Warren Neil McNabb

1934 - 2025

SINCE LEAVING WINSLOW, AZ
by Warren (Neil) McNabb

This story begins with two people sitting on the sun drenched iron steps of the fire escape outside the old auditorium/gymnasium at Winslow High School. One of these people was a wild adventurous boy. The other was a young coach. As usual the boy was in trouble.

The coach was saying, "If you continue this way you are headed for trouble. If you don't change your attitude you are going to find yourself on the outside looking in, and in the long run you will be left out and left behind."

We talked for a few minutes more, the coach elaborating on his opening statement. I remember being impressed by his genuine concern. I was not a good listener in those days and Coach Nasser likely thought his words never found a place in my memory, but they did. I remembered them many times in the months and years that followed, and they helped me change my attitude and approach to life. When I later reflected on our conversation that day I was thankful he had taken the time to try to set me straight. He had a busy schedule, and I'm sure he had more important things to do. However, his words played an important role in my life. I never forgot them.

After my sister graduated from Winslow High School in 1950 my family moved to Albuquerque, New Mexico. I spent my last two years of high school there graduating in 1952. I studied hard at Albuquerque High School. I made up the classes I had dropped at Winslow, and I changed my major from vocational to college prep.

I met my high school sweetheart in one of the classes I was making up, and we were married a few months after graduation. We have three children. Our son, the oldest, graduated from New Mexico Tech with a degree in computer science and works for the Albuquerque/Bernalillo County Metropolitan Government. Our oldest daughter has a degree in accounting from the University of Louisville, Kentucky, and works for the Pet Smart Corp. Our youngest daughter is married with four children, and lives in Scottsdale, Arizona. Her husband is the regional manager for a real estate management company.

After completing high school I worked for the Santa Fe Railroad for two years, and then worked for the phone company for a few years. The phone company job introduced me to electricity and electronics, and I started attending evening classes at UNM. I had joined the National Guard some time previous to this and elected to go on active duty in the US Army at Ft Bliss, TX to attend electronics and missile schools.

After graduating from the US Army schools, and being released from active duty, I stayed on at Ft. Bliss as an electronics instructor working for the Philco Corporation. In those days, the electronics industry was booming and big companies were competing for knowledgeable technical people. I was lured away from Philco by Raytheon Company, and hired on with them in 1959 as a test engineer on HAWK missile system at their facility in El Paso, Texas. I later did some circuit design work for Raytheon and was eventually promoted into engineering management.

I spent thirty-three years with Raytheon. In the early sixties I accepted a couple of temporary assignments overseas, first to Germany, then, the next year, to Italy. A few years later I accepted an assignment to Germany as the Quality Assurance Manager in a missile equipment depot that Raytheon operated for the US Army. I spent four years on that job and we had a great time touring Europe on vacations and holidays.

At the end of the assignment in Germany I returned to the US for five years, and then accepted a job as Technical Operations Manager on Project Peace Shield in Iran. Project Peace Shield was a program to modernize the Iranian Armed Forces. Raytheon was responsible for installing Hawk missile sites throughout the country, and training Iranian military personnel to operate and maintain the missiles and related equipment. In those days Iran was full of excitement and adventure, and it was a fascinating place to live and work. After two years in Iran I was offered a similar job on a new program in Kuwait. We spent seven years in Kuwait, and observed the Iranian revolution from across the Persian Gulf, and also weathered the political upheavals of the Iran/Iraq war.

We returned to the States in 1983 where I spent the remainder of my career with Raytheon serving in various management positions of increasing responsibility. In 1992 with all our children grown and married I elected to take early retirement. My wife and I then moved to our farm in Missouri we bought many years ago where we now raise beef cattle.


Nan McNabb: Neil and his wife, Geri, spent many years living on their Missouri farm. As they aged, the demands of tending to cattle grew too strenuous, prompting them to sell the herd. They remained on the farm for several more years, enjoying frequent visits from their children, grandchildren, and other relatives. One memorable year, they hosted a family reunion, an event filled with joy for everyone involved.

In 2015, recognizing the need to be nearer to medical services, shopping, and other conveniences as they grew older, Neil and Geri sold the farm and relocated to Joplin, Missouri. They downsized into a new home, adapting to the rhythms of city life. Tragedy struck over the following years: their son, Scott, passed away in 2020, Geri followed in 2023, and their daughter, Valerie, in 2024. Neil carried on alone after Geri’s death until March 2025.


