undeserving

Those whose straight line expectations you fail

Those whose self-interest you assail and disappoint

You will come to color outside the lines with guiltless, reckless abandon and ambition

Along the way, your wonderful words shall weave a psychic clipper ship on which to sail

And you will set your compass and draw a perfect line on a shore of self-adoration

My hope for you will become the wind which fills your canvas

It will carry you to the edge of continents of land and consciousness

There, your wonderful words shall weave a passenger train which will port the world along

through poetry, tales, and song ―

An Orient Express of emotion rolling on the universal rails of the heart

Expressed, at times, as lightly as a spring rain on the cherry blossom petals of our hearts and minds

At others―crashing like thunder claps―shaking the rafters of our insecurities

Be calm word weaver

You are not in this alone

That wind at sea―born of hope―and the fire in the belly of that train―stoked by my belief in you

These shall be your muse

And so you will persevere

And so you will prevail

And on your way to self-actualization, you will romance us with your expectations, aspirations and the nuanced implications of all you experience

We will listen in awe as you fill the sails of our own ships with inspiration

Tell us of the feelings which give birth to words which flow like spring water from what seems a parched desert floor all about . . . barren but for you

Forsake the solitude of that island of self-protection

An island born of the rejection by and the ignorance of others

So many words lie with within you like water in the deepest, purest well

Unbeknownst to the eye but untainted and waiting for a life to water

Let them rise to the surface and flow over us like a waterfall of melodious contentment

Quenching our thirst for beauty, cleansing our psyches with your transcendental introspection and reflection

Cloaked in your own words and birthed by final recognition and acknowledgment of your own genius . . . You transform

Oh, beautiful word weaver ―

Permit me a front row seat on the edge of your universe where all the galaxies are thoughts

Where metaphors―like meteors―shower

And all the stars, your words

Where―when I am lucky―a falling word streaks across the sky in my direction

And I catch a sonnet in my pocket

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Story Time With Bard Of The Woods, Recitation #2

Posted by bardofthewoods on March 20, 2017 in Poetry

Good evening. This is recitation #2 of Story Time With The Bard Of The Woods. You may find most of my work here at the Bardofthewoods.com and―if you don’t follow me already―I hope you will.

Tonight I am going to catch you up by reciting the last 3 poems I have written, starting with the most recent and working backward. The first 2 were written for my writer’s club and the third for personal reasons. I hope you enjoy them.

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DEATH COMES A HORSEMAN

Posted by bardofthewoods on March 14, 2017 in Poetry

By Don Kenton Henry

There is a great black cloud which fills the void between the prairie to the sky

It blocks the sun and breathes and, as it does, exhales a wind

from the soot and sulfur filled lungs of the dark side

It rolls onward and before it comes a pale horseman

On an ashen steed, he rides

Its stride is long, its neck is stretched, its nostrils flared, and it reeks of death

It gallops on a wind that bears the putrid stench of rotting flesh

Tribulations and lamentations

The monster cloud builds as it rolls across the earth feeding on the life which clings to it

And blood falls from it like rain and the rivers and rows between our crops run red

It visits us a nightmare and brings a pox upon both the young and aged

The horseman wields a scythe he sweeps across the land

It fells beast and plant and all before it

None shall be left to tell the tale of our flesh turned to dust and our teeth to sand

None shall know our tribulation nor hear our lamentations

For the pale horseman will spare none to tell our story

Except for you my fortunate friend

We of sickly pallor, the whites of our eyes gone yellow, in windows do we wait

Blood stained cloths we hold to our face as the rider delivers our fate

Consumption eats our lungs

The preacher and the atheist debate

“Have mercy on our souls!” says one

“There is no God!” the other

“What know you of what lies beyond the edge of the universe?” cries the agnostic

“Of what is made the dark matter which fills the void between the stars?”

And all about them, both the wicked and the innocent pray for mercy

One repents and each makes promises they will never live to keep

For too late they come to the table

And in this world death comes even to the stable

Nothing left to do but pace and weep

Tribulations and lamentations

Pestilence and plague upon us

Locusts all about

Into our walls they seep

Through the floorboards fanged and scaled serpents creep

The horseman thunders through our door

The chest of the ashen steed heaves as it hooves pound the floor

Fire from its nostrils sets our house ablaze
Death come quickly, please

Tribulation and lamentations

Now tis your job to pass this word

The burden of the lesson falls to you

In the end we all do learn

Cries for exceptions will fall unheard

Death always makes its appointed rounds

For one day we are born from ground

And another we return

One day we overestimate our worth

And all too soon we’re turned to dirt

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SHADOW BOXER

Posted by bardofthewoods on January 10, 2017 in Poetry

shadowboxer-7

By Don Kenton Henry

He works in the quiet corner of a dank and darkened gym

It reeks of the sweat of men of color and the working stiff

Alone, it’s just the mirror, the floor, and him

Gone are the days he was all angle iron and barbed wire

on two feet fighting for fun or hire

Yet his hands are wrapped tight as his hardened core

Hardened still, but less so than years before

At one time, the first―his fists―were like ten-pound stones

The other―his core―like a granite slab

Only now, he feels the grind of the cracks that run through them . . .

But he’s tapped for this fight and steps into the ring once more

For now, he jabs at his opponent who smoothly counters punch for punch

And he slides along the wall taking cover under his jab―

Protects his chin under a shoulder hunched

As each fighter shuffles to the rhythm of his plan

Too well each knows the other man

In his mind, he is the pugilist young and elusive

The sweet scientist

A feint, a slip, a bob and a weave, luring the old guy in

Then suddenly impetuous―the brawling banger!

