In Dancing with My Shadow, newcomer Warren K. Olson presents the poems of one man's life. From the pain of Midnight in a Darkened Cathedral to the exuberance of Spring in Dogdom, Olson's work spans the decades, countries, and experiences that have brought him to today. The book is a compilation of poems and essays about daydreams, nightmares, love and loss; many of the entries cover more than one ofthese subject matters within their content. Some of the subjects arefrom his early teens, and all are from a mind with an explosive passionfor life; passion from the moment experienced at the time! The stunning result renders poems carefully crafted to elicit emotion from the reader, painting pictures with words. The masterful work carries readers to places they may have never seen, and people they may have never met, with a clarity and precision that will make them wish they had.

Dancing With My Shadow

Selected PoemsBy Warren K. Olson

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2009 Warren K. Olson
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4490-4835-8

Chapter One

$100 a Month

$100 a month, radio, no TV. A dirty efficiency kitchenette; couch, easy chair, coffee table, lamp. The bedroom, linens furnished, is separated from the rest of the place by a shower curtain that matches the shower curtain around the tub; $100 a month.

French doors that open to an creaky balcony, and a view of the valley and stream below. Stairs, nearly as steep as a ladder, creak more than the balcony. A closet and dresser that will hold more clothes than I have with me, and with the odor of fresh cedar; all for $100 a month.

This place has privacy, a clean spot to park my car and outlets enough for my stereo and guitar. What the hell, I'll only be here late in the night and on Sundays, for two months.

My first place! A paradise in the prairie (in knotty pine) complete with a charcoal grill! 5 miles from town and a hundred miles from nowhere. This will be a good place to play some rock-n-roll, drink 3.2% beer, and strum a Hank Williams song when I'm blue.

The good in me left with my innocence; I'm running to something and not away from anything. I'm starting a job that I may not be able to handle, a life that scares the shit out of me, facing the demons of my past, and those of my future!

It's getting dark now and the lamp will bring some comfort until I can find something more than farm news on the radio. For some reason it seems cold in here and I feel like I could puke! A whole new world, all for $100 a month!

Almond Eyes

Dark hair frames her face; eyebrows arch as her eyes rise to meet mine. Leaving two bodies close within love's space, dark hair under starlit skies.

Dark almond - shaped eyes that glisten; eyes that smile an internal smile, causing a rapid heart to hasten, to hold love near for a while.

Dark skin that reflects the moonlight, creating cream-colored lines as the moon shines; lighting a path for a lover to trace in the night ... to savor all that he finds.

A soft voice that gets softer with a whisper, with a sigh as he moves along her path. A body that trembles with involuntary gestures, a swelling of previously unfelt emotion, one she dreams will last.

The silence of the night is broken by the sound of breathing, and carried on love's wind. The two lay together listening to words unspoken, each praying this time never ends

Ancient Ones

The spirits of the Ancient Ones visit this land often. The misty apparitions walk the river bluffs, stopping now and then to shade their saddened eyes with their hands as they stare longingly onto the vast plains before them.

The plains have changed from tallgrass to wheat, and are noticeably void of wild game. Once this open space stretched for hundreds of miles, now it is carved into manicured homesteads and symmetrical fields.

The older children of the Ancient Ones roamed the plains freely until deceit robbed them of that freedom; that deceit still holds them on the least inhabitable places within their universe.

The Ancient Ones shake their heads in sorrow and weep openly over the collective heart of their children's children that is cupped in ancient hands. They turn and walk slowly into the place of their dreams, and disappear .........................in the manicured present.

Big Simon

Big Simon is an Indian, lives at the end of the reservation; he lives here in a wall-less prison as does the rest of the Sioux Nation.

Simon does not have a job, for here there is very little to do, except to fish - when they're biting, and hunt - when they're running, and trust the BIA will take care of you.

Simon tries to supplement his government checks when he's able; but he did more so in the distant past; part for his pride.... then just to put more food on the table.

He helped raise four boys, fought in the Asian jungle, and ran cattle for some of his life; and early on he took to drinking, cost him his boys and his wife.

He spends most of the time telling old stories and trying to get a ride into town. The stories regale in a past of fake glories and a careful listener can see the false crown.

Two pair of jeans, three shirts, all faded, not a lot to show for a lifetime it seems; and that which is left the man has degraded leaving him with only his self-broken dreams.

Big Simon can't change and the system won't let him, and so he lives with life's greatest fears. Just another poor Indian stuck on the reservation, riding the trail of his own Trail Of Tears.

Bittersweet Tropic

Romance in the tropics, browned bodies holding on to each other, and to the moment.

It's hard to tell the difference between the sounds of the surf, and that of two hearts rapidly beating.

Salt water spray, or the salty taste of sweat; music composed by the birds, or a chorus within two minds?

Soft, sand covered dark curves, damp black hair to the waist, and a smile that hides time's passing.

The heat of passion confused with that of the sun; no sleep, as night turns too quickly into day. and one hears the jets leave hourly, so you must hold tight to this place ... to this time.

The bittersweet scenes of romance in the tropics, ...........as you dance to the waves night music.

Bobby

You see him walking the streets from morning to night, taking time off for his part-time jobs. He shuffles along, cigarette in tight lips, dressed in old faded shirt and pants, wearing socks with broken sandals.