Warren N. McNabb, his poetry:



Copyright © 1998 Warren McNabb.
All Rights Reserved.



Copyright © 1999 Warren McNabb.
All Rights Reserved.
A Note To The Reader:

These poems are about life. There is an abundance of stories in every life; the following are some of mine. Most of these sketches are related to my own observations and experiences. However, the storyteller is not always the person in the story. For example, The Veteran, is not my story but one I heard from an acquaintance. I simply set it to verse. In addition, I occasionally allowed myself some poetic license because that is part of the fun.

I guess I always had poetry lurking around somewhere in my brain. Before now, I just never had time to listen to it.

Home Of Record was my first poem and it is first here. First poems are frontiers, from them you start to learn, and the journey begins. People sometimes help with criticism or encouragement and you go on from there. To paraphrase the late Charles M Russell, "There are lots better poets than me, and maybe some worse." I hope you enjoy these poems.

Warren McNabb
Turtle Valley Ranch
December 1999



HOME OF RECORD
The old excitement is always the same
A foreign assignment is part of the game.
This business demands you go when they call,
The time or season doesn't much matter at all.

There is always a sadness when I'm leaving home
It makes me feel lonely but I've got to roam.
This time they are sending me to places far and remote,
Where the customs are quaint and peculiar," they quote

Friends say, "Goodbye, we'll miss you this fall
When cottonwoods turn golden and quail start to call,
The sport's not the same when you're one of the missing
And the lake's best in autumn for serious fishing."

"We'll miss you on New Year's, hell, we'll drink you a toast."
Then at the party they gave me a roast.
Good-byes and good wishes, "Don't forget us," they say.
I take it all in... But I'm on my way.

My orders' approved, the plane leaves tomorrow,
When I kiss her goodbye I feel sincere sorrow,
I say I'll return when the assignment is over
She wants to believe, but her lover's a rover.

I'll miss her soft hands, talking late by the fire
Of enduring arrangements that women desire.
She's a good woman, I'd like to stay longer
But adventure's my mistress, her call is stronger.

The unknown's a mystery that lures me along
I hunger inside to hear the sirens' old song.
It's a craving from within I try to repress
Satisfied only by travel, adventure and stress.

This journey's a long one, it will last all my life
To stay long in one place just causes me strife.
Sometimes I wish I could settle but I never will
Always searching for something, just over the hill.

Copyright © 1996 Warren McNabb. All Rights Reserved.

My Old Man
My Old Man was a helluva' guy
He taught me to love nature and enjoy the night sky.
He always said don't be rough when gentle will do,
Take your time, you'll get through.
Don't do things just to make your self look good,
Be helpful and patient around the neighborhood.
I miss him now that he's gone and one thing for sure,
The older I get the more his advice seems pure.

Copyright © 1998 Warren McNabb. All Rights Reserved.

Southern Girl
When I was a little girl no more than three
My mother would pick cotton, I'd play under a tree.
The days were hot and the rows were long
She sang as she worked, her favorite songs.

Sometimes I 'd get to ride on the cotton sack
It was bumpy and rough as I lay on my back
But I didn't mind 'cause I'd hear her sweet voice
When the day was over, it was time to rejoice.

We'd go in to supper and get ready for bed
For tomorrow we had a long day ahead
My mother worked hard from sunrise to sundown
She never complained, she loved this ground

When the cotton was picked it went to the gin
Then next year she'd help plant it all over again.
The cycle repeated in nature's own time
She worked in the fields long past her prime.

My mother is gone now, but I still remember
Just as though it were last December
She looks down from above with a smile on her face
Saying we were poor but we had God's good grace.

Copyright © 1998 Geri McNabb. All Rights Reserved.

LOVE SONG
That day in class I saw you smile
I knew our love would last a while
Fifty years have passed since that day
I think our love is here to stay.

Your laughing eyes pierced my heart
No one else could play your part
Friend and lover both in one
Passion sure, but also fun.

At football games in autumns clear
We huddled close amid the cheer
Our teachers watched with silent smile
Never scolding, knowing all the while.

We married at a tender age
Love not years was our gauge
Friends thought we were too young,
Or love song needed sung.

Once when love grew thin
Heartbreaks from without and within
Our precious fire never died
We overcame because we tried.

Laughing in your warm bed at night
We put stress and worry both to flight
Those priceless moments of desire
Sustained and fueled our secret fire.

