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Poems and Short Stories by Cabe lindsay

Index of poems and short stories by Cabe Lindsay: Dynamite Woman | Long Hair Windy Day | She Opted for Scuba Diving | Smoke Signals | Absence of Phish | El Camino Meets Jetta | Hans and Hona | Kiss Me Like | The Dreaming Pad | Happy Berfday, Julie | The Peace of Jonathan Livingston Seagull | Freewritten Remembrance of the River that Swallowed My Dad | Closed Eyes Open Mind

Dynamite Woman

Shining light
Cascades from her mouth
And eyes, like coals
Burn into those she knows
He is one that knows her
Well enough to know she could burn him up
He is tinder to her
Lightning

He dare not cross any line
He dare not offer any wine
Fearing the love bomb
He dare not even share his mind

Candlelight
Reflects on a pool of melted wax
The dancing of the flame
Reminds him of her
He blows the candle out
But the fire still remains
Douses it with water
And it lights up again

He grows deeply afraid
He builds a barricade
Fearing the love bomb
He is an anxious hand grenade

Dynamite
Finds him on a restless night
Sparks flying from her
lit fuse
He thinks it best
to refuse her
Even if it means
he will lose her

He does not let his heart go
He does not share his lonely soul
Fearing the love bomb
He does nothing, even though
He wants to explode

Long Hair Windy Day

A woman with hair to her hips
Entangled herself with
A man with a beard to his beltline
On a wildly windy day

She Opted for Scuba Diving

He offered her anything
She opted for scuba diving
He showed her the flippers
She secured the oxygen tanks
They held hands and
Jumped off the boat together
Underwater her hair swam
His lips blew bubbles
They quietly laughed
Trying not to alarm
Two sleeping electric eels
He kept an eye out for barracudas
She kept an ear out for sharks
She spotted a seahorse
And a lobster
The size of a cat
She showed him the jellyfish float
He showed her the breast stroke
They climbed coral towers
Their bodies lit up
And then darkened again
As lantern fish passed by
They heard dolphins
They hoped to see whales
But they were satisfied
Just to be swimming
Together

Smoke Signals

Shelly has excellent puffmanship
her smoke signals verbalize
in calligraphic elegance

curling plumes among the best of them
blowing stylish rings

she speaks to me
with every chimney hit she breathes
carving letters with her tongue
exhaling words that snake across the air
like dancing ghosts

gracefully, she writes
expressions of pleasure
Oooo
repeatedly puffing
the one word mantra
ooooOOO
meditating
OOooo

billowing words
with her visible tokes

Absence of Phish

Quietly
they stood by the pond
pondering the absence of phish
poles dangling
without a ripple
the phans were phishing for a song

The phish were missing from the pond
but the crowd of phans remained
phishermen of songs
bandannas and sundresses
grizzlybeards and hempsters
listening to the absence of phish

Phishermen of songs
dancing, hula-hooping
to soundless memories of music
lost in harmonic walkabouts
acoustic daydreams
the phish were missing from the pond

The phans were phishing for a song
casting their lines
hoping for a bassline riff
a bluegrass fiddle
mandolin or banjo
but it was silent in the absence of phish

Phishermen of songs
waiting for the
errant drummer’s pattern
or a guitarist to lead them adrift
craving brilliant flaws of music
from the twang of fretbuzz
to the purest voicebreaks
genuine, authentic errors
of perfect imperfection
somehow still
the phishermen were not deterred
by the absence of phish
the phans were phishing for a song

The phish were missing from the pond

El Camino Meets Jetta

An automobile broke down
heading uphill
on a mountain pass
and pulled to the side of the highway
Waiting there
the car, an El Camino
exhaled a dying breath of smoke
against the black sky of a new moon
Lights blinking
thinking about dying
and trying to survive
tires sticking to the icy road
In the darkness
the hazards stopped ticking
and the wind hissed
like a snake, biting cold
Lying as still as a frosty coffin
the El Camino was struck warmly
by two carressing sunbeams
piercing through the pines
A glowing Jetta
buzzed next to the El Camino
with no trailer hitch
no tow rope
With nothing apparent to offer
to alleviate the El Camino’s suffering
the Jetta nudged her bumper
against his
The El Camino, frozen
could not budge
even when the Jetta offered a push
her tires spinning out
So she punched into gear
smacked him from behind
and flying sparks
ignited his wheels into motion
The Jetta impelled the El Camino
all the way to the peak of the pass
and she sent him
coasting

