Monday, January 16, 2012

Sweet Smell

Sweet Smell
By: James Dubeau

There is a sweet smell
Which wafts by my face
A smell
Which I should not know
Not in these times
No in this life
But yet
It is a smell
Which I do know
It brings back memories
Of times gone by
Of a youth spent
Doing the things which youth
Is not meant to do
Should not do
Not if one
Wants to make something
Of themselves
Become something greater
Then the parents
And grand parents
Ever imagined

Friday, January 13, 2012


By: James Dubeau

I know I haven’t been keeping up on posting workout updates like I said I would but life just got in the way over the past two weeks. Yeah. That is it. So I might as well dive in.

For the last week or so I’ve started seeing my trainer. He sure does know how to kick my ass. On Monday I did an upper body day and my arms stayed sore all the way to Friday. Wednesday was a leg set which I feel I did somewhat well. Today was another upper body day and now my arms feel like rubber.

There was one exercise that really got me, a series of push-ups. Using a bar I would do as many as I could with my arms wide apart, then narrow, and finally close together. Each type was done until I failed. After finish all three types the bar was raised six inches and I had to do it again. This went on until I was pretty much just standing. At the end I was asked to do as many normal pushups as I could on the ground. I never made it. My arms gave out and I just fell over.

So now here I am two hours later wishing that I could work on some short stories but I can’t because my arms feel like rubber. I’m sure I’ll be sore in the morning.

Am I Dreaming

Am I Dreaming
By: James Dubeau

Several nights ago
I had dreamed
Death’s hand
Taking me under
To join those
That went before me
I am left to wonder
Did I ever wake
From that dream
Am I still living
The life I led
Or are those
Unnatural painted skies
A sign
That I never awoke
That I died
On the side of the road
An my mind conjured
The most gorgeous sunsets
Day after day
As my soul
Floats on through
Finding its way
To the after life
Or at least
Occupying time until
I open my eyes
To a sterile white room
With tubes in my body
Keeping me alive
Until I awoke

Wednesday, January 11, 2012

Death’s Hand

Death’s Hand
By: James Dubeau

I can feel
Death’s boney finger
Hovering high above
To grasp me
To pull me under
Joining those
Who have gone before
My heavy eyes
Accept the fate
He has in store
I could fight
To stay awake
To take matters
Into my own hands
But I am weak
The fight gone
From these old bones
I let darkness
Wash over me
And the skeletal hand
Drag me under

Monday, January 09, 2012

The Lobby

The Lobby
By: James Dubeau

They stand together
In groups
Conversations flow
From each island
Bubbling streams of sound
Swirling together
Over rocks
Around logs
Until doors open
The dam broken
Groups splinter
Flow in
Filling seats
To listen

Friday, January 06, 2012

A Great Weight

A Great Weight
By: James Dubeau

A great weight
Is upon me
Pressing down
Pinning my back
To the mattress
Limbs slowly respond
But yet
Lack the strength
To propel my body
From under the weight
Surrounds me
Does not take me away
Green glowing numbers
Moonlight through the shade
Pervasive through closed lids
A motor turns over
Somewhere beyond
Audible through ringing silence
My mind cries out
Yearning for the black

Wednesday, January 04, 2012


By: James Dubeau

Sitting here
Gazing across the room
Watching the flames
Lick and curl
Slowly melting ice
Condensation dripping
Into my scotch
Aged from ‘45
Days of the past
Roll on through
Checked and marred
With tones of sepia
As an old-time movie
All of the errors
All of the mistakes
Everything done wrong
To lead me down
This path to today
When I turned 45
Violins play
Somewhere behind me
Scratched melodies
Waltzes and suites
Have soothed the souls
Since ages past
Needle upon vinyl
Spinning 45
In my lap
Wood and metal
Rests unmoving
Heavy and steadfast
Cold to touch
Reluctantly raised
To my temple
Cleansing away
All the demons
Haunting my soul
In a flash
Of my .45

Monday, January 02, 2012


By: James Dubeau

Slowly the book fills
Black on white
Between the blue
Page after page
Once fresh pages
Turn dog-eared and old
In this once forgotten
Twice remembered
Random thoughts
In poetic verse
Filter through
Onto the pages
When the mood strikes
Or at times
To fill the void
Sometimes I wonder
What is the point
Of exposing my soul
In this craft
Which no one cares
When I share
What should be private
Away from this
My little