authorhenrijenkins

[authorhenrijenkins]

200418

The house was exceptionally typical of the dusty plain, weathered in the worst of places and pristine in none. Milk white paint blasted gray through seasons of seasons and hunter green trim flaking like corn cereal. A front porch as deep as the late afternoon shadows and a suspect swing bobbing in the breeze, creaking its siren song. The place I would most like to leave the weight of my world and escape to a shoeless childhood so far removed.

The house was old. It looked old, smelled old, sounded old and I knew if I were to venture a lick of it anywhere, it would taste old. But in a way peculiar to the old, it was somehow beyond old, certainly not museum quality but sturdy like the people who dwell in such structures. And it had structure, a resolute purpose and intent in every bit of it. There was no wasted space, no luxurious obsession, no grandiose grandiosity. It was a mule in a time of steeds, and a damn fine one at that. 

For the coming summer it would be my home. A hothouse begging my growth. Transported to a concrete world where concrete men perform concrete tasks, I feel I am silly putty. The Sunday edition cartoon. How can I survey this landscape so foreign to me and judge them with any level of justice dignified of their character.

Like a seed sown in their fertile soil I can only hope to soak in their nurturing care. Today I am born anew into this alien world knowing not what is to become of me.

 © 2020 Henri Jenkins

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[authorhenrijenkins]

Haik’s on Sala

Sala Avenue makes me think of Haik’s Shoe Store and the tight apartment we were stuffed into upstairs of the preJefferson Bank Building. It was between living along the levee in Bridge City and the old funeral home on D and 5th.

The block was our entire world and it made the Earth seem like a galaxy full of things and people alien to us. Our world ended at the curb and beyond there be dragons. We could play outside all day, and would to escape the apartment. We’d pretend the shoe store of a western town bank (it even said BANK in the ledger above the door) and would rob it repeatedly, mostly sporting cap guns shooting blanks.

Home by sundown and you’d better not get caught beyond that curb unless you wanted Daddy’s belt. He worked nights for the shift differential so the threat of Mom telling Daddy of an indiscretion often lasted until he woke in the afternoon or could wake the night till morning if committed late enough.

The anticipation was often far worse than the punishment. I don’t recall my father ever hurting anything beyond my pride with a belt or switch. Though I knew some fathers who did, and mothers too. Mine recognized the power of disappointment and wielded it effectively.

I don’t think he liked or appreciated Mom always using him as and making him the heavy so there were plenty of times where we would aggravate her to the point of calling out for him to ‘speak’ to one of us and he’d jeeringly call out, “Hello [whoever],” and we loved him all the more for being on our side from time to time. He’d wiggle his ears or the tip of his nose and we’d roll with laughter and Mom would turn a boiling red.

I remember, and know that my memories consist of a collective of raw remembrances, the memory of stories of events, and pure poetic license, Mrs. Haik, in my mind, would be a mix of an older auburn haired Jean Stapleton with a mix of the exoticism of Rona Barrett. This could be spot-on or 180 degrees off.

I remember squares of green and black tile, wooden shelves stuffed with boxes and the smell of leather and shoe polish. The amazing technicalities of the measuring devices and the general handiness of a capable shoe horn.

Mrs. Haik and my Mom were friends I think. Mom, always wanting to have her own business, idolized Mrs. Haik in a way and it seems to stick in my head that they saw things eye to eye. I think the friendship at least helped spawn Mom’s idea to open the ‘store’ in the big house.

I kinda remember Mr. Haik being disabled though I couldn’t say what with. We would bother Mom with random, pointless questions while she ‘visited’ with Mrs. Haik. Though there were often times she’d catch us sneaking in like a prowler trying desperately to not disturb the bells and give ourselves away. She’d stop us with a snap and turn us about with a finger, foiled and dejected.

The effort for us was two fold, to get out fair skins into the cooler shadows of the store and hopefully look cute enough to be offered a gumball as big and shiny as a shooter or even better a cold longneck Barq’s or a green bottled coke. With the coke, anticipation often exceeded patience and we’d have to lift the bottle high to discover its exotic origin.

It was best to find a new name you could dream the day away thinking of what such a place held. And if it were worthy of being added to the list of places to visit one day. A world tour of coke factories how cool that would be. The things we dreamed of doing and would do every bit of it the very day we turned eighteen.

I think of the bar next door with what I remember being a Falstaff sign though I have no recollection of the bar’s name. It seems like it was painted on the picture window that was curtained like sheetrock.

