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"Paper Dolls and Toy Soldiers"

Prologue
Paper Dolls

By michaelcahill

I'm riding a smoke ring

                       even as the circle

   starts to vanish


I'm looking for a hole
to silently slip through
   unnoticed
   unmissed
but for the faint smell of tobacco
in the bed where I once dreamt

I'm looking for the smallest crevice
to turn sideways
and squeeze through
one finger at a time

           I find a slight line
            in a forgotten corner
           it is the line between
          captivation and captivity

I followed toy soldiers
though I prefer paper dolls

I reluctantly fall into an uneasy sleep

I dream of doors
with handles
that turn
I dream of windows
           with latches
            that rise with a touch

                  I dream of a child
                  running in a circle
                  for no reason
  I dream of myself
  running in a circle
  with no purpose

I awake choking
in a smoke-filled room
with no escape
without the caress of ignorance

I curse the room
designed for captivity

I curse the light
in my eyes
and its mocking clarity

        I curse ...

myself

even as I blow a smoke ring

around your throat

Chapter 1
More Delicate Than the Wind

By michaelcahill

butterflysnow1

I was once
a trusting child
             awaiting
                   a butterfly


or a tornado on the horizon.

I dug a cellar underground to escape my fury; a safe place to weather the storm; a place to gather knowledge; the wisdom to respect destruction. I'd laugh hearing armageddon explode above my shelter, underground, for I have dominion over the tornado, I alone.

When the winds and fury died, I surfaced to survey the aftermath. Death and decay met me. Yet, the tornado underestimated my resolve. I'd rebuild towers and replant crops, and defy the tornado's destruction, I alone.


I sit on the stump of the old oak, surveying its fallen branches ... a butterfly joins me--

I am ancient
knowing nothing
          eyes, the colour of regret
waiting for a butterfly
   stronger than the wind

Chapter 2
Contemplating Lost Love

By michaelcahill

We wonder what is unspoken
what thoughts lie in waiting behind which words
The words with golden letters sparkle
the ones with grey hide behind with hooks
They attach, and flesh is torn scratching at them

Life is so awfully uncertain and imprecise
for in life there is always give and take
But scales are rusty, and bolts are hard to come by
nothing weighs the same when gravity is a trick

Even in your own heart certainty leaves
a lingering doubt dripping slowly and congealing
in a pool where loneliness swims, waiting for irony
For there is always something broken when borrowed
and then returned in life, coveting demands it

It is thought that in life we should reveal ourselves
for death is too late the suddenly wise will say
Such cruel irony there, for revelation
begs for clothing and a polite glance away

Truth in life is a cone with ice cream on the ground
The righteous condemn the germs and common pathways
The liar scoops it up like lightening without remark
and takes a chance that sugar is worth damnation

Clarity comes with death
With death we finally find our measuring stick
We finally are forced to put aside
the petty day to day business of living
and realize we are all the same,
just human

We really do love
just because we do
It is real when it sings
It is real when it dances
It is real when it is foolish
It is real when a thousand words
can't quite describe it
nor can a thousand more

And finally, our grief
becomes the only love
that receives no response
and needs none

Chapter 3
I Do Remember, But I Don't Tell

By michaelcahill

Certainly, I am lonely

for who does the ocean
share with?

who comprehends being
me?

I'm not without heart or whimsy

I do rest often

at my age, to stretch out
in repose
under a blue sky
is something we both delight in
from time to time

I am amused
by the foolhardy little ones
singing songs of triumph
bobbing like corks
and tickling my surface

I am amused …
for a time

and those who find mystery
at the shore
gazing out o'er my majesty
attempting to consider
my vastness

I allow it …
for a time

do you thrill to the sights
in your glass-bottom boats
the creatures I harbor
the stories I hide—

the tragedies too?

ahh, the shanty tales
the great ships
on my silty floor
do you see them?

do you see through the glass
in your boat
floating on my surface?

does the sand slip through your toes
as you stand by the shore
while I gently approach?