He stops every couple of blocks and rests on the street side benches, starring into store windows at items he will never own. The passersby give indignant glances in his direction as he smiles and nods a shy hello; they are not so much embarrassed for him as they are for themselves, for he treats their indignation with simple dignity.

He knows he is not one of them, he has never been. He has given up on trying to understand why he is so different, why his life is not like theirs; it's just always been that way.

Its dusk now and the street lights have come on. He lights another cigarette as he rises from the bench, and nods an evening hello to a perfect young couple heading for a local bar; they barely tolerate his gesture; and he shuffles-off on his rounds.......with dignity!

Cane

The cane fields are ready for harvesting, the tall blossoms sway in the wind and the workers watch from the villages waiting for the harvest to begin.

Its hard and hot work cutting cane, and you can see by the cuts on their hands that a lifetime of working the fields takes a toll as you count the scars on every cane man.

The weather's been good for the cane this year, there will be plenty of work in the fields. The men wait and sharpen their blades; it's a sharp blade and strong back that causes the cane to yield.

They'll work until all the cane is in, sweating in the mid-day sun, and swinging the blade with their bodies bent until the harvest is done.

Each making just enough to see them through, feeding the family is the reason, then languishing and looking for part-time work as they await the blossoms of a new cane season.

Caribe

It's late, and a few stragglers walk hand-in-hand on the beach. Wispy clouds play tag with the moon and the sand is cool under my feet. A warm yet cooling wind is blowing in and small waves tenderly kiss the shore. As the moonlight dances upon the water, I know I've been here before.

A school of jellyfish surround the creaking dock, And the old faded wooden fishing boats gently bob and rock. A spiny sea urchin rolls in to the end of a wave, landing next to a boat oar, And as the moonlight shimmers across the water, I know I've been here before.

Far out on the horizon, the soft lights of a tour ship blend with that of the stars, And the quiet of the night is broken by tourists returning from beach-side bars. But the silence of the evening soon returns to that of yore; And as the moonlight plays upon the water, I know I've been here before.

I walk the beach and stare in to now darkened beach hotels; on the way back, I stop to wade in to collect some broken sea shells. I stack them in a pyramidal form along the lapping shore, And as the moonlight kisses the shells goodnight, I know I've been here before.

Its 2:00 a.m. by the time I leave the beach to sit on large beach rocks, within a few minutes I'm back to my shack stretched out in the old hammock. I close my mind and listen to the beauty as I knock on nature's door, And as the moonlight fades within my closing eyes, I know I've been here before.

Charlotte

A beautiful girl with dark hair, dark eyes, and a friend of mine, has aged through poverty, abuse, and alcohol over time.

When young she was so filled with promise and dreams, but 40 long years on the reservation has torn life's cloak at the seams.

Too many nights, with too many men, has trapped her deeply within; being poor hasn't helped, her self-reliance is gone, and addiction has set in.

No time for her God, no time for her kids, no husband to play a role as she goes through her life in a haze and a blur, for little is left of her soul.

So she will spend the rest of her time on bad men and cheap wine, continuing to search her life-skies for something she will never find.

And Charlotte's history of failures in life is her lament, a heart that is saddened and hollow, from a life so foolishly spent.

They will find her in Montana's winter, frozen by the side of the road, and few will morn her passing except a white man, a friend of old.

Clearing the Cobwebs

It is time to clear the cobwebs from my mind, they are but dusty gatherings of random memories and thoughts of a lifetime. The cobwebs are heavily laden with fragmented pieces and bits and, although they served me well, they no longer fit.

The person I have become with age is a person of a "new day", and now it's time for this seldom used collection to be swept away. The cobwebs cling to the corners of my memory, having grown longer with passing time; now I look forward to a cobweb-free mind.

The cleaning and clearing will take some time, but I know I must try to reach a place of relative comfort within my mind's eye. The process has started, although the shadows of time have strengthened each web, leaving me to direct (with wisdom imparted), that which is needed to put the cobwebs to bed.

Convenient Lie

Star-crossed lovers dining by soft lights, while across the room another couple sits in quiet desperation, the lovers thinking only of this night, and the others in silent anticipation.

Now, past love, they live a life of what is right, hiding under a cloak which , thankfully, serves as their foundation.

Children, grown and gone, and maybe grandkids soon, they smile into the empty night to hide their graying gloom. That of a loveless life, one of no passion, a structured life that time alone has fashioned.

For time together is all that is left, a short walk under a make-believe sun, under clear sky. For that time is a convenient gift ... as they live a convenient lie!

Coyote

She moves across the prairie under moonlight, weaving a meandering trail through the night on a hunt that may last past daybreak, searching for a meal that she, and hunger, deems just right.

She is thin, and her fur has been mottled by age. She darts in and out of small ravines, then to a path along the stream, circling the stand of white pines that sit on the small butte, the pines in the night look like silhouettes in a dream.

This old coyote has survived the hunters the past 3 or 4 years, and perhaps many more years than I've known; and I watch from the line shack's small porch and I wonder, .........how much longer can she call this place home?

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Dancing With My Shadowby Warren K. Olson Copyright © 2009 by Warren K. Olson. Excerpted by permission.
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