I would be out on the thin front stoop of Haik’s playing with marbles or blocks or drawing on the sidewalk with chalk and I’d see the old men speed walk with jittery nerves, tall and chiseled to the bar and later leaning into a hunchbacked stagger as if bracing stiff headwinds on their way home. In their forties or maybe fifties, you know old, their weathered faces held demon eyes eternally bloodshot and they were sickly thin, pants baggy and bunched at the waist.

I think it’d be fun to stand there on the corner of 3rd and Sala just after a late afternoon shower on a hot southern day and soak in the memories rising like steam from the sidewalk. To sit on the low stoop and draw in chalk on the concrete. To remember how small my world once was and how small it still seems today.

© 2020 Henri Jenkins

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[authorhenrijenkins]

Forest Sprite 

Into a forest of dry pine With a song of fire to start I snap and scathe a tender wand And thread scales with a needle’s heart Skimmers and skippers upon brook As lightnings rest their weary head I push the seed below the grade And unearth tubes sleepy not dead. 

When I held a collected cup I reached for a flame lighted stick But spoken name disturbed me thus The forest floor did flick and click In every glance I saw the twirl Moonlit magnolia in her hair She begged me chase on far away And left me in a lonesome stare. 

A lifetime of search and wonder I seek her across land and sea To discover where she is known And press our lips in ample glee And stroll the forests of the world Worming memories until death Of blossoms, of seasons, of moon Of honey suckled with each breath. 

© 2020 Henri Jenkins ------------------------------- In ode to “The Song of the Wandering Aengus” (W.B. Yeats)

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[authorhenrijenkins]

200403

The last train to Bokensperk grunted as it slogged away. I sucked its heavy soot into tried lungs, spent along the run to the station. Three miles I had trudged to whimper and wheeze upon the platform, to watch its rectangular ass leave me behind. A dry clump of spit clogged my throat as I realized the difference the last two minutes would have on the rest of my miserable life. There was no other way to get there in time to save her.

It was all but done. They would kill her and it would be my fault. I coughed a foggy train’s breath and stood to breathe. My head fell back and I examined the blanket of stars. A million wishes and I had but one - for two minutes. Tonight I would pass my tears with a wish upon each. I thought the past had been hard and cruel but tonight the years ahead tortured me. Losing my bearings I spun out of control and crashed to the forest of white oak boards. Hands folded into prayer, I pleaded with unseen forces to alter fate. Not mine, hers.

And in that moment, a mosquito of an engine buzzed to life in the distance. As it grew closer I recognized the clatter of it. I was certain. A Fokker 93 and though beyond the treetops I knew it to be canary yellow with a black fleur-de-lis on its tail and Johnny Morgrave, the brash, sandy haired American at the controls. He was inbound to Morgansplun field and in an instant so was I, waving thank yous to the sky.

 © 2020 Henri Jenkins

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[authorhenrijenkins]

Water Water

Water Water 

A storm barged an ocean of water to my shore. I ran out splashing in the waves, filling my tank. Reigned sublime, energy nourished my sodden soul. And veins of action supplant tender seeds of hope.

© 2020 Henri Jenkins

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[authorhenrijenkins]

200331

Samantha eased into the dark letting it crowd close. It was cooler than the hall behind and she almost turned about. But she had to know if he was there, if there was a chance he was alive. Her ears searched the night for the mere sniff of a sound and found only silence.

A level of silence that could clear a room, it fogged her mind with screaming thoughts. She inched farther, beyond where the hall light died. There the darkness was complete.

Samantha’s hands like blind eyes searched. A scent ran past her nose, strong and familiar. It lingered upon her tongue and she knew it to be Jake. As her heart drummed on, she cleared him from her head. Flat plastic soles carefully scraped at the sturdy wood floor as she shuffled on.

Her fingers pricked at the wall and she realized she had found the depth of it. Samantha worked her way left to the corner and back again to the right. Nothing and no one. She turned back to the light and sighed.

A second scent, heady and strong whispered soft upon her neck like a breath then frighteningly sharp it clobbered her. Samantha reached for a scream but found only death.

