E.H. Ford

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Vietnam...Untitled

Tears down the walls of my
unplanned heart.
Running from you feels the same
as running toward you.
Comfort for a time seems a sweet
savor and then the knives
in my mind fillet reason across
the splinter of time remaining between
us.

Miles and memories mixed equally
form a preparation to be shared
amongst future patterns,
closed to all but the most intense lovers. 

Dusty memories piled high in a steamy
jungle of pain.
Dreams rot fast
in hate’s temperate zone.
Faces too young to have seen
that which was spent so willingly
by so many.

Thoughts shift easily from tomorrow to
yesterday, by-passing today’s miracle.
I’ve run away so many times
my dreams need sleep.
What is there to see
once the day to understand
has passed?

Kia, 1967

California was my
personal Babylon,
with drunk freeways running
from LA north
to Santa Barbara.

My drop top,
fire engine red convertible
knew every curve from
Manhattan Beach Boulevard
to La Cumbre Plaza.

Peaceful jungles ran red with napalm
displacing enough small gentle faces
to fill the empty boardrooms
of corporate America
a hundred times over.

The only agent for
change was orange.
With suicide
the legacy
of a generation.

Beside the shiny rails
of the Union Pacific triple-tracks
black ink flows
across thirsty pages
as my hand strokes my .45,
yet picks up
my pen.

I’ve lived in death’s neighborhood
on both sides of the Pacific.
Years the only winner
of a war never asked for.
And trust…
trust was KIA in 1967.

Purple Lady

“My usual, Eddie,” she mouthed through
pursed purple lips
as she floated onto her favorite stool
near the piano in the corner
a soft chiffon scarf following
her in a purple whisper.

I slid the crystalline stemware
across the hammered pewter
surface of the bar
waiting for the purple talons
of her long fingers to deftly
scratch a familiar invitation across the
back of my hand as I floated a pair
of olives on a silent sea
of chilled Bombay Gin.

Alexander Candy Shop

I've had lollipops
although not many-
yellow and red and
brown all for a penny.
 
Two spinster sisters
owned a candy shop.
Clear glass jars along shelves
that never seemed to stop.
 
A good one would
last all day.
An onslaught of licking
I'd jump into the fray.
 
Now the sisters and store
are dead and gone
and my smiles have vanished
one by one.

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E.H. Ford's profile

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Mariner's Words

I’ll watch the words
work this page.
Although, I might want you 
to add the meaning.

Writing is personal for me. 
as a carpenter inspects the edge of a board for 
straightness-I examine each stanza
for level meanings.

Words are not handled
like a boat leaving the 
harbor against a rough
sea.

Fame has no rank.
There is only the last
word on the last page

 as safe harbor for today.

Colorless

Why should city birds bother
to plume and preen?
Uncaring generations of earth keepers
have fouled the air so permanently
even they can no longer breathe it.
 
Birds realized this long ago
discarding colorful plumage for
an urban cloak of blue-black.
 
Now you tell me you saw a
white pigeon yesterday,
And I will observe, “Yes, but only one,
to remind us of how the world was meant to be,
before it was paved.”
 
You will nod, cough, and continue
down the path.
I will smile and won’t;
strolling back toward my serene
cottage overlooking the sea.

Ain't Mine Blues  ☊

gettin up sunday
   mornin comin down
blue dress, black thighs
   ain’t mine; ain’t mine.
 
blue dress, black thighs
   mornin comin down
mornin; comin down.
   gettin up sunday
 
ain’t mine, ain’t mine
   blue dress black thighs
blue dress; black thighs.
   getting up sunday
 
mornin comin down
   ain’t mine ain’t mine
ain’t mine, ain’t mine
   gettin up; Sunday.

Home—Not Mine

Your face blurred in the half-light
absorbed by the dark kitchen cabinets.
Tear stained love decorated your honed cheeks.
My lips averting streams
flowing from the secret places
of your heart to mine.

I wish I had drank from them.
I thought of doing it briefly
but then lost my nerve.
I’m always losing my nerve around you
or so it seems.

Recalling my first glimpse of you
through the filtered light
of that crowded room.
You stood at the podium
regal and yet willowy
in your tender self-imposed uncertainty.

Stolen moments begat hours
which slipped to a day and
ended in a measurement
only the infinity of the heart could hold.

I have started to call you every day
knowing you must want me too.
I’ve sent a dozen bouquets
and signed as many cards
only to find
my fingers wrapped around stop
instead of my pen.

Will we ever share the window seat
overlooking the oaks
and just how much fidelity
does it take
to break a heart?

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