THE GARDEN OF ACCEPTANCE

Shadows are my friends these days.
Nobody can see me crying in the dark.
While the others lie around in the sun
I seek out somber arbors in the park.
The muted light of leaves and limbs
Caress the aches within my heart
And whisper to me to just relax
And let the healing grieving start.

Sometimes I hear some music there
Playing so softly in my inner soul.
I hope to find the inner strength
To think I might someday be whole
Instead of this half a person here
Who doesn’t even notice a sunrise
That spends its multicolor glory
Like a painted cathedral for my eyes.

If people pass and I notice them
They don’t serve to make me sad
Seeing them so happy together
Being contented or even a bit glad,
Because I am here in this serenity
I include them in my private reverie.
The message that life goes on does
Brings restful meditation to me.

But, mostly it’s the natural things;
The birds and the variegated leaves,
The flowers, and cool green lawns
That soothe, and comfort and please.
They slowly help me to realize
That the world in not all about me.
We have to let our sadness fall behind
To truly understand how to be free.

Brent Kincaid
4/3/2015

PERFECT WIFE

A perfect little wife
A perfect loving life
He slaps me in the face
I don’t feel disgrace.
As long as he comes home
And doesn’t choose to roam
Then I will toe the line
And all will be just fine.

I’m not the perfect wife
I can get out of hand
He’s the love of my life
You have to understand.
We have so much invested
In our life together.
He’s so very special
I’ll never find another.

It’s not his fault
What is going on.
It’s not his fault
I egged him on.
It’s not his fault
I burned his dinner.
It’s not his fault
I should have known better.

A perfect little wife
A perfect loving life
He slaps me in the face
I don’t feel disgrace.
As long as he comes home
And doesn’t choose to roam
Then I will toe the line
And all will be just fine.

When he’s sweet
He’s the love of my life.
He’s the perfect husband
For such a ******* up wife
When he’s angry
He’s not the same.
It’s all my fault;
He’s not to blame.

A perfect little wife
A perfect loving life
He slaps me in the face
I don’t feel disgrace.
As long as he comes home
And doesn’t choose to roam
Then I will toe the line
And all will be just fine.

Brent Kincaid
4/1/2015

LITTLE BABY LULLABY

Poor little baby
Your Daddy doesn’t care.
He’s still around someplace
But we don’t know where.

Hush little baby
Your Mama doesn’t care.
She ran off with someone
From the Renaissance Fair.

Precious little baby
Light in someone’s eyes
We pray that your parents aren’t
Immune to all your cries.

Annoying little baby
Your country doesn’t care.
Go find your food and drink
But find it all elsewhere.

Boohoo little baby
Your teachers don’t care
They have tests to pass out.
No time for them to share.

Lonely little baby
Jesus is your savior
As long as you truly are
The right and proper flavor.


(Repeat until it is no longer accurate.)

Brent Kincaid
3/30/2015

UNDERDOG RAP

We are a population which is
Awaiting loaves and the fishes
And other unfulfilled wishes;
No chance to know what rich is,
While graduates are digging ditches
Immigrant PhDs are doing dishes.
Never quite knowing which is
Snake oil salesmen pitches.
Politicians too big for their britches.

Fools don’t know where the hitch is
Whatever the larcenous pitch is;
Reacting with kneejerk twitches
Due to governmental glitches.
And creeps like that guy Mitch is
Are rapacious sons of *******
Hunting for Democratic witches
In all the freedom fighting niches
With hearts as black as pitch is.

And the rich have a wish list
In which they scratch their itches
Regardless of what our ***** is
By wallowing in stolen riches
Punishing watchdogs snitches.
Politicians too big for their britches.
We are a population which is
Awaiting loaves and the fishes
And other unfulfilled wishes.
No chance to know what rich is.

Brent Kincaid

March 19, 2015

HERE’S TO THE LITTLE PEOPLE

Here’s to the little people
That means you and I.
We create the economy
With the things we buy.
The rich people object;
They say they are the best
By squeezing the lifeblood
Out of all of the rest.

What the rich don’t take directly
They steal by increasing the tax.
Only when we are powerless
Do they really feel they can relax.
And it only serves to help them
If they pass laws that are hazy
In which they can hide graft
Because we are politically lazy.

Yes, here’s to the little people
That is you and that is me.
We’re passing up our chances
And all our hopes for prosperity.
We’ve let the rich people rob us
In congress by nickels and dimes.
While it might not be too late now,
We are just about out of time.

Brent Kincaid
3/18/2015

SENTENCING

I understand a thief picking my pocket
Or sneaking in at night to burglarize
I understand prestidigitation tricks
Seeming miracles before my eyes.
It is easy to understand a robber
The holdup of some passerby.
They don’t have a conscience so
They don’t even have to try.

I understand the bullies in schools
The ones who disrespect the rules.
Probably their parents were creeps
Abused them while they would sleep.
The kids can become nasty, and mean.
It’s high on the list of evil I’ve seen.
Because to abuse a child is a sin
And it ruins the child before it begins.

It makes sense for bad butchers
To carve off a bit from the customers
Especially if they never get caught;
It is very much the way they were taught.
It’s so much like those confidence men
Take money their marks won’t see again.
And creeps sell phony knockoff goods.
All kinds of bastardy comes out of the woods.

But, I can’t understand the people who
Make huge money off all that they do
To sell their fellow countrymen out.
That is a very special kind of lout.
The kind that get elected to high office
And behave in a way that is lawless.
These people stole everything they got.
They deserve to be taken out and shot.

Brent Kincaid
3/16/2015

He can’t explain the pain
Like boot prints on his brain
And it only seems to subside
When she is beside him.
Then, it begins to slowly dim.
When she is not around
He can be found on the ground
Screaming just like his head,
Full of frenzied villagers instead
Of what everyone else feels
And thinks, as he again sinks
Into that swamp of horror
And anguish. Moreover,
He knows he is alone in this.
This is not from her kiss
It is from its absence.
He’s not addicted to absinthe
Like some Victorian poet.
He’s insane now and knows it.

But she can calm mind
In the deluge he always finds
When she goes away a while.
First he loses the desire to smile
Then he can’t talk any more.
He forgets what words are for.
He only howls and raves.
He knows nobody can save him.
He has but to swim to shore
From the wreck that is his peace.
It is his only real release.
It’s all that heals his soul.
She has become the goal
His only purpose in the world
Is in the hands of this one girl;
This woman, elevated to deity.
His only true reality.

How can this happen, he cries.
He doesn’t understand the whys
And wherefores that turns love,
Completion and fulfillment
Into horrifying derailment
Of all his hopes and dreams
And fills his heart with screams
Like a little boy on a wrong bus.
And nobody there to discuss things
To help him see what is happening
And why the one thing he cares for
Doesn’t fulfill him anymore
Unless she is here to hold his hand.
He fails completely to understand.

Brent Kincaid
2/13/2015