Hans and Hona

In the Valley of Freezes the breezes blew a colossal blizzard over the tundra, painting the landscape blue and white. The sight of this inspired the birds to travel merrily south, singing birdiful words. Two lovebirds remained, sleeping comfortably in their frost-encrusted nest. From a distance, their dwelling might have appeared to be an oversized igloo, but underneath the mound of snow and ice that buried them lay a spacious cabin, just large enough to fit two giants: he stood at 7’4” tall and she slouched at 8’1½”. With the snowdrift covering the windows, Hans and Hona slept in until long after daybreak when their clock cuckooed 4:00 a.m.

Hona struck a match with her teeth, lit a candle, and wrestled her way out of bed. She lit dozens of candles and then lit a fire in oven. Being an Inuit gal, she wore jet-black, braided hair. And being half-frozen, she always wore a walrus-skin hat on top. Hans, a Scandinavian fellow with blond locks protruding under his seal-skin hat, slid open one of the windows that had been enveloped in the snowstorm. He clenched one mitten, and punched a hole through the snow. Sunlight and cold air beamed through the cabin. Hans grabbed a slab of ice from outside, closed the window, and dropped the ice in an iron pot that was already hot on the stove.

While Hans collected his fishing gear, Hona brewed some coffee and filled up a thermos for Hans that was hot enough to burn a hole through the floor. Hans had to wear two sets of mittens in order to hold it. He also wore an outer parka over his overcoat, which he wore over his inner coat of hair, which was as thick as the hide of a grizzly’s backside. When Hans opened the front door, designed to swing inward on its hinge to prevent it from being blockaded by snow, the snow caved in, burying the man up to his knees in powder. Hona helped brush him off and sent him on his way with a nudging of noses.

After an hour of hiking, Hans arrived at his favorite fishing spot: a lake that was entirely frozen over. He looked back over his shoulder and followed his tracks back to the cabin, 100 yards away, where he could see Hona waving from the doorway. He placed the fishing gear neatly by his side and knelt down to scoop away the loose snow so that he could find the ice and punch a hole through it. He dug through the snow so fast that he worked up a sweat so wet that the sweat beads froze to his forehead. So, before he hammered down on the ice with his mittens, he twisted open the thermos cap for a hot drink of coffee. The steamy aroma that wafted from the open lid was so strong that it caused the beard on Hans’ chin to stand on end, and caused his face to bear a monstrous grin. He scorched the tip of his tongue on the first taste. Hans kept the lid off to allow the coffee to cool. He readied himself for a mighty thump to the ice.

Meanwhile, a nearby polar bear, that had been up all night due to the overabundance of daylight and aurora borealis, caught the coffee scent. The bear, with its nose in the air, followed the fragrance, walking feverishly. In no time, the bear saw Hans, who was distracted with his arm stuck in the hole he had punched through the ice. The bear tiptoed around the fisherman and singed the tip of its tongue on the open thermos. Hans caught the whiff of burning tongue-hair and instantly was on the bear’s back with his arm around its neck. The polar bear staggered to its hind legs, bumping the thermos and spilling coffee, lifting Hans ten feet high in the air.

Starkly contrasting the otherwise white snow, the dark, brown coffee melted curiously deep into the packed snow, and sunk down all the way past the ice into the mouth of an even bigger monster. The two bear-hugging coffee fiends noticed the half-tipped thermos at the same time, and they both lunged for the warm deliciousness. The great magnitude of weight that hit the ice all at once caused the earth to roar. The ground shook. And when the ice split, Hans gripped the bear’s back paws with his mittens, and the bear gripped the thermos with its front paws, but the beast below opened its mouth and swallowed the thermos with the bear still attached. Fortunately for Hans, Hona’s grip was stronger than Hans’. Hona, who had longed for many years to be married in a polar bear-skin hat, rescued Hans and the hide, and indeed she and Hans were married and yes, indeed she wore a polar bear-skin hat.