Now as we live through the best part
Closer to the ending than the start
There's one more thing I need to say
I love you more everyday.

Copyright © 1998 Warren McNabb. All Rights Reserved.
Turtle Valley Ranch June 5 1998.

To the tune of Pearl Bailey singing, "He's Gone." Apologies to Ms. Bailey.
 
RETIREMENT
No more working at the office
Until the middle of the night,
No more free labor on the weekends
To relieve the company's fiscal plight

No more trying to explain
Why the overhead has gone outa sight,
No more fudging of the figures
To make the profit look just right

No more racing through the rain
To catch that early morning flight,
No more fret and worry cause
My blood pressure is a fright.

I'm gone, I'm gone, I'm gone
And I'm so thankful I'm retired
My only nightmare is that I
Sometimes dream I'm re-hired!

Copyright © 1998 Warren McNabb. All Rights Reserved.

IN AUTUMN
Walking in the fields in autumn, this thoughtful time of year
Purring insects crowd my passage beneath a waning sun
Harvest crops stored safe away, winter drawing near.
Another summer's seen it's season; a few chores left still undone.
A rusty colored red tailed hawk atop a yellow bale of hay
Raptor's eyes searching windblown grass for an evening meal,
Tattered feathers show some wear; he has seen a better day.
In me you see that same span of season, a silvery kind of feel.
Dreaming of some pleasure past I scarcely sense the wind
Branches sway and dry leaves rasp against their stalk
Time slips by unnoticed until the daydreams end,
I stir then, and stretch, and continue on my walk.

       Reflecting on my days in autumn, a few things left still undone
Perhaps there will be time to finish before the coming winter's sun.

Warren McNabb
Turtle Valley Ranch
July 7, 1998
Copyright © 1998 by Warren McNabb. All Rights Reserved.

Remembering My First Airplane Ride
It was one of those warm days in early December,
My friends have forgot but I still remember.
I was just a kid in a small town in Texas
One day an old biplane landed in the field next to us.

When it bumped to a stop, a dusty pilot got down
He said, "For five bucks I'll fly you all over this town.
We were just kids, we didn't have any money
We suggested free rides, he didn't think it was funny.

Just then a roadster drove up with two guys and a girl.
They gave the pilot twenty bucks and said, "Let's go for a whirl."
When their rides were all over it was late in the day
My friends had gone home, they couldn't stay.

The pilot said, "Those people paid for four rides but only took three,
Hop in the plane kid, this one's on me."
We flew all over the town, it was so grand,
When it was over I didn't want to land.

He gave me a pair of old goggles, I've still got'em today.
Then with a smile and a wave he went on his way.
It was one of those warm days in early December
My friends have forgot but I still remember.

Copyright © 1998 Warren McNabb. All Rights Reserved.

Once while walking in a quiet garden I saw a brass sundial. The
inscription on its weathered face read, "Time takes all but memories."
 
Looking Out The Nursing Home Window
Do you ever wish you could go back again,
And see it now, the way it was then?
With memories so clear, you could still smell the wind
And make the same journey, through to the end.

They say that time is a river flowing slowly along
But the crossing seems swift if the boatman pulls strong.
If you could capture a moment to savor once more
Which bend in the stream would you choose to explore?

Success and praise you earned with hard labor,
Reflections of someone, a mate and a lover,
The laughter of children, like a bubbling brook.
Cascades of memories merged in a quiet nook.

Would you like to go back and see it again,
And visit that cheerful, sunburned old clan.
Picnics and ballgames; your summer was long.
A tale of this voyage wouldn't be a sad song.

Time and tides wash away the physical things,
Sense keeps memories from taking their wings,
When too many seasons cause reason to flee
It's time for the Captain to let the servant go free.

Turtle Valley Ranch Autumn, 1996
Copyright © 1996 Warren McNabb. All Rights Reserved.

I got the idea for this poem in London. Every afternoon the same two old
men would be sitting on the same park bench, watching children playing
soccer nearby. I never really knew who they were but I noticed the London
knete as they walked by. I imagined they were pensioned old soldiers with
them a litte Victoria Cross for gallantry in some forgotten war.
 
KENSINGTON PARK
They were just two old men
Who came to the park everyday.
Us kids hardly noticed them,
And continued our play.

Just two old men
So harmless, so frail and benign
Who would have dreamed
They were once fierce soldiers so fine.