© 2020 Henri Jenkins

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[authorhenrijenkins]

Tell Me That You Love Me

Ruby Don’t Take Your Love To Town Don’t Fall In Love With A Dreamer You Were A Good Friend You Decorated My Life

Every Time Two Fools Collide Into The Greatest Love Songs They Owe Them More Than That I Prefer The Moonlight to Goodbye

Till I Can Make It On My Own Love Or Something Like It Something’s Burning, a Scarlet Fever And Love Will Turn You Around

Crazy like A Love Song The Real Love of a A Sweet Music Man If I Were You I’d Buy Me A Rose And Love The World Away

For Lucille, She Believes In Me Her Love Lifted Me Through The Years Make No Mistake, She’s Mine Islands In The Stream, We’ve Got Tonight

Twenty Years Ago The Harder Cards Real Love and Morning Desire If I Knew Then What I Know Now Loving You Is A Natural Thing To Do

Calling Me the Coward Of The County I Don’t Need You, you Daytime Friends What About Me If I Ever Fall In Love Again Lady, All I Ever Need Is You 

Reuben James, The Gambler

 In Memory Of Kenny Rogers (1938-2020) © 2020 Henri Jenkins

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[authorhenrijenkins]

southernpine

Beneath true skies an army green in Southern pine A thousand acres of haystack needles to find Upon redden dirt saplings, pulp and timber climb Unto each a staggering death in brown define Laid into this earth of a fate resigned in kind Stardust to trunk and limb to stardust benign of time

© 2020 Henri Jenkins

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[authorhenrijenkins]

life

Rain pours, rivers swell Into this life storms a hell Will you live to tell

© 2020 Henri Jenkins

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[authorhenrijenkins]

an ode to George

G E O R G E

Beyond my own father, I've known no man more in kind. His words and actions helped shape my life. His care and respect helped shape my love. An equally enthusiastic student and capable instructor, he was ever generous with his knowlede and time.

Son, brother, friend, husband, father - grand and great his gray head knew many hats; wise, best and true. Continuous and certain, it'd be fair to call him a man, a mentor, and more. To Laura he was, "Daddy," with all the affection and honor any title ever hoped to possess, any man ever hoped to know.

Though you knew him differently I'm certain you knew him same.

I hope to know him again once this world is done with me.

© 2019 Henri Jenkins

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[authorhenrijenkins]

Heaven without my music, would just be hell.

© 2019 Henri Jenkins

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[authorhenrijenkins]

19101002

It wasn't Julietta's first attempt at suicide but with her success it ended up her last. In leaving she took more than her life, she took mine. She may as well have packed me smartly into a proper suitcase and carried me along. For I didn't simply fall of the wagon, I fell so much farther but unlike David's Thomas, I fell from the Earth. Disappeared, into a universally empty chasm of lifeless space. A mere existence of existing. My freshest memories were the gentle remembrances of memorable memories. And in there she too lived. We two, together again. I, having completed hers, expected my forever in kind but find no two the same. As such I am left with nothing, nothing but time. So here I wait.

© 2019 Henri Jenkins

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[authorhenrijenkins]

191010

Writers Write writing prompt:

In a quick 26 hours, Gail, the rose-red parrot should be perched upon the shoulder of the Petit Four Circus Ringmaster. She loved the spotlight and the audience loved her. Jacob Trilby who used the stage name, The Fabled Aesop, considered himself a talented storyteller. Gail knew him to be a mean drunk and better than capable slob. Still she loved the man who the law would say stole her from her previous owner, Doug Carrack. He was full-time mean. Drunk, sober, asleep that man was mean. It's why Gail considered Jacob's act a rescue.

Jacob, I mean The Fabled Aesop longed for the spotlight even more than Gail. He never felt more at home, more at ease in his skin than with a standing room only audience and twelve acts performing simultaneously in the main tent. Come showtime, he was always straight and eager. If was after the crowds had their fill and wandered back to their homes that he sought refuge in drink. Jacob was alone and lonely.

He lamented the loss of his favored Julietta a trapeze artist he had fallen hard for three years earlier. In an encore performance in Racine Wisconsin she too fell. Hard and quick, she swept past Jacob and came to a rest forever at his feet. It destroyed him. He blamed the short, stocky owner William Four for the tragedy and when drunk boasted that cowardice allowed the man to live. Today the fat man had ruffled another set of feathers and it would prove his undoing.

© 2019 Henri Jenkins

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[authorhenrijenkins]

191009

The middle of the night for me, sunlight gathered on the field to witness the coming rise behind a mottled curtain streaked in a low purple haze that lifted into deep reds and fiery oranges before cooling into the blue sea of night it chased. Along the horizon the crags and peaks of the Willamette range hacked into the sky.

We were five days beyond with another eight to go. I was ready to be done and home. Cliff dunes blew salty kisses and served a parched breakfast. I chewed at the dryness hoping to conspire spit but found none. My hungry thin jaw rattled and creaked. The easterly breeze cauterized my nostrils and smelled as if a thousand water buffalos developed bloodish diarrhea simultaneously. Or maybe I just needed a thorough shower.