Kiss Me Like

I’ll go first.
Kiss Me Like
it’s our first time
hesitancy
rosy dimples. X O X O
I like this game

Now you.
Ummm.
I have one
Kiss Me Like
I’m a rockstar
Which one do you wanna be?
Janis? smile Yeah, Janis Joplin
X O X O X X O
Mmm
You’re a big fan of hers
I can tell

Kiss Me Like
I’m your lesbian lover
bed springs
X x x o oh ohh

I liked that one a lot
Me toobie

Kiss Me Like
Like you looove me

x o x o

Kiss Me Like
you want me right now
zips
and snaps.
x o x o x o x o x o x oh x Oh x o

You wanna play a game? Okaybee, baby
It’s called Kiss Me Like
blush
How do you play?
I’ll show you

The Dreaming Pad - A Sonnett

I woke up with a picture newly dreamed
a vague impression of a vision blurred.
The image was escaping me it seemed
a breaking mem’ry of a thought absurd.
But I would not allow it to be lost
the dream receding quickly as it came.
Recovering the notion that I tossed
I wrote it down and gave the dream a name.
I fell asleep again to think some more,
anticipating other dreams to add
to my collection of the ones before.
I had them written in my dreaming pad.

When I woke up for real I made a note
about my dream about a dream I wrote.

Happy Berfday, Julie

happy berfdaY, julie
half-way to fifty-twO
i haven’t foUnd a pREsent
this song will hAve to do.

you’re not much older than me
But even if you were
i’d try to Act aBout my agE,
older if you prefer.

you know, you’re such a sweetie
your nIcknaMe could be sucker
my lips would like to kiss you
you mAke them want to pucker.

and ever sinCe i met you
my teeth cAnnot stop grinning;
this song’s BEcoming lousy
it hAs beeN since Da beginning.

THanks for beAring wiTh me
thIS poem’s ALLmost done
happy berfday, julIe
i Hope you’re hAVing fun.

happy bErfday twenty Times
and six mOre after that
and seven thouSAnd more to come
i hope that i’ll BE where you’re at.

The Peace of Jonathan Livingston Seagull

A friend of mine, Shelly, called in January to invite me to her low-key wedding in Hilton Head, South Carolina. She told me that she was only inviting three friends, and fewer than 20 people would be present at the wedding. I hadn’t seen her in three or four years, not since we went to school together in Michigan, so I was flattered by the invitation and told her I would make every effort to be there. She told me not to worry about a place to stay, because her mom and step dad lived there, and she assured me that my only expense would be the plane ticket.

When I first saw Shelly at the airport, she was so excited/nervous/anxious that she forgot to introduce me to her fiancé, Andy. Two of her other friends were there too, including her friend Cheri who I had also known in Michigan. I suggested that we all carpool together, but she told me that Andy was renting a car and they all planned to ride with him, so I would need to rent one of my own. Shelly’s hands were shaking, and it looked like she was on the verge of a serious breakdown.

I rented a car and drove by myself, and I might as well have had my eyes closed, because I was entirely in the dark about where to go. All I knew was that I needed to get to Hilton Head, which is an island situated in the lower part of the South Carolina shoreline. The drive started out peacefully, but a severe tornado storm swept up and covered my car with so much water that I could hardly see the taillights in front of me. I tried to pull over and wait it out, but the only places to pull over were gated communities. A security guard gave me permission to park near his station, and after an embarrassing predicament with the car’s unusual Reverse mechanism, I was safe at last.

While I waited, Shelly called my cell phone and invited me to join her family for dinner at a local restaurant. I drove to the nearest gas station and looked it up in the phone book, thinking I could use maps to find my way. Unfortunately, the restaurant was so new that it did not appear in any phone book. I started asking every person I could see, and I finally ran into two people that had heard of the place; one of them claimed to know where to find it. Thinking I was on the right track, I managed to get lost, even with the map in my hand. I asked directions from someone else, who had never heard of the place, but another guy overheard our conversation and pointed me in the right direction.

