Poetry By
James R. Whitley
Published on: 4/2/2009
Sonoran Desert, 1998
Our self-appointed mission that year: to choke adventure from the parched throat of Arizona.
And what you would later describe to our former friends simply as a wonderful vacation,
I still recall, in nightmares, as Nature's blistering invective against human frailty.
All the desiccated while there, you in your own remote space, admiring Life's cameo appearances
on that sweltering sandy stage- the gaudy displays of blooming cacti and creosote bushes,
those chatoyant cicadas fanning themselves like pious church ladies in the coveted shade of a Joshua tree,
that diamondback rattlesnake and its many-jointed argument for persistence-
and me, focusing on likely future outcomes, wondering why anything would stay in
such an unforgiving climate, pitying every sweaty creature there obviously thirsting for something.
Published on: 12/15/2008
Notes on the Predator-Prey Relationship
Until the danger is a scant few yards away, the grazing antelope ignore the lion lumbering toward them with purpose in its jaws. And it is this fatal allowance that the lion, deceptively slow arrow, relies on: that it will be granted a grace period wherein it can drag its heavy hunger nearer. Though alarmed, the antelope herd just watches as the distance between growling need and fulfillment decreases, as fate stalks the veldt like a blossoming sirocco.
When my mother first felt the dark fruit of her cancer growing in her abdomen, she continued on with her daily routine- frying pork chops in her purple house dress, reading her cherished mystery novels, playing dominoes with her dear grandsons- thinking, like a doomed antelope, that a setting sun is just that, not a tragic herald, not a dim omen, concluding, with sincere but misplaced modesty, Not every bell heard is necessarily tolling for you.
Published on: 9/8/2008
Adrift
It was a scene so perfect that it's hard to look at Hamilton Lake now without that small wooden boat on it, the buoyant couple inside, coquettish bass and bluegills flashing their argent bodies nearby.
That sacred year, we showed our respect to the goddess of lazy weekends by sacrificing an entire October of Saturday mornings just floating there, moving the oars just enough to gently nudge the water lilies littering the serene surface aside.
Here is more evidence that paradise may be a leasable commodity, never intended for anything more than the briefest periods of possession.
Still, we were meant to be there.
But now this bulging basin of water has been emptied of something essential, has been filled with something that will freeze soon like loss.
On the lonely shore, I see the wind sweeping away the discarded leaves of a cypress tree as if to groom the land for the coming season.
I listen as choppy waves vent their ire against the scarred belly of our abandoned boat as if to drum out a message:
No, erstwhile sailor, even here, you are not home.
Published on: 6/20/2008
What Lies Before You Might Not Be Your Future
Perhaps our voyeuristic gods expect too much of us, inherently flawed creations that we are, weak putty in the hands of temptation.
Even with the various edicts we've been issued not to look back, who among us ersatz images could ever resist?
Think of the paradigmatic case of Psyche, ordered to tolerate the smooth hand groping for her from behind the mysterious veil of nightfall,
her understandable curiosity burning like melted candle wax on her husband's immortal skin.
Or tragedy's poster boy Orpheus and his impatient lyre- something tapping him on the shoulder
as he climbed into sunlight just steps ahead of his beloved Eurydice, something hissing repeatedly in his ear,
Turn around and check her out, man. You know you want to.
And what recourse do we have when there is no appeals process available? Simply to move forward despite the questions
littering the road like deep potholes, despite the incessant buzzing of knowledge swarming around our inferior human heads?
Such an unreasonable demand since even we lowly creations know that in this ever-expanding universe of magic and miracles,
there is always something left to see and, no matter the concomitant penalty, there is always some compelling reason to look back.
A final moment of silence now for Lot's wicked wife, perhaps suddenly realizing that she'd left the family poodle tethered in the garage or
just wanting to catch that once-in-a-lifetime glimpse of what an Armageddon looks like, whatever her motivation,
turning to behold the something still back there, the spectacle singing her name from a flaming rooftop, rationalizing to herself,
Surely He won't begrudge me one parting glance considering all that I'm leaving behind.
Published on: 3/17/2008
The Goddess of the Hustle
When the ninth treatment to shrink the tumor in my mother's liver proved unsuccessful, she said no more.
No more to the chemotherapy and dashed hopes. No more to the avoidable agony.
I come from a long line of women who excelled at telling men what to do, so that doctor, urging her to continue on, must have annoyed her to no end, like a classical thorn in her vulnerable side.
So I understand why she swore at him even as his compassionate fingers checked her waning pulse or adjusted the level of relief in her morphine drip, and why she finally ordered him to stop the futile doses of radiation.
And she probably thought the birds and clouds in that unbearably blue Virginia sky were mocking her- a mere child in her fifties unable to bathe herself, watching helplessly as her dreams piled up before her like a useless heap of pistachio shells, her mind stained deep red with the very thought of them.
She must have known this was her final turn under the glittering globe, her last chance to grab Kismet by his unfaithful balls and lead him around in that one remaining dance.
And although I wasn't there to comfort either one of them, I imagine she felt like Cleopatra did as the dutiful asps slithered away from her punctured throat, thinking: Nothing left to do here, but lie down and wait for the chariot to swing low.
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