In the distance a willowy bird cried out for winter's cool breath. Siman snapped me to a startle. My head swiveled searching for danger. There was still only the three of us. Lui looked me down and up again as if questioning my commitment. I gave her a wink and slapped the stock of my AR into my hand. Salty wisps rained from the crevices.

I nodded to Siman. He directed me left with a skinny gloved finger and I turned toward the remnant of a two story out building. Concrete and steel, rust bled from the walls staining what I would best guess was once a milky white stucco finish. A mostly black tattered fabric awning heralded the main doorway and air flooded through rectangular holes where competent windows once kept the rain out and cool, filtered air in. It looked like it had been some time since that was the case. The upper left corner of the building, above the doorway was missing, From my experience I would say it was the effect of a 120mm artillery shell.

I thought we should have worked our way around this otherwise mirage of four derelict buildings and an empty water tower but Siman could not get past checking it out. He was the brains and I the brawn so him and Lui argued about it for two hours and there we were. I strutted, almost comically to the front door and reached for the handle. There was none. I slung the rig onto my shoulder and felt the wood of the door. It was sturdy. Sturdy to the point of causing me to question it.

Something about it didn't sit well with me. The hairs on the back of my neck strained and bristled with concern. I stepped right of the door and squeezed my back against the wall. I quietly wrestled a puck from my utility belt and twisted three clicks on the timer. With my left thumb I pressed the arming switch and tossed the bang-bang into the window opening. A force field crackled to life rejecting my offering. The puck fell to the ground.

Fuck! I turned away breaking into a sprint for the corner. I leapt for cover just as the explosives detonated. The concussion pushed past and ran off toward the hills. My ears rang loud and hard but I was unable to answer. I belly crawled to the wall and lifted myself into a kneel. My head swiveled checking. My eyes blinked and I tried to slow breath myself into a more normal heart rate. I waited. And waited. Nothing came but silence. It was then I realized it was too quiet. I heard nothing from Siman or Lui. I pressed the talk button on my comm set and whispered callsigns, Einstein, Betty. Nothing, not even the usual static of the wonky old set. I tapped at my earpiece. Nothing. Fuck.

I stood and walked carefully to the corner and peeked around. I threw out a lofty, "Hey." "What was that Dreg?" came back in a squeaky jitter. "It was me, a bang-bang gone wrong-wrong." "Dumbass," leaked from a window in the farthest building.

Pissed and with my ears still ringing I stepped to the door again. I kicked the fucking thing off its hinges and it slid across the tiled floor like a runner stealing home. "Honey, I'm home," I announced and waited with a full clip of depleted rounds for a welcoming response.

The building was as empty as I had first suspected. All the buildings were empty. And the water tower had more holes than all of the buildings combined. None of that mattered to Siman, he was interested solely in the power supplying the force field. Lui and I enjoyed a cool spot of shade against an interior wall while the genius solved his puzzle.

© 2019 Henri Jenkins

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[authorhenrijenkins]

SWEET

Oh the struggle is ever real.

Avoiding carbs to lose and heal.

I long so for their short lived taste.

Knowing well they are but a waste.

Almost impossible to beat.

Such it is, we wear what we eat.

© 2019 Henri Jenkins

[authorhenrijenkins]

The Willow's Weep

The willow's weep piddles, puddles

Unto a new lake resting near.

It stands sullen bowing in prayer,

Reflecting in the light of day

Long leafy locks of frazzled head

Peer purely crazed by autumn wind.

Its lowing moan for each of us

Aches for the land on which we stand.

I weep not with rather just near,

Wishing a river of fat tears.

To float away from this here place

Or end up drowning I thus fear.

The time has come for me to leave

And there's one thing that I should state

'tis love what makes the willow grow.

The love you show and love held in.

For you a forest of willows

Your life of love will sow and know.

© 2019 Henri Jenkins

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[authorhenrijenkins]

Sweet Dreams

Complete is the night that conceals me thus

Hiding in planed site from those in the light

Aborting grovels and their frightful fuss.

Behind timbered woods and shades of fired sand

I yearn, churn and burn in thoughts of the right

Jailed within my mind by a strong held hand.

I shy away from each day's new clutter

Existing on yesterday's yesterdays

And 'o the day 'fore I mumble mutter.

Within a remembered world, we live on

As our soundtrack replays of yester ways

I dance with the ghost of thee too soon gone.

'til my light fades and I join you in dead.

Still you lie sleeping, dreaming in my head.

© 2019 Henri Jenkins