Eventually, I found it. Shelly showed up late, dinner went by fast, and at the end of the night I still felt like I was not being treated as a part of the party. On our way out of the restaurant, Shelly’s mom dropped the news that there was no room for me to stay at the house “because it is a rental house.” I left in mid-sentence to try and find a place to park the car and camp for the night. I struggled to find peace, partly because it was an uncomfortable, stormy night, but even more so because of the hurricane raging in my mind. It reminded me of a scene in the book, Jonathan Livingston Seagull, when Jonathan is cast out of the flock because of his desire to fly.

In order to relax, I ended up paying for a hotel room. That night, I sat and meditated, trying to accept instead of analyze my current situation, attempting to find my place in the present moment and breathe. I calmed down and rested easily. The next day, I went straight to the beach and walked for hours, taking occasional dips in the ocean. The coast was vivacious with wildlife, and a shark fisherman told me all about it. The sun cultivated a warm smile on my face. The sand grew hot and it was hard on the feet, but I found such favor in the presence of physical pain that even a jellyfish sting left a pleasant feeling in my mind. Hours flew by, and I was flying with the seagulls. I told one, “I’m one of you, you know,” and the seagull acted like it knew.

Late in the day, I heard music playing in the distance. I walked toward it, and it made me want to dance. That’s when Andy, Shelly’s fiancé, saw me and he walked up with a great smile and handshake. I knew right then that he was a good guy, just the right person for Shelly. As soon as I found them, though, the group of them left, and I was alone again. It didn’t bother me in the least, and I kept on grooving to the music. By the time I realized that it was being performed live, it ended. I went to investigate and saw some guys on stage. I walked up and asked, “Buddy, are you done for the day?” and he came right down, offered me a big handshake and smiled. He was the front man of the band, Zach Deputy. He told me about a gig later that night at a biker bar. I met him there that night, and he recognized me immediately. We were instant friends.

The next day, the wedding day, another good friend of mine arrived: Shelly’s third friend, Derrick. He rented a Harley and took me for a ride. Derrick and I were not invited to the actual wedding, it turned out, so we met at the “reception,” which was nothing more than a touristy restaurant. We waited there for the wedding party, buying our own drinks, until the point when it looked like they were no-shows. It was fine with me, though, because I had already scouted the area for things to do that night, not knowing whether or not Shelly would spend any time with me at all. Thankfully, when Shelly arrived she was a completely different person and we were all blessed with less stress.

After a bit of boozing and schmoozing, the older crowd scattered, and then I led the way to a club, followed by a martini bar that became the home of some incredibly deep, intimate conversations. Finally, I was able to express my affection, compassion, and love for these people. At that point, I felt the peace of Jonathan Livingston Seagull.

Freewritten Remembrance of the River that Swallowed My Dad

I’m jumping across rocks, leaping over raging white water, bounding over currents that could sweep me out of this world, and I’m fearless. My dad, attempting to find a safe place in the river for my brother to cross, stays patiently along the riverbank, waiting. My cousin casts a line into a deeeeep, dark fishing hole, and zZZZZIP, catches a trout on his first cast. I rip a few lures in there and come up empty, but there are monstrous trout eyeing the bait. The river, probably 20 feet wide and bottomless as far as I can tell, is ripping down the gnarly, jagged-edged canyon. This is the fastest shredding water I have ever seen, with the exception of the Pacific Ocean on the Oregon Coast. The most powerful, turbulent water.

Two of my uncles head down the stream, following the direction of the current. My dad leads my brother in the opposite direction, along with dad’s friend, Tom. Tom can’t swim. My cousin, Johnny, and I stay around the beginning area because the fishing holes there are striking like mad. These fish are mammoth, giant, athletic, dynamite sharks. I throw one heavy lure, launch it so far that it snags a tree limb on the other side of the river. I race across the water, like Jesus, bounding incredible distances from rock to rock, finding my way across the locomotive river. My feet are still dry.