Atlantis is real, you know …

I've hidden it away

come find it

yes, come find it

Chapter 4
Admonished

By michaelcahill

I curse the sun
waves of invisible flames
unfiltered
strike

wise clouds long since
escaped
adorning
mountain tops
playing tag to amuse

sandpipers discovering
shadows to be harmless

but whimsey doesn't
perch on tumbleweeds
though they certainly beckon

"Would it be so out of line
to add a splash of colour ...
anywhere?"

my words are swallowed
by a mirage
drowned in the roar
of a waterfall
crashing into ...

"Why are you grey"
I ask the squirrel
the one with the ragged tail

"I'm a grey squirrel. Are you without sense?"

"Why do you destroy my home?"
The squirrel inquires.

admonished by a grey squirrel
in the middle of
an endless expanse of sand

anything alive
buries itself here
an escape as I see it
the unknown darkness
found by plunging into the
burning sand
preferred
to the unbroken sameness

in fairness
Joshua trees stand tall
but look to be broken
even in their healthiest incarnation
they serve as a landscape
a still life of motionlessness
broken by the thrill
of a grey squirrel's journey
I admonish the haughty grey squirrel ...

"I care and I'm aware
I'm a hugger not a mugger
a tree lover
not driller or a killer
I don't kill Bambi
or little lambies
I'm no gas guzzler
or pit bull muzzler
and here's a little puzzler
what's so grand about the sand
and searing heat
and burning feet
this is your home
it's where you roam
adorned in grey
HEY!
would a drop of purple hurt?
or scoop of brownish dirt?"

It was then the squirrel seemed to have enough
and he admonished me quite sternly thus:

"You're just rotten sportin' cotton
from a harmless sheep
forgotten as it stands there naked
burning in the noonday sun
sound like fun to you?
dig those leather shoes
and belt that holds your britches
damn you're leavin' me in stitches
but it's tragic when I think
of slaughtered life
just for your cloven hooves, my friend
you love trees and all they bear
but your house is made of wood
could you be a bigger hypocrite?
oh yes, you could
cables, pipes, and wires traverse the land
of course, to you it's only sand
but believe me it's not doing
any good for those who live there
in harm's way
but HEY
it keeps you warm and cozy
as you drive your economic
ergo-friendly, environmentally loving
all terrain vehicular intruder 'cross the plains
you fill it full of fuel
drilled from the very Earth you claim you love
then you spew it in the air
without a care
but OHHHHH those leather seats ...

your house, it blocks our view
and you think only about you
as you stomp along
and never stop to see
what your foot prints crush beneath them
so, you understand
your admonitions and complaints
about my colour
make me laugh
when it's you who suck the life
from every corner of this place
I call my home ..."

I walked home then in silence
Mother Nature
is a grey squirrel

I suppose I shouldn't be surprised
that I wouldn't know that ...

Chapter 5
How, Then, Do I Love Thee

By michaelcahill

I do admit delirium
            and a quest for words

for how can I admit
          indescribable
              inexplicable
                  ... at a loss for
when I am your humble poet
      (I dream your laureate extraordinaire)

a flower then
unnamable
      for the bloom stuns
          with the blossoming
the fragrance staggers
          the sensibilities

but, no
for a bud but blooms once
        and you a thousand times
                 and a thousand more
the scent of the loveliest flower
fades
but yours remains on my pillow
                        and in my mind until ...

the stars then
              endless lights
a sequined walkway to infinity
                             but that is a fancy
             a myth scribbled in desperation

stars are distant
            and you envelop me
stars burn unpurposed
            you warm as if I matter

you are why I write
               what I write
and why I sound the fool
the lucky fool

sense is for the lonely
considering the moon
reflected on a tear
shed for a poem's sake

Chapter 6
Teaching the Apprentice

By michaelcahill

Ahh ... master, it is exquisite
the selection of colour
the realistic tone
the match-- near perfect
I can almost see the cheek bone
'neath the shy blush
oh ... I suppose it is finished now

No, no, not even begun
don’t you see?
realistic is not real
how simplistic you make
this all seem, my apprentice
take heed, dear boy
if cut, she must bleed
if hurt, she must cry
or, you see, boy,
she will die

can you not see the charge
that is mine?
if the name is to be remembered
a moment hence
she must live
right here on this canvas

but they sing your name
in the streets, Master,
and will, no doubt, long after ...

silence now, boy
there, you see, the flesh
it breathes, you see?
she sees you now,
the glint--

Yes!