Our ball bounced up to their bench
And lay there a while
They pushed it back with their canes
And then gave us a smile.

These two old soldiers
With ill fitting clothes and watery eyes,
When they were young
Won their nations best prize.

One afternoon they got drunk on vodka,
Reminiscing, happily laughing, and gay.
Natasha's mother had the police
Come and take them away.

These two old war heroes
Quite famous in their day,
Now just two old men
Watching children play.

Copyright © 1998 Warren McNabb. All Rights Reserved.

The Day After Pay Day
Grunting, cursing, sweating, straining
To lift one more oozing creosoted timber
Into place on the bridge; responding to the
Foreman's chant of "Arriba!" We labor on.

The smell of stale whiskey breath and tortillas
Cooked in rancid lard mixed with the stink of
Cigarette smoke and bodies that forgot to bathe
Is strong in the warm morning air.

Our short, fat, red faced foreman, chewing
On the flaccid stub of a wet cigar waves his
Short arms and bellows, "Carl, Frosty, Red,
Show those new men how to set that stringer!"

Three old timers drop what they are doing
And gather around us. Self-conscious, coached,
And clumsy we give a final heave. At last,
The heavy stringer slides into alignment.

Damned by the effects of the desiccating
Desert sun and too much whiskey the night
Before, feeling like pieces of dry leather,
We pray for the arrival of noon.

Copyright © 1998 Warren McNabb. All Rights Reserved.

CAMPFIRE AT NIGHT
When the desert cools down at the beginning of night
It becomes a peculiar place near the end of the day
After the sun dips low then fades out of sight,
And the twilight enchants in its curious way.

It's about this time, near the beginning of dark
When things seem to shift and take on a new form,
Creatures that scurry and rustle rove nature's vast park
And stars and planets their nightly excursions perform.

As the sand gives its heat back to the space
And a juniper fire burns with a fragrant flame
It's then old friendships don't feel out of place,
And I'd rather be here than have world acclaim.

A small circle of pals by the fire's friendly glow
Trust, quiet talk, and friendship that never betrays,
Drinking strong campfire coffee, in seasons long ago.
I'd trade some tomorrows for those old yesterdays.

Then soon it's time for the last drink and the last story
Told around the flames of the slow dying fire,
Old friends and campaigners remember their glory,
Their hoarse wintry voices a venerable choir.

Copyright © 1998 Warren McNabb. All Rights Reserved.

The June Bugs Came In May This Year
All the flowers, Even the June Bugs,
Came in early this year.

I wish you could have been here
With me this spring to see the profusions
Of Bluets and Johnny-Jump-Ups,
All the beds of Daffodils and fields of Daisies.

The little back pasture was covered
With wild flowers. Somehow I never
Found time to mow it this year.

Life seems so precious now,
I couldn't even step on a June Bug
That flew up on the porch.

God was gentle, we had time
To say goodbye. But I wish I could hold
Your careworn hands one more time.

Copyright © 1998 Warren McNabb. All Rights Reserved.

SNOWFLAKES
The pain usually wakes me
In the morning around four
I lie in the bed until
I can't take it no more.

That's why I stay awake
Watching a late TV show
With the volume turned down,
So the neighbors won't know.

The doctor gave me some
Pills as big as your thumb
I eat them like candy
But still don't get numb.

They won't give me anything
Stronger, I begged and pleaded
They say that stuff's addicting,
And it's more than I needed.

I wish they could be me
And feel some of this pain
But they just poke and they mutter
And send me home once again.

I sat by the window
Watching school kids today
They're at their beginning,
While I'm just sliding away.

This is like stumbling
Backwards down a steep slope
There is no way back up
And there's surely no hope.

The end doesn't scare me
We all have to die,
I've not much to live for
And there's no one to cry.

You've been a true friend,
My God, the times that we had!
For me it's almost all over,
Don't let that make you feel sad.

We've had a good talk,
This may be our last call
I'll get some rest now
I hear the nurse in the hall.
          **************
I got word on my birthday
Of course I'll never forget
He died early that morning
Quietly, with little regret.

I put down the phone
And looked out at the snow
Thinking life is a snowflake,
Melting; where does it go?

Copyright © 1998 Warren McNabb. All Rights Reserved.

WHAT MOTIVATES ME?
Not much of anything in this hot weather
I just flop around from couch to chair
And sit on the porch watching clouds gather
Hoping this afternoon will be cloudy instead of fair.

