touched. Like magnets
on a table, edged closer
and closer, but never enough
for their fields to intersect and for
their arms to seek the other's flesh.
Almost. Like live wires,
unclothed, held near enough
to know the existence of the other,
but too far apart for the spark
to arc from his lips to hers.

Like the moment has everything
it needs: right person, right place,
but --

Click here to download an mp3 audio recording of this poem for just 50 cents.

nexted me and only by
fate or luck or glitch
came back
and smiled at me again.

In this live-stream roulette,
names and locations and time
slink away, seductive in the dark,
and we could lure them back
if we would only speak:
but both of us are mutes,
and everyone looks the same on Earth.

Voice is too personal
for these distance intimacies,
but I'm reluctant to let it go.

She said, it's time to go.
Pull the plug.
Rip the bandaid off.
Euthenize the digital dream of knowing me
and drop that F9 guillotine.
Stranger: But I can't drop everything.
Okay.
We can just leave this camera going.

Click here to download an mp3 audio recording of this poem for just 50 cents.

like sinful drops of ink
lit low from the front
so they streak long shadows
all across the pale moon of a
girl reclining behind them.
Those dozen tiny bellies,
pregnant and bright,
remind me what it's like
to be a shadow on her thigh.

Click here to download an mp3 audio recording of this poem for just 50 cents.

One of my coworkers wanted a recording of Sam Walter Foss' "House By The Side of the Road" to give to a friend of hers as a birthday gift; she asked me if I could recite and record the piece for her, and I agreed. I really like how the recording turned out, so I thought I'd offer it up here as a free download to my readers. Click here to download the file.

Foss was a poet and librarian in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. You can read more about him here.

The text of the poem:

House by the Side of the Road
by Sam Walter Foss

There are hermit souls that live withdrawn
In the place of their self-content;
There are souls like stars, that dwell apart,
In a fellowless firmament;
There are pioneer souls that blaze the paths
Where highways never ran-
But let me live by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.

Let me live in a house by the side of the road
Where the race of men go by-
The men who are good and the men who are bad,
As good and as bad as I.
I would not sit in the scorner's seat
Nor hurl the cynic's ban-
Let me live in a house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.

I see from my house by the side of the road
By the side of the highway of life,
The men who press with the ardor of hope,
The men who are faint with the strife,
But I turn not away from their smiles and tears,
Both parts of an infinite plan-
Let me live in a house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.

I know there are brook-gladdened meadows ahead,
And mountains of wearisome height;
That the road passes on through the long afternoon
And stretches away to the night.
And still I rejoice when the travelers rejoice
And weep with the strangers that moan,
Nor live in my house by the side of the road
Like a man who dwells alone.

Let me live in my house by the side of the road,
Where the race of men go by-
They are good, they are bad, they are weak, they are strong,
Wise, foolish - so am I.
Then why should I sit in the scorner's seat,
Or hurl the cynic's ban?
Let me live in my house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.

I met James Cunningham when I stumbled onto his property – trespassed, really – after following a half-hidden trail cut into the brush line boundary of Orr Park. Not a trail, really – a small, mud-floored, tangle-roofed tunnel a dozen yards wide. The tunnel opened onto a broad plain, and my feet took me towards a dirt path that snaked parallel to the winding course of the slow flow of the Shoal, leaving the shouts and shrieks of schoolchildren playing at the park's playground behind me.

I hadn't expected to meet anyone on my walk, though I suspected I had crossed over from public land to private property, when I came across Mr. Cunningham near the path's end. He pulled himself up into the seat of an old riding lawnmower, a walker strapped securely on the hood.

I had to shout a greeting twice before he heard me; he lifted his head, half-turned in his seat, and waved.

“Hey there,” he said.

“Hello. I hope you don't mind me walking through here, sir,” I said, “I followed a trail from the park.”

“I don't mind. What's your name?”

“Adam Kamerer, sir,” I said.

“Alan Cameron?”

“Adam, sir,” I said, speaking louder.

“Adam.”

“Yes sir. I work at the library at the university.”

“Do you know what we used to called the school?” he asked, a sly grin tugging at the corners of his lips.

“What, sir?”

“We called it the Angel Farm,” he replied, laughing, “because it used to be an all-girl's school. All the boys used to sneak up to the school to take a look at the Angel Farm. You a student?”

“Once, sir. Now I work for the university.”

There was a long quiet while we looked at one another. I wondered what he thought about this twenty-something boy, white earbuds dangling out of the neck of his shirt, holding a fancy digital camera. He wore the same blue denim overalls my grandfather used to wear.

“Can I take your picture, sir?” I said, holding up my camera.

“Hell, I don't care. Do you know what I am?” he replied.

That seemed like a curious question to ask, and I didn't quite know how to reply, so I replied the only way that came to mind.

“No sir, I don't.”

I expected him to tell me, but he stayed silent, holding himself statuesque until I lifted my camera, tweaked a setting or two, and snapped his photo.

“I'm a World War Two veteran,” he said, almost before the shutter finished closing.

“My grandfather was a crew chief on a zeppelin in the Pacific,” I replied.

“I served in Europe,” he said, and that was the last time I could get a word in for nearly the next hour.

James Cunningham was in ninth grade when he broke his leg playing football, and never went back -- “My daddy put me to work on the farm after that.” And he worked the farm until the war changed things. “I was growing food for people, but I guess they thought I'd do more good over there,” he said.

“I never would have volunteered for the war,” Mr. Cunningham said, “though I'm glad I went.” Drafted near the end of the war, Mr. Cunningham was stationed somewhere along the Siegfried Line, a line of German fortifications bordering northern or northeastern France. He spoke, a strange grin on his lips, about a German artillery shell that skipped off the ground, passed over him, and caught a soldier behind him between the legs. “He died, screaming,” Mr. Cunningham said, as if it were a necessary detail to add, his grin drooping to a tight frown. The same shell killed an officer further back.

Later in the war, during the winter of 1944/45, not quite over the German border, Mr. Cunningham found himself in a frozen foxhole – dug at some earlier time by German soldiers – with two others, when another artillery shell plunked into the ground near them. The blast buried the three men under the wave of earth: Cunningham's right arm was wounded; one of his companions lost an eye and part of an ear to shrapnel; the other caught a piece of a log behind the right knee. The man that lost the eye got to go home, but after a few days at headquarters, Cunningham and the other soldier – the one with the wounded leg – were back on the line. “Of course, we couldn't hear anything for about two weeks after that,” Mr. Cunningham said, “and I've still got one bad ear from it.”

After that, Mr. Cunningham seemed less eager to talk about the war and turned the topic elsewhere. He choked up when he spoke of a son that died sometime in 2008 after complications from heart surgery; his other son lives on the adjoining property, and brings Mr. Cunningham groceries. After the war, he ran Cunningham Dairy, serving milk to much of the Montevallo area.

With a twinkle in his eye, he shared with me a few secrets at how to win at Spider Solitaire, which he plays on a laptop purchased for him by one of his sons and daughter-in-law in 1981. And I'm inclined to believe him – his record is 3800+ wins to 43 losses.

We'd been speaking for some time, and I wanted to get back before it got dark, so I shook his hand again. He gave me permission to wander his property at my leisure, and said, “My son owns the next land over, but if he sees you, just tell him I said it was okay.” I thanked him, said my goodbyes, and started back.

“Do you know what I think the worst thing our country will face in your lifetime?” he asked, suddenly. I stopped, turned.

“What's that, sir?”

“I think people are going to run out of food,” he said, nodding his head. “I don't know how we're feeding them now. I really don't know how we're doing it.”