I'm not so sure
she approves of you--
she's coy this one.

yes, yes, Master, I see
they will say your name now then, surely
long after ...
longer than my imagination
can fathom

my name?
are you that foolish, boy?
My name may be spoken
by a passerby
curious about an inscription
on a crumbling stone

the name I want whispered to life is ...

Chapter 7
To The Poetry Girl

By michaelcahill

When Clouds Speak,
I listen

I always seek
the poetry girl
she tasks me

"Boy, come along now
you can't see a thing scribbling
in the dark
oh, dear, what is that noise?
that creaking, crunching, popping
scrunch of a noise?"

that's me
someone glued me to the couch
darnn kids and their pranks
why ... I oughta ...

"Now, boy, what do you see?"

the lake

"Oh really? Well, well, well
aren't we the meow of
the Siberian kitty cat?
The scenic tour, boy
the poetic revelation
the mind's machination..."

uh ... the sun shining on the lake
and some trees by the shore

"No ... the sun extending her nimble fingers
tickling the water tenderly
the giggles rippling to the shore
splashing playfully at the old oak
who's soaking his weary toes in the cool mud ...

and ...

and ..."

no, no, don't go,
why can't clouds stay put
it's me, isn't it
I don't have the mind
to corral a bit of fluff in the sky

you fade into the sunset
like a dancer twirling into
a genie's bottle
is that where you live, poetry girl?

and now I'm left to conjure
to cajole from within

what might catch your fancy
should you see a few of my images
float by on the breath of a summer storm

"Yes, yes", you might say,
"I know it’s the moon in the
night sky,
but what is it really?"

it is me, poetry girl
and, yes, you are the sun
but not because you shine

it is distance
and the irony of your warmth
still comforting and personal
as though you mean it for me

but you light the world
the one I'm not part of

I'm only noticed
because I happen to be
in your glare

the truth is on the dark side
cold and unnoticed

when you rise in the morning
we mingle atop the same waters
you, the light
me, what is under the light

I am aware
and that is enough

if it's poetic

Author Notes

Chapter 8
The Measure

By michaelcahill

hope
begins
all journeys
even small ones
our very first steps
foreshadow roads ahead
some treacherous, others soft
there's safety in travel eschewed
life seeks destinations undreamed of

I once rode the back of an orca whale
through sea after sea

OH! grand briny deep
o'er cyclones and hurricanes
and squalls a fifty feet
and lightning so bright
blind cave fish did see

upon falling off I swam on my own
for many a moon
and found a mysterious land unknown
with creatures, horrific and snarling with warning

but I roared right back
they let me rest and come morning
we shared the land in harmony
I communed for a long while

then I climbed a volcano
whose top was not visible
on reaching its summit
it rumbled and shook me

but I held on fast laughing loud
and then it erupted and sent me quick skyward
I flew like an eagle to alight on a cloud

how I got home ... well, I will never know
but the journey remembered
is my tale and so

I have it to tell
to all who will hear
it's a jolly good trip I took
come gather near ...

Count each coin ... miss none.
It is how some measure sums.

I am a poet.

Author Notes

Chapter 9
A Two Rope Swing

By michaelcahill

how it takes me back

the two rope
   swing
hanging
from the mighty oak

the old rope
grandpappy
hung

in the old days
the good old days
"when black was black
and white was white"
he used to say

shades of grey
came later

the new rope
daddy
added
to make a proper swing

swingin' on a single rope
lacked the comfort
of a solid wood platform
balanced

when I was a
boy
I rode that swing
like a bird
free
as the wind in my face

all day long
a soaring eagle
gliding in dominion

but as night fell
a raven
hiding in the shroud
of doubt

crying

"mercy"

trying to escape
the shadows

"mercy, lawd, mercy"

a platform
sturdy and strong

Black
Oak, Arkansas grown

oh, what I saw
secure
on that plank

reaching for clouds
white
as the driven snow

where to go?

where to go?

when I was wee
grandpa would tell me
when the storms came

about thunder
rolling
and lightening
  striking

I'd stare out the window
and see that rope
dancin'

and I swear
I saw
a marionette
a kickin' up his feet
with every bolt's strike
and hollerin'
with every thunder's bellow

an old rope
darker
but sturdy
a newer rope
lighter
not dirty

and my blood glistened
when a paper cut my finger
and left its print on
the new rope

the old rope
with blood spilt
from other playtimes
stained
dark
dryly soaked

while time forgot

I imagine that blood
fresh
and red as my own
seeping
into the waiting earth
the earth where we
bury
things

the tree is tall
and its limbs cover
the horizon
imprisoning
it from my view

But I can leave that swing

I'm not tied to it ...