In this kind of summer nobody moves fast and
I just can't get enthused about hauling in hay
Maybe I need to find some young hired hand.
I dream about going fishing but it's too hot today.

My back feels about as stiff as a chunk of old bark
And my movements have lost their former fluidity
As the folks around here are prone to remark,
"It ain't so much the heat as it is the humidity."

Copyright © 1998 Warren McNabb. All Rights Reserved.

LIMERICKS FOR A RAINY WEDNESDAY
When cleaning out old cattle chutes
It is best to wear high rubber boots
If you get in a hurry
And slip in the slurry
You'll wish you had chosen other pursuits.

I once had a white cat named Biddle
I thought he was fit as a fiddle
When under the bed I found him quite dead.
How he got that way is still a big riddle.

If you ever go for a short drive in Tehran
You'll find streetwalkers there despite the ban
They wear high leather boots
And wave at old coots
Driving by in their shiny sedan.

One night at the AARP Po'try chat
The poems were about this and that
We had limericks galore
And we all yelled for more
Because this is our favorite format.

There was a young lass from Bizerte,
Her lovers thought she was quite flirty
She had eyes of light blue
And sure loved to... stew
Ah ha! You thought this was going to be dirty.

I once bought a tractor from Russia
It was cheaper than the one sold by Prussia
While driving through the crud
The wheels fell off in the mud,
You had to watch out or it would crush ya.

Copyright © 1998 Warren McNabb. All Rights Reserved.

GERI'S LIMERICKS

FLOUR SACK DRESS

Did you ever wear a flour sack dress,
With buttons and bows and all the rest,
With a pink ribbon tied,
And a clean scrubbed hide,
To church on sunday looking your best?

NED

We have a young bull named Ned
Who has never yet been bred
A heifer that's smart
Has stolen his heart
And he's dreaming of what lies ahead

Copyright © 1998 Warren McNabb. All Rights Reserved.

MORE LIMERICKS
I have an old horse name of Speck
Who is most times a pain in the neck
He rips open feed sacks
For his midday snacks
And he then leaves my stable a wreck.

Our little red tractor named Bell
Was once not running well
Her voltage was low
And she wouldn't go S
ome new batteries made her work swell.

A raccoon comes to our house for dinner
He thinks the cat food is a winner
He rattles the plates
And sometimes brings mates
They're all getting fatter, not thinner.

Copyright © 1998 Warren McNabb. All Rights Reserved.

Ghosts Of Christmas's Past
Snow, abundant, whispering down, quickly covers the city,
Black asphalt streets now white runways with dark tracks.
Bare trees and shrubs grow thick with the windless wet snow,
Streetlights beam halos through the softly shining flakes.

The fascinating silence of snow filled streets,
With lights blinking through the crystalline fog
Delight us as we descend from the foothills to
The city for a holiday nightcap at our old rendezvous.

Downtown, this grand old hotel, refurbished now,
Its quiet lounge with dark wood, pale candles
Glowing in the soft light and muted sounds
Retains the graceful charm of an earlier time.

The lounge is almost empty. As we enter, the
Bartender looks up, checks out your taut black
Spaghetti straps, and smiles. Trio playing smooth
And low, good piano, great bass, our kind of place.

Sitting here with you in this familiar safe harbor
Old times and Christmas's past come alive again.
Memories, pulsing, panning into soft focus become
A gentle glow on the hazy screen of recollection.

Dancing close and slow, music encloses us.
Inhaling your musk, rich and warm, mixed
With the faint fragrance of a lingering perfume;
Time stands still for us one more time.

Copyright © 1998 Warren McNabb. All Rights Reserved.

Lookin' Toward Home
When the first pale pink streamers
Of dawn give way to fragile shades
Of pastel and finally fade away
Before the steady drum roll of
The emerging yellow sun, I whisper,
"Thanks Again."

Copyright © 1998 Warren McNabb. All Rights Reserved.

Fixin' Fences
Getting finally to the end of the fence
We watch the red orange ball of the sun
Slipping down the curtain of the horizon
Signaling our long workday done.

I shift in the stirrups and slide down
Easing weight from this old horse's back,
Low lying clouds now reflecting red,
I drop my fence pliers in the steeple sack.

We stand watching twilight gather,
Longtime friends, just me and him
Countless evenings spent this way
Watching days grow dim.