He lets loose his famous left hook which he drives from his hips

All the way from South Chicago to East Philly

It’s one that’s caused many a pug to take leave of their senses

But the guy in the mirror just gives it a shrug, and into the breach he advances

He’s bold and he’s cold and not afraid to take chances

Strong on offense

And, though worn and torn, his opponent reminds him of someone he once knew in younger days

Someone who reminds him of his once careless ways

Light is in his corner but very dim

Still enough to illuminate the scars of the other man

The laced brows of bigotry, the thickened eyelids of narcissism, the cauliflower ears―one of infidelity the other of conceit

They are less trophies than sins

He feels the guilt that comes from knowing, at one time―to him―there was no difference

He sees that look in his eyes and the other guy sees and feels it too

He wants to take this guy out, make him feel pain, make him pay, make him lose

He wants to punish him for the smallest mistake

Today’s and yesterday’s

Prove that pride is a costly corner man

A double jab, a hook to the rib―break that floater! Feel it crunch all the way through the glove, up the forearm and into his shoulder―then a cross to twist the chin―to twist the jaw―to twist the spine then―hopefully―lights out

Let blood, sweat, and spittle fly across the ring, over the ropes, into the crowd

across the face of family and all who judge

But the punches seem to glance off

And the old guy keeps coming

The one guy he never handed a loss

The old guy carries with him a reminder of everything he ever walked away from

No―not fights or punches; he took the best and brunt of those, the judge’s cards be damned!

But from the loves, the smiles, the laughter, days spent with the young and the old, the hopes, the dreams and The Brass Ring of what is now lost and unfulfilled potential

And, closing the gap, his opponent now leads with his right―his strong hand―and catches him right in his conscience

His head reels, his ears ring, and so does the bell

And the guy in the mirror raises his left hand he calls “time” and his right hand he calls “past”

In a ring of “Broken Dreams”

Our fighter’s down on the canvas then awakens in bed, dripping in sweat

Until the next night when he steps in the ring with the stone-cold undefeated

A dark shadow in a black satin robe that bears his name in red . . . “Regret”

And once more our fighter digs deep in his guts, down deep into his soul . . .

And gives all for the upset

shadowboxer-4

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The Sound Of A Heart Breaking

Posted by bardofthewoods on December 5, 2016 in Poetry

abscence-meme

By Don Kenton Henry

What sound does a heart make when it breaks

Is it as quiet as the breath that now you cannot take

Or . . . as the goodbye you never heard

Is it the sound of the fluttering broken wing of a bird as it struggles in vain to fly

While you watch helplessly as your broken heart joins in arrhythmic sync with it

In what seems its own attempt not to die

What difference between your heart and the broken sparrow on this cold December day

Love and nature can be hard on all God’s creatures

Is it the sound of a room once full of furniture

And the life and love of family

Now vacant of wood, fabric, leather and laughter

Echoing of as though of the lone Chaplain’s footsteps on an empty hospital hallway long past the midnight hour

Is it the sound of frozen tears dropping on a China plate

The tink when they shatter after falling from your face

Or more like icicles falling off the eaves of a roof

Which crash then shatter loudly

And you take this as proof

That is the sound a heart makes when it breaks

What is the sound hope makes when it leaves your heart

Is it the sound of a ship’s mainsail, one moment full and tight

The next, canvas collapsing on itself as its life breath , the wind . . . dies

Is that the sound love makes when it decides to depart

Or is it the echo of her laughter or a kind word that she said

Each one you play over at night as you lie in your bed

Saddened by the emptiness where just nights before lay her head

Such a short time ago her scent still lingers on the pillow

And you wonder when dreams die . . . just where do they go

Oh, hazel eyes, I miss you

Oh, hazel eyes, what I would give to kiss you

Once more

Oh, what I would give to write the poetry I promised you

To read the stories I had yet to read . . . and the ones which I would write for you

To put you in them like some long lost Russian ballerina who stole a school boy’s heart

To dance the dances we would have danced

To travel the miles to Rome and Paris I would have traveled with you

To feel the smiles we would have smiled along the way

This is the picture a bard had painted on his open poet heart he wished to share with you

Words unspoken, tales untold, dances left undanced, smiles left unsmiled, love ungiven

Oh, soft and gentle hazel eyes

Nothing to be forgiven

And nothing will be forgotten

Good-night

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STORY TIME WITH THE BARD OF THE WOODS, RECITATION #1

Posted by bardofthewoods on October 8, 2016 in VIDEO RECITATIONS BY THE BARD

As I say in the accompanying video, I have been writing since I was fifteen years of age. (Except for the thirty years I took a break.) The last seven years, I have been a member of a writer’s club here in my home, The Woodlands, Texas. Our work is often read by the leader of the group, or another, member but they tell me they enjoy it more when I read my own. I suppose that is because I, more than anyone, know the feelings I am trying to convey. Outside my club, only a select person or two has heard me read my work.

This is the first in what will be a series of recitations of my poems, short stories and flash fiction. I hope you will listen and enjoy them. I also hope, with time, I will become better at reading on camera. If nothing else these will be a legacy for my grandchildren to come and allow them a look into who I was and the matters of my heart.

Thank you for listening and following . . .

The Bard