I have
liberty

my truth is found
in tranquility

the oak is old
but it will get
older still

oh, what tales
its roots could tell
of driving rains
and blistering heat
toil
the endless stare
into the future

and the things
we let drip into the ground
... to feed it

Chapter 10
A Driftwood Tale

By michaelcahill

I remember
years and years lodged fast
unmoved
a never-changing landscape
a predictable panoply of time's march

blankets of snow, laughingly cold
riotous Springs, bright colours all bold
then Summer, soon Fall
the end of it all
but always the start of it
once and again and over again

until

a flood and a slide
and a journey to sea
                      adrift on the water
           wonders surrounding
horizons and setting sun
but never a shore

and now ...

laying on this beach
the waves out of reach
drying and cracking

I've heard passersby
call me "driftwood"
the irony doesn't escape me
chuckles are few
for an oxymoronic existence

sure, there are stars at night
and children by day
            a dog or two
annoying birds
tapping at me
as though I were asleep

but what is this?
soft hands grasping me
cast into a fire

               wild dancing and song surround

                          I'm ignited

I expand into a million parts
and rise into the universe
I'm flying ... everywhere

I see it all now

even the forest

from whence I came

Chapter 11
A Love Poem to You

By michaelcahill

Yes, oh yes ...

at first, I do admit
your hair I imagined
as the night--
enveloping me

and eyes like a predator cat
peering from the forest
with me the prey

would you drown me
or suffocate
I would suffer both
if luck were mine

delirium and sense
are unacquainted in most realms

"to death"
isn't considered
in its consequence
at times like these

perhaps when sense prevails
and time finds a breath
separate ways might converge
your road and my path
rocky and needing the balance
of clasped hands

one heartbeat
reassures the loneliness
of another
and rhythm invokes
a dance

love has no fear
of the dark
it glows with eyes closed

it is passion roaring
or whispering sighs

but it never dies
when there are
poems to write

Chapter 12
Not a Shooting Star

By michaelcahill

fissures form
across the black sky

between worlds

distant and hot

but they heal quickly

wishes seem wasted
on the caprice

finally
it is all consumed
in hot gold

a bellowing bounty
of fire puffing

huffing mocking smoke
billows
roaming in freedom
on hoof
and wing

Monet found the clarity
ridiculous

Van Gogh heard the wind
but paid it no mind
waiting for the night to return

I am but a poet

assigning letters order
is tasking
and asking sense from me
is amusing

the lighthouse
was built for Galleons
and I'm a canoe

still

I row

The steads of Helios have escaped
and traverse the sky

Icarus laughs for his good fortune

the race is on
but there is no finish

no loser

victory
waits for dawn
and the next dawn

a meteor once
was part of something

its demise is
spectacular

if noticed

Chapter 13
Toy Soldier

By michaelcahill

heading home
march, march, march
singing a song of triumph
no one is watching

through the Turner's open gate
… I hesitate
then run to the shortcut
the angel by their pond
takes notes
but ages will pass before
I'll have to answer

I salute and sneak into the
deserted alley
the shadows conspire
behind the armed Ford Gremlin
with the shot-out windows
the bombed driver's side door
where General Blithersnipe met his doom

I zig and zag at breakneck speed
bedazzling the shadows
with my resolve

I enter Curtis Avenue
and dash behind a row of hedges
home is near

there will be stories to tell
unbelievable tales of valour
and derring-do

I could go for some grub too
I ran out of rations long ago

I'll probably have to be de-liced though
damn Army life …

Author Notes The proper phrase is "derring-do" from Olde English. But spellcheck and too many people hassle me about it ... so, I give up. HAHAHA!!!!!

Okay, I changed it back to what is CORRECT! SUE ME! :))

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