Johnny can’t hang. It’s too much for him to cross the river. Too far, and the water shows no mercy. So he waits, and I hop back over to his side. Oops, I slip in and nearly lose my grip on one rock. One more inch in and I would’ve been Gone Johnson. Hopefully, my uncles would tangle me in their lines downstream and save me – otherwise they’ll be lucky to find me days later and 70 miles away. I’m safe, though, but now I have that fear in me. My heart is bravely trying to beat its way out of my ribcage, bones rattling, teeth clenched.

That’s when I see my brother running toward us. He’s screaming something, but I can’t hear a thing, except for the blasting river, “KSSSSHHHH!” When he gets closer, all I hear is, “Dad’s dead.” I say, “Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that again.” “He’s dead, Cabe. He fell in the water.” “Where!?” Where’d he fall in?” I can save him, I think. It’ll have to be me. I am 16, Jordan 12, Tom can’t swim. I crack my knees on the rocks, trying to pray to God.

Closed Eyes Open Mind

closed eyes and an open mind
sharpens the brain to a nice point
like a brown colored pencil tip
no, purple.
closed eyes and an open mind
can be dangerous behind the wheel
and even moreso on a bicycle
on the interstate
unless that bicycle is bigger
than all the cars on the road
in either magnitude, color, or radness.
closed eyes and an open mind
is funny during lovemaking
because the strangest things can pop up:
a woodpecker pounding a hole in an attic
the meaning of the word logjam
how many licks it takes to get to the center…
closed eyes and an open mind
is bad practice for a one-armed carpenter
with unsteady hand
unless that woodworker’s approach is stylistic
or “poetic,” as Joan points out
in which case curving lines on a table saw
might indeed be appropriate;
everybody knows that a one-armed carpenter
is a magnet for splinters
and the one thumb is always black
from hammerings
paralleling precisely
the ingredients listed in the recipe
for an exquisite catastrophe.
closed eyes an an open mind
is a good approach for a first kiss
with the one exception being
that the receiver has
a mouth full of tacs
or rattlesnake poison;
there are several exceptions
to this rule of thunk.
closed eyes and an open mind
is a good game plan for a bowler
er, bowl smoker, rather.
closed eyes and an open mind
is good for liquor shots too
unless the taker has a holy tongue
from a piercing or bullet wound, perhaps.
closed eyes and an open mind
helps the singer to sew on key
and the vegetable harvester to sing too
too much, at times, for the bees to ignore;
nobody wants to distract the bees
from spreading the pollen.
NOBODY.
closed eyes and an open mind
is a good way to meditate
especially for those who have passed away
bless them all.
closed eyes and an open mind
works wonders on social etiquette
particularly beneficial
to those who do not wish to know any friends
although many believe
in the existence of closed-eye contact.
yeah right!
closed eyes and an open mind
is a good way to get a sunburn
for those suffering from narcolepsy
or redheadedness.
closed eyes and an open mind
is an adventurous way
to listen to music
while driving in a car with bicyclists around
bicyclists riding with their eyes closed
minds open
appetizing to the hungry ravens
lurking on roadside fence posts
watching
waiting
spreading the word amongst themselves
about the phenomenon of closed eyes and an open mind
licking their beak lips
with drooling
holy tongues.
closed eyes and an open mind
makes the swimming fast
when the leeches are blood deprived
and the swimmer is a pig with a bleeding heart;
fast in terms of duration of the swim, that is
unless one considers the possibility
that his or her soul might rest at the bottom of the river
for all of eternity.

closed eyes and an open mind
makes the hot days cooler
in terms of wickedness
due to the infrequency of eyelash flutterings
not to mention the frequency of fly ass butterings.
closed eyes and an open mind
makes cracks in bells seem important.
closed eyes and an open mind
makes oldsters young again
except for the lifeless
transistor radios
that work only in memory
assuming the marbles are still rolling upstairs.
closed eyes and an open mind
smells like pie, often
when pie is cooking in the oven
or melting in the mouth.
closed eyes and an open mind
is a great way to read
for those who know braille
or the clairvoyant, for that matter.
closed eyes and an open mind
may seem pointless
but it is generally agreed
that the perceived pointlessness
manifests the actual nonexistence of a point
which is why believing in a purpose
is an essential requirement
of purposeful open-minded eyes closed sessions.