The Progress of Later: Collected Poems

By John Thomas James

RED CLOUD
I sometimes wonder if Red Cloud
when outflanked along the Powder River
by bluecoats, miners, sodbusters and bureaucrats;
or when retired to the Pine Ridge Agency
to be cowed into a quiet capitulation
to the Palefaces inexorable civilization

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 22, 2011
• ISBN: 9781469137704

John Thomas James

John Thomas James was born in 1970 in Hartford, Connecticut. A published poet for 25 years, his work has appeared in publications such as The Iconoclast, South Ash Press, and Insomnia and Poetry. A collection of poems entitled The Progress of Later was published by Xlibris Press in 2011. He currently resides in the Nutmeg State with two cats named Sammy and Charlie.

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Copyright © 2012 by John Thomas James.

Library of Congress Control Number:       2011962754

ISBN:         Hardcover                               978-1-4691-3769-8

                   Softcover                                 978-1-4691-3768-1

                   Ebook                                      978-1-4691-3770-4

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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CONTENTS

RED CLOUD

TIME CUSHIONS

ALTAR OF NEEDLESS WORRY

FIRST SNOW OF THE SEASON

THE LONG VIEW

DOG BITE

PILOT LIGHT

PULLED AGAINST MY NATURE

BLUE SNOW

THE VIOLIN

FROG HOLLOW

SWEEPINGS

FOXGLOVE

AMISH ENVY

STARTING OVER POEM

PEOPLE’S FOREST

THE PIOUS EJACULATIONS

MAKE PEACE

THE GLAND

DAYBREAK SKETCH ARTIST

BLINDERS

THE MARRIAGE THAT NEVER HAPPENED

IN DEFIANCE OF THE HEART

THE TROUBLE WITH STAYING ALIVE

TOPS OF TREES

THE ABYSS

WALKING POEM

THE BLAMELESS

TRYST

THE SOURPUSS GYMNAST

TRAPS OF SPIDER SILK

THE POET AS CONVENTIONAL CUSTODIAN

WHITE WALL

BUTTERFLIES

CENTRALITY

I, CATALYST

POEM FOR THE UNKNOWN CHINESE MINER

THANKSGIVING

ELEPHANT EXHIBITIONISTS

ENDANGERED SPECIES

THE LAST CONSPIRATOR

THE PHONE BOOTH

AFTERTHOUGHTS

FINDING TIME

THE DISHES

AMY, ACROSS THE EXPANSE OF AGES

AWASH

AFTER THE CRUCIFIXION

THE MARRIAGE THAT NEVER HAPPENED (THIRD VERSION)

DIVINE ESTUARY

EDISON’S ELECTROCUTIONS

ANOTHER DAY OF NOTHING AGAIN

A MAN OF NO EXPERIENCE

THE EVA MANIFESTO

BLUEBERRY PIE

IDENTIFICATION

BANKER’S HOURS

BEHIND THE GATES OF DREAMLAND

UNEMPLOYED

GRAINS OF PARADISE

BODY BETRAYALS

I NEVER KNEW A POEM

EVA, ACROSS THE EXPANSE OF AGES

RED CLOUD

I sometimes wonder if Red Cloud

    when outflanked along the Powder River

by bluecoats, miners, sodbusters and bureaucrats;

or when retired to the Pine Ridge Agency

    to be cowed into a quiet capitulation

to the Paleface’s inexorable civilization—

          reconciled to the compromised role of politician

             for his nation subjugated into extinction—

I wonder if he, in some introspective hour

    when the Great Spirit flashed from firewater

and upstart braves affronted his honor,

    dreamed up nightmarish arms of annihilation

to eradicate the range of lily-white culture

   to restore the hallowed rites of warrior-hood

to the Oglala nation and their brethren.

Weapons to derail the Iron Horse

    from the saber tracks slicing up his prairie.

Weapons to counteract the Gatling Gun,

    bayonet rifle, cannonball barrage.

Weapons to bring the buffalo back

    in herds of plenty for vast hunting parties.

Weapons to halt the hordes of settlers

    streaming in by train, mount and covered wagon.

And when that idealized arrowhead

                         (tank? B-52? neutron bomb?)

    failed to avenge the Sand Creek Massacre,

or even to spring him from Indian Territory,

    I wonder how Red Cloud swallowed his rage

when parleying with ruthless Tecumseh Sherman

    who wiped his ass with the tissue of treaties;

or when he confronted Reverend Samuel Hinman—

    merciless in his murderous, racist righteousness;

or when Great Father Grant in Washington City

    unleashed the monolithic machinations of administration

upon a proud people for whom assimilation

    would still be a struggle in the 20th century.

Then, on his deathbed, did this weapon

    accompany his ascension into the spirit realm

where he danced with the dead of Wounded Knee

    and reveled in glories long lost to posterity;

echoing the war whoops of the Reno Creek Ambush

    of Crazy Horse and Man-Afraid-Of-His-Horses?

What imprint of peace awaited this warrior chief

    who settled every skirmish but forfeit his stronghold?

Who could not do battle with unfathomed progress

    even with a will mightier than the armaments

                    arrayed against him in ignominious eclipse.

TIME CUSHIONS

Forever counting on my digits,

    touching fingertip to fingertip

while muttering sequential numerals

    beneath my wheezy breath;

forever calculating with a slide rule,

    or knocking beads on an abacus,

or turning upside down some hourglass

    visualized as a point of reference

whenever I loose track of the continuum;

forever dreading the waking dawn

    after sacking out in the hammock—

slumbering away my sabbatical

    with perturbations so laden

under the concrete weight of calculation

    that my head becomes embedded

inside a pleated feather pillow;

forever fixating on the forked hands

    of my wound-up cuckoo clock

                  to synchronize my internal chronometer;

forever endeavoring, but seldom straying

    into the purgatorial realm of unconsciousness—

not while these correlated computations

    are relentlessly relayed as reminders

of a lifetime consumed with inertia.

I’m enmeshed inside a time cushion

tangled between compulsory occurrences

    which exact my concentration,

                                necessitate my action,

and those miraculously inexact,

                                unforeseen instances

off the clock,

unencumbered by my deliberation

    that pass like a summer downpour

                                swifter than a span of seconds.

ALTAR OF

NEEDLESS WORRY

Because there isn’t a compass

    to delineate the precise direction

of a final, definitive destination

    of a prayer from this plane,

I’ll invoke an ancient rite

    reserved for the wounded of heart

and erect an elaborate altar

    on which to pile up high

the desiccated leavings of anguish.

And there I shall pile skyward

    on the mount of his pyramid eye

all of the refuse and rubble

    of a dour and demure dream life;

all the contemplative days and nights

    sitting beside a disconnected telephone

awaiting