Copyright © 1999 Warren McNabb. All Rights Reserved.

Lament For A Long Dead Friend
You know how it is in the morning
At first light. The terrain drab.
Thin Fog in the low places. Foliage
Coloring from gray to green as the
Sun breaks over the horizon lighting
The tops of gnarled mesquite trees.

We stood solemnly watching droves
Of dove winging in from Mexico to
The green irrigated fields of Texas.
Me poised with my old over/under
All set to go, two extra shells clutched
Between the fingers of my left
Hand ready for a quick reload.

You with your shotgun in one
Hand and a can of Coors in the
Other. When the birds drew close
You yelled, "Incoming," and
Laughed like hell causing the birds
To suddenly veer off like a school
Of frightened bait fish. Idiot.

But I still remember you on the
First morning of dove season
And sometimes in the evening
When I open a new bottle of Hoppes #9.

Copyright © 1999 Warren McNabb. All Rights Reserved.

Lago Di Garda
The warm wind is still.
Motionless water
Catches the sky in
A quiet mirror.
Cumulus clouds drift,
Rearranging the
Soporific scene.

Slow moving shoppers
On dusty streets grow
Few in midday heat.
Drowsy shopkeepers
Close shutters and doors
Eager for the noon
Meal and siesta.

The late afternoon
Ferry pulls in with
Hissing hydrofoils
And blasting klaxon.
Few people notice.
The village slumbers,
Pillowed in soft dreams.

At last, the heat of
The day is broken.
A gentle breeze stirs,
Shop doors are unlocked
Shutters raised, streets
Fill with people.
The Village awakens.

Harsh daylight softens
As the sun slips down.
Sharp shadows lengthen
Then fade as darkness
Overtakes them.
The Quiet mirror now
Reflects the night sky.

Copyright © 1999 Warren McNabb. All Rights Reserved.

Doc Long's Cabin
Topping the rise, pulse pounding,
Dizzy from the long climb,
I lean against a tree and adjust
The sternum strap of the heavy pack.

Below me, snug in the
Small valley, I see the rusty
Tin roof of the old cabin
Its porch sagging on tired timbers.

The door stands open the interior dim
With a mixture of accumulated
Dirt, dust and evidence of
Social calls by curious animals.

No one comes here anymore
Since the logging road was
Closed over ten years ago,
My solitude is complete.

I pitch the filmy nylon tent
Close by a gnarled juniper
The ground beneath it soft
With dry grass and shed needles.

Staring into the fire after dinner
I linger over a cup of fragrant tea,
Its aroma reminds me of the scent
Of your hair fresh after a shower.

Dozing I dream of good times
And remember that old photo
Of you in a soft summer dress
Standing in front of our first house.

Copyright © 1999 Warren McNabb. All Rights Reserved.

Of Lions And Ladies
We would stop in Soho
And have a few pints there
Then saunter down the street
Toward Trafalgar Square.

Where regal stone lions
Repose with quiet dignity
Guarding Britain's tribute
To Lord Nelson's victory

What a bonny place to
Be on a summer night
To watch the girls stroll by
In the soft sunset light.

The lions don't seem to notice
They stare with tranquil grace
Waiting for a maiden
To appear before their place.

For when a virgin passes by
As clearly states the lore,
If that should ever happen,
Those great stone lions will roar!

Copyright © 1999 Warren McNabb. All Rights Reserved.

Renewable Pleasures
We glide away from the dock
And catch the wind. Sails billow
Then snap sharply, as the boat
Accelerates in the breeze. L
ines pull taut and strain, singing
With stress as I trim the sail.
Our wake curls gracefully back.

Cruising, we loll in the stern
Trailing our hands in clear cold
Water. Lithe bodies lying
Warm in the sun we are youth,
Boundless, indestructible.
Time can never affect us,
We are callow and convinced

H
Dos Mariposas
Lying on damp sheets, spent. Night
Wind through an open window
Billows the pale curtains and
Dissolves the warm vapors of
Love. Your Leg soft across mine,
Lightly like a butterfly.

Copyright © 1999 Warren McNabb. All Rights Reserved.

Fridays
It's funny how things work out sometimes.
I was the one who wanted to move out
And get an apartment in the city where
I was spending most of my time anyhow.

My star was just beginning to rise then
And I didn't want any distractions,
I needed all my energies for the job.
That seems like a long time ago now.

