James P. Ross

James P. Ross writes in Toronto, Canada.
He lives with a wife who, for reasons unknown, loves him,
two sons named, quite ironically, for saints,
two surly cats and a rather dumb dog.

Here In This Valley
Visoko, Bosnia-Hercegovina, Spring 1993

Here in this valley, the

old woman sits in scarred ruins

that remain of a home,

Her face creased deep

with anguish and loss,

rocking an infant.

The future of this place

swaddled in a crate

that once held food.

Consumed by a soldier

or another,

Fighting for one flag

or another.

Here in the rubble

eyes are clouded by

smoke and dust and

lines on a map are

rarely clear.

Here in the rubble

the past struggles

to comfort the future,

Both of them casualties

of the present.

There are others here too,

Soldiers, sent

from a place a world away

to stand between

soldiers whose origins are

far less distant, and

whose intentions are

far less noble.

Their hats are bright and blue

as the summer sky that watches

the battles below with

divine indifference.

Another luxury not

afforded to us below,

The living and dead,

Soothing babies as

The noise of war echoes.

Another day passes

beneath the blue sky,

An old woman’s

struggle for peace,

Here in this valley.

Casualties

The rain wet bricks glisten
in the flashing red lights,
behind yellow tape, the
sidewalk glistens too.

He sits awkwardly, defiant
in the backseat of a police car,
hands behind his back listening
to words he knows too well.

His arms bear in ink his family ties.

Not far away a woman sobs
alone, the sound of her tears
drowned by the screams of sirens
from down the block.

In the pale glow of a test pattern
she sits, holding tight an old photo,
dreading the knock from a cop
that will soon be at her door.

His news will only be bad, or worse.

Maggie

Maggie
stands, holding a post on
the corner,
scanning the faces of the faceless.

Her feet move nervously from
side to side as she tries in
Desperation
to hold them still, trying to hold on
through the fog that envelopes her.

There, she sees him, the one
that can release her from her pain,
for a short while, at least.

She approaches with a smile
of brown teeth and bleary eyes,
and he knows what she wants,
the same thing they all want on
this corner.

Sure Maggie, he says, coldly,
but it’s not free, of course, it never is.
She offers in exchange all that she has,
all she has left,
Herself.

He takes her hand in his
as they walk away from
the corner,
the transaction to be completed
beside the smelly blue dumpster, in
the alley behind a diner where no one dines.

Please, she manages,
through the fog,

Please, my name is Margaret.

Mumbling

There he sits
In a dirty suit and tired shoes

Mumbling

On an orange vinyl seat
In this silvery train as it
Streaks beneath the world above

Mumbling

Not to you or me or
Anyone of our world,
But to someone else, unseen,
Of his own

As we come to a stop with a screech
And a shudder, he stands,
Shuffles his way to the door,
Looks back at me with vacant eyes

Mumbling

Before he turns and fades away,
I smile,
Not to acknowledge his humanity, but
To find solace in my own.

Then he turns and walks away

Mumbling

Shadows

He walks slowly, as always
head down,
looking at the shadows
cast over cracks
in a well worn sidewalk.

Through the throng of
those with busy lives,
of jobs and homes and
golf on Sundays,

looking only at the shadows.
His could be anyone else's.

Can a shadow be
dishevelled, no fixed address
the way a man can be
in nurses' notes and police reports?

As his shadow grows long,
and the summer sun sets,
he crosses a street,
and enters the park
to await the dawn.

Country Girl

Country girl looks
in a mirror,
her country face
pale white in
bare bulb light.

Mad shouts float down
from a room above

Pretty girl paints
make-up, bought from
a pretty girl
who never
hid black eyes

Shouts become sobs
above the peeled paint
Daddy's girl ran
far away from
her Daddy's world
drunk Friday nights
in her frilly bed.
Upstairs falls still
as silence invades.

There, In The Shadows

There in the shadows they lurk
waiting with unearthly patience
to pounce on me,
To wrap pale, gnarled hands around
my throat and squeeze,
Squeeze until my last breath
flows out of this body
and all that is left of me becomes
His

There in the shadows they skulk
with yellow eyes that invade me
to rest upon my very soul, that
which they are here for,

A contract forged in words of blood
signed by a fool that I once was,
A few breaths away from being marked
paid in full

There in the shadows they slither
light dances on the slimy skin as
they crawl further into the darkness
to await the time when my eternity begins,

A forever spent lashed to the very
cornerstone of hell,
When I too will share a hideous form
and bear the weight of my torment
There in the shadows