Friday, November 12, 2010

Protected from the Night

The kind of night where all huddle protected from the
wind and cold—the rain slashing down—seeming death to any traveler.
The predators and their prey snuggled in their dens securely from the storm
burrowed in mounds of leaves heads sleepily bowed.
Yet I walk alone through the blackness with a measured step
frigid drops dripping off my old rain jacket—ice forming in puddles—glassy and smooth.
Tramping through the leaves, up hill and down
spying the occasional glimpse of cheery lights
from little houses in the valley so far below.
Imagining what it is like for those inside
warm and dry and protected from the night.
Am I one of them, fearful of the night?
Or am I something different, closer to wild?
Does it really matter which I am?
Perhaps I am both whether I like it or not.

Chuck Connors, October 12, 2010

Wy Don't We Dance?

Why don’t we dance, dance through the leaves,
Celebrate the autumn of another year?
Each one us pirouetting on the graves of family long gone;
Doing the two-step of our very lives.

Why don’t we dance, dance to celebrate, the ending of another year, finally gone by?
Our whoops and our shouts amongst the bonfires,
All cheerily burning, the pyres around us,
Maybe the last year, the last we will ever know.

Yes, why don’t we dance at the death of the world?
Celebrating the end of all things that we know?
Releasing to the universe our blood and our pain,
Letting go of this life—stepping through to what comes next.

Chuck Connors, September 17, 2010

Unbreakable Bonds

Darkest night—endless highway,
Speeding small universes whooshing along.
Dazzling head lights, light up the sky lights,
Cones of sight, cut through the inky forever.

Each month I go on--I take this journey.
West from the mountains,
East to the coast.

What drives me onward, mile after mile,
Down the ribbon of highway,
Across the endless flat land?

There’s nothing greater
Than the pull of a son’s love
To a mother who cared from the very beginning

These unbreakable, unshakable bonds,
Forged by father and mother in ecstasy,
Continue on, a remembrance of love.

Chuck Connors, August 11, 2010

Thursday, July 1, 2010

Old Barn

Old barn sittin’ on the edge of a grown up field
roof fallin’ in, boards comin’ off, covered up with kudzu.

How many mules did the old barn shelter;
tractors with implements—hand tools and such?

Old barn made it through the flood of 1940;
held up through the blizzard of ’93.

Old barn heard all the kids playin’ in the stalls,
seen the teenagers lovin’ up in the hayloft too.

A way of life that came, thrived, and now’s
goin’—old barn’s been through it all.

My granddaddy built the old barn with
a quick mind and strong, rough hands.

He’s no longer here—been gone almost 20 years;
yet the old barn just lives on and on.

Chuck Connors, July 1, 2010

Sunday, June 20, 2010

Loved You So

Well dad, how long has it been
since you passed from
us to wherever
it is that we all go?

I’m sorry I couldn’t say the
things that needed saying,
when I know I should have said them
to you while you were still here with us.

I remember all the places
we used to go and the things we used to do;
all the great stuff that I learned
from just listening to you.

If I could travel back in time
So many years ago, to
when I was just a boy;
and live it each and every day.

I’d listen so much harder;
try to be a better son,
let you know each and everyday
my love and gratitude you’d won.

Chuck Connors, June 19, 2010

Saturday, June 19, 2010

Rays of the Sun

Weeding out in the yard
Late one afternoon;
Daisies, marigolds, daffodils,
Violently blooming on the threshold of summer.

A warm humid day—the air barely stirring.
Sweat darkening my armpits;
Dripping off my nose.
In the distance rays of the sun
Beaming down—searchlights from Heaven.
Casting a golden glow
On everything they touch.

Chuck Connors, June 18, 2010

Monday, June 7, 2010

A Burning Anger

Little tourist towns way up in the mountains
With fancy-pants cafes and snooty up-scale bistros.
“Come save with us—our prices rolled back!”
Smiling, sweating shop owners chasing the almighty dollar.
While regular, poor folks, willing to work for an honest day’s wages
Fret and starve back up in the hills.

Empty store fronts and half-constructed tacky hotels,
Money-hungry small-town politicians bowing and scraping
At the beady-eyed millionaire’s feet.
Meanwhile, back in the coves and hollers,
Hidden from all but the most perceptive gaze,
Grows a burning anger in the hearts of the people.

Chuck Connors, June 3, 2010