Tonight, a rainy Friday at the Atlanta Airport,
I saw a woman with a sassy ass in a skirt
Like those you used to wear.
For a moment I thought it was you.

I've worked hard to get where I am today,
I used to think the job was all I needed but
Sometimes now I think back to Friday evenings
When I was coming home to you.

Copyright © 1999 Warren McNabb. All Rights Reserved.

Conversation Over Morning Coffee
Geri sez, "Did you make this coffee?"
I sez, "Nope."
Geri sez, "Is this yesterdays coffee?"
I sez, "Yup."
Geri sez, "This is awful."
I sez, "Yup."
Geri sez, "I can't drink this."
I sez, "Nope."
Geri sez, "I'll make some fresh."
I sez, "OK."
"There," she says, "Better?"
"Yup."

Copyright © 1999 Warren McNabb. All Rights Reserved.

Bare Feet In Seventeen Syllables
   (Not Haiku but maybe, Hike-U)
Bare feet young and wet
Walking in the summer rain
When we were children.

Bare feet tired and wet
In the locker room after
Winning the big game.

Bare feet warm and wet
In the shower at the
Niagara Inn.

Bare feet worn and wet
Soak in a heated basin
By my rocking chair.

Copyright © 1999 Warren McNabb. All Rights Reserved.

The Night Calvin Clark Died
Nobody ever knew I was with
Old Calvin Clark the night he died.
We were sitting in his shack out
On the edge of town. Calvin was
Drinking from a bottle of Four
Roses Whiskey, and wearing his
Gray Stetson hat and pistol belt,
Telling me about the time him

And Doc Long got into a fight
One Saturday night at a dance
Up at Mormon Lake Lodge and Doc
Got put in jail but Cal didn't.
He was laughing at the memory
When he lit up a Lucky Strike
And took another drink out of
That flask of strong smelling whiskey.

Next he had a coughing fit like
He sometimes did but this time he
Couldn't stop and fell out of his
Chair and hit the floor with a whump.
When I saw there wasn't anything
Could be done for him I grabbed the
Revolver out of his gun belt
And then took off on a dead run.

The newspaper said he died while
Drinking alone and his pistol
Was gone but suspect no foul play.
I missed Calvin for a long time.
He used to take me fishing down
By the dam on Clear Creek. I still
Own the pistol. Old Calvin would
Have gotten a kick out of that.

Copyright © 1999 Warren McNabb. All Rights Reserved.

God Be With You Gentle Father
My dad would have liked this place,
In the open shade of a large old
Chinaberry tree, on a slight rise above
The dusty desert floor. Arid mountains
Outline the horizon. I can hear a lonely
Gamble's quail calling "cha-keet-aah,
cha-keet-aah," in a raspy voice.
          **************
As the echoes of the last volley fired
Over the casket die away across
The desert landscape, a weathered
Bugler with a lined and leathery
Face begins his sorrowful solo.
Finally the flag draping the casket
Is folded and placed in my mother's
Trembling hands.

Dominus vobiscum, gentle father
Who cried at my sister's wedding.

Dominus vobiscum, gentle father
Who never stopped loving this
Wild adventurous boy who
Broke your heart.

Dominus vobiscum, gentle father.

Copyright © 1999 Warren McNabb. All Rights Reserved.

From Notes At Verdun, 1966
Yellow daffodil blowing in the wind.
Thy tender beauty could have never sinned.
Pastel blossom with ornate life so brief,
Tattered soon like drab autumn's weathered leaf.

Frail flower can thy xylem ever know
I walked in fields where lonely poppies blow,
Fog and rain my morose companions there
Where nightly phantoms of old battles flare.

This ground where sleeps below our precious dead
Freed now from passion, longing, fear and dread.
Patriotic sons thunderstruck by fate
They early made their call at heaven's gate.

Heroes whose nations begged to give their all.
Who prayed each night before the trumpet's call
"God save me from this terrifying flood
Tho' I am black with sin and stained with blood."

Copyright © 1999 Warren McNabb. All Rights Reserved.

They used to meet at the Jade Room Club
And drink and laugh and woo those limber ladies.
 
The Veteran
Sometimes the phantoms
By my bedside stare
Throughout the night.

In the dream I
Clench my teeth
And sweat with fright.

I feel the Huey
Pitch and roll
As we evade.

This is so far
From the music
And the parade.

Why does the
Dream haunt
Me so?

We all killed a few.
I was there,
I oughta know.

