Voices on the Wind Open Theme
CHRISTMAS EVE 1969 by Dick Bakken Warm, airy night. Laughter bursts those twinkling houses. So hushed here but Jeana pops by with soup, scrambled meat pie, and an explosive hand-splashed card. Surprisingly Primus St. John to shriek laughter with us, sucking in those happy gasps, then down silent musing, before off sweeping one palm, the other hugging a dozen borrowed books by poets we all ached to be. Soon Jeana’s wet smooch to tingle my damn breathing on and on into Christmas, yes, and New Year’s. I kicked down rest of a crumbling rear picket fence then limped nearly three blocks to my Seven-Eleven for the pound of butter, planning a roast of some backyard chestnuts. But now I’m dead in bed straining to shut the light after reading Ezra’s lunatic Mussolini cantos. All evening in struggle typewriting to General Hershey to whom I’d returned my draft card though a year beyond soldier age, in support of those18-year-olds from Reed’s dozen who dropped theirs into an envelope streaked crisscross with blood “I won’t fight poet Ho Chi’s little warriors in black-pajamas!” Would rather have strolled this balmy air, cracked chestnuts, scribbled a poem, maybe beginning, “It’s against my religion to dance out of costume.” I’ll leave porch light on, door open—hopefully an angel will visit, or three wise-ass winos. Well, now midnight, another Christmas. Tomorrow my drive home to Spokane, see what’s up, visit with pal Jim Allen out to Wildman Willie’s long abandoned campsite, kiss my pregnant little sis Sally. I no longer have radio, TV, newspapers, no longer hear the invisible Vietnamese but know they are still dying by our fiery bulbs run up over the houses and those silly little Santas whistling out into the night. Each one drops a turkey to our slicked pull-out dining tables.