But their fading
Faces sear my
Soul.

Copyright © 1999 Warren McNabb. All Rights Reserved.

No Rusty Swords
This new war is not about shifting
Attention from Bill and Monica.
It is not about the "Domino Effect."
It is not about saving Southeast Asia
From communism. It is not about
Protecting the oilfields of Kuwait.

This new war is about genocide.
We are a powerful and generous nation
Let us have no rusty swords when it comes
To protecting innocent people from calculated
And systematic slaughter by a madman.

If you have ever looked at the aging
Photos of naked, terrified Jewish
Women being herded past lines of jeering
SS troopers to the showers at Auschwitz
Then you know what I am talking about.

Copyright © 1999 Warren McNabb. All Rights Reserved.

The Late Show
My old enemy glares back at me
As I stare at him in the hallway
Mirror. He looks older than I do.
I suspect he hates me. Small wonder,
I have put him though a lot.

I drove him hard most of his life.
For years I desiccated his lungs
With tobacco smoke and dosed
Him liberally with alcohol to
Relieve his stress. No wonder he
Looks so old.

But as I look closer, maybe he doesn't
Look quite as bad as a few years ago.
Cigarettes are a folly of the distant
Past and the only alcohol now is a
Glass of wine on rare special occasions.
Maybe all that yogurt and tofu along
With the vitamins and supplements
And work on the ranch has paid off.

Retirement seems to agree with him.
The face is thinner, the paunch gone.
Shortness of breathe now only a memory.
I have been treating him pretty good lately.
Maybe we could learn to be friends after all.

Copyright © 1999 Warren McNabb. All Rights Reserved.

That Old Song
What song is this I hear you sing again?
A half remembered tune so vague in time
That starts a restless humming in my brain
And sets my mind to searching for its rhyme.

Its melody returns sweet memories
From times long past. Still now I heed your call.
I journey back in silent reveries.
Your lovely silken song recalls them all.

Copyright © 1999 Warren McNabb. All Rights Reserved.

Yarnell Hill
When I pulled into Rip Griffith's
Truck Stop and Restaurant at the top
Of Yarnell hill the heat of the day was
Just starting to build in the desert below.

Inside the dingy office I drew a large
Cup of coffee and got a package
Of stale sweet rolls off the counter.

"You must be headed home to mama
tonight," Doc said as he made change,
"You don't usually pull the hill until
Around noon."

"Hell," I said, "I'm so anxious to get home
I came up Yarnell Hill in high gear."

Doc shifted his toothpick to the
Other side of this mouth looking,
With faded blue gun fighter eyes,
Off into the heat waves rising
From the desert hills, remembering
When he was somebody around here.

Times when people knew his name.
In his heyday back before the war, years
ago, before he started pumping gas and
tending the register here at the truck stop.

He stared at me, coughing to shake off
Some of the bitter chills of old age.
"Ain't nobody ever come up Yarnell
Hill in high gear," he said in a menacing
Whisper through dry thin lips,
"Not even you!"

Copyright © 1999 Warren McNabb. All Rights Reserved.

Vespers
When day's sharp sun formed
Shadows begin their evening fade
And the wind shifts to accept a new night,
Then twilight's footprints tread into my glade.

As sunset's darkness falls, blowing out the light,
The landscape is soon dim slate-color draped
A nighthawk's mournful voice quivers and
Day's tensions all at last escaped.
Now I pray.

Copyright © 1999 Warren McNabb. All Rights Reserved.

Christmas Eve
A Mercedes sedan hisses by on the wet street
It's high-pitched exhaust resonating as the driver
Accelerates toward Friedberg, dim in the distance.

Snow crunches under our shoes as we stroll
Past shop windows decorated for the season.
Strings of clear electric bulbs adorn the square.

A gust of wind, blowing across the soccer field,
From the direction of the school carries the
Sound of children's voices singing "Tannenbaum."

You hand finds mine in the pocket of my Loden coat,
Palm to palm, fingers interlocking we turn toward
Home as snow flurries begin to swirl in the cold air.

Copyright © 1999 Warren McNabb. All Rights Reserved.

At The Villa Monte Gatto
When the sun is hot, I dream
Of afternoons spent in your
Cool dark bedroom in the old
Hotel. You held my face, warm
Against your breasts. Together
We explored the skills that made
Us spellbound secret lovers.

Copyright © 1999 Warren McNabb. All Rights Reserved.