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Brent Kincaid Nov 2017
What is all this blather about dawn
And the lies about loving sunrise?
There is very little fun going on.
It doesn’t it make me wealthy and wise.
It’s often cold except in summer.
It’s still mostly dark, not quite light.
Stumbling around is a ******,
And, in my opinion, it’s not right.

What the heck is wrong with bed,
Letting the whole world get up first
Enjoying more dreams in my head,
Before experiencing morning thirst?
Why can’t I let the winos rise up
And move away from my doorstep
Before I try to find my getup
And take my outside first step?

Unless I make it at home, no good
Food is offered in American diners.
They sell no roughage, as they should.
They think health food is for whiners.
Nothing green, not much but meat
Mostly on offer is coffee and sugar;
Fried, and starchy stuff on the street.
Finding food besides that is a ******.

So, no thanks, I much prefer to stay
With dreams of retirement in my head
Until later on in the bright light of day
Snuggled, sleeping in my comfy bed.
I don’t want to wake while it’s still dark.
There is nothing much of dawn I like.
Joggers go on and run in the park.
All of you early risers: go take a hike.
Brent Kincaid Nov 2017
As I sit here in my easy chair
Watching life pass me by
There are people in the world
Who do greater things than I.
There are great minds at work
Studying the world and space.
Not me, I’m afraid, I just sit,
Watch TV, a calm look on my face.

I have not written an opera
Or an awesome symphony.
I have not written great poems
To be read by more than me.
I have not waxed political
With rhetoric that will astound.
I have not created grand products
To be taken from the ground.

I did not engineer a vehicle
That will run on just ***** air.
And, yes, I painted for a while
But found few who would care.
All I seem to be able to do
Is to survive my horrendous past,
And I thank all the gods that be
That the horror did not last.

I answered, as a young fellow,
When people asked to my face,
“What do you want out of life?”
I quickly answered, “My own place.”
Now that I am adult and that
Has finally come to be a reality,
I can’t seem be anxious to comply
When life demands more of me.
Brent Kincaid Nov 2017
I saw a man fishing today
Trying to catch is daily meal.
He pulled up a triggerfish
But I was the one to squeal!
“How wonderful!” I said to him
“You like have?” I heard him ask.
I said, “No, I am not the kind
Trained to the fish cleaning task.

“But what about your family?”
I asked him as he toiled.
“I gonna catch another one!
Nothin’ gonna be spoiled.
I go fish every single day
Right here from the sea.
Kauai treats us very nice
She always good to me.”

He said he would clean it
And then he did just that,
Right **** then and there,
While I just watched and sat.
And I took that fish home
To share with my family.
It was a real Hawaiian miracle,
Or seemed that way to me.

It amazes me at this stage,
After living in such big cities,
That I felt little aloha there,
And that is a major pity.
For here in these islands
The concept of love and sharing
Replaced what I saw mainland side,
Hostility and suspicious staring.

People seem happier here
Now I’ve been here fifteen years.
Maybe it’s the lovely weather
Or maybe my lack of fear
That someone will make me
Move away from paradise.
Nobody better try it because
I won’t think that’s very nice.
Brent Kincaid Nov 2017
I sit here on the side
Of my own long road
Listening to the memories
Of crickets and toads
As I remember back
To years of childhood
Spent feeling lucky
To be in the wildwood.

No car horns honking
No neighbors screaming.
No jarring realities to
Waken me from dreaming.
The breezes and the stars
The city kid changing gears
Creating a landscape that has
Resided in me through the years.

Ice cream socials and songs
Sung in the church nearby
Bringing tears to my eyes
But I did not know why.
Why did these simple folks
So very glad to be alive
Smile through the foment
Then go right on to thrive?

They had no television,
Some had radios to hear
They relied on Farmer’s Almanac
To help them through the year.
They made their way themselves,
Knew when to plant and to reap.
When to harvest and store food;
Early to rise and early to sleep

They had a car and a tractor
But seldom had to leave home.
They bought this farm
When they lost the urge to roam.
We didn’t go to movies then,
But weddings and funerals
Brought friends together;
Cousins aunts and uncles.

At summers end I went back
To the city I knew so well
And got used to being there
After a rather touchy spell.
The water tasted differently
And Grandma was a great cook.
So, a whole lifetime later
Those days deserve another look.
True story.
Brent Kincaid Nov 2017
Hey ****** ******,
Some stars gotta fiddle
Just like a Catholic priest.
We have to give them credit,
God saved them when they did it.
And blessed them at the least.

Hey ****** ******
Fat Trump has to fiddle
With women he can control.
He pretends he doesn’t know
What that word simply shows
Since the last syllable is troll.

Hey ****** ******
A high powered fiddle
Is always powered by cash.
But, Mr. Diddler
Unlike a talented fiddler
You are nothing but overpaid trash.

Hey ****** diddledick
We all hope your fiddlestick
Falls off and lays on the ground
Then you could stop it
And the women could stomp it.
And kick your skanky *** around.
Brent Kincaid Nov 2017
Once I watched a waterfall
Wash all my fears away
And then I thought I saw some
Happy tears of yesterday.
The moment brought aromas
Of the ocean and the sea
I lost my taste to reminisce
And started feeling free.

Around and round the bubbles seemed to rise
To bring my life today before my eyes
And as I watched the ripples rearrange.
I loved this place no less after each change.


A breeze played near my face
And put some patience in my hair
My shoulders settled back
Where once a worried slouch was there.
I might have missed this resting spot
Had I not heard the call.
The voice of sound in silence.
The peaceful waterfall.

I am not meant to swim in empty streams
Things I cannot see now must be dreams.
I knew the past as ripples which were gone.
The future is the river further on.

Once I watched a waterfall
Wash all my fears away
And then I thought I saw some
Happy tears of yesterday.
The moment brought aromas
Of the ocean and the sea
I lost my taste to reminisce
And started feeling free.
(This was written many, many years ago. It is a song. Someday soon, I’ll find the tape and post it. For now, just imagine the sound of a waterfall being made by a synthesizer.)
Brent Kincaid Nov 2017
Almost all the crap in my life
Is something I’ve done wrong;
Bad decisions I have made
As I stumbled my way along.
When I was an adolescent
I blamed my stuff on others;
My peers, friends and brothers.

I made up stories and finger-pointed.
Soon nobody wanted to trust me,
My social posture became disjointed.
Was it all of them or was it just me?
I taught myself to quickly lie
And to make elaborate excuses.
It’s almost like I had no gift
To live without ****-saving ruses.

Early I learned polite society
Would not say to my face.
That my sense of personal ethics
Had become a huge disgrace.
Folks smiled and said empty words.
None had the care and grace to say
They’d quickly check their watches
If I told them the time of day.

But only for a certain time
Can this kind of crass stupidity
Avoid even my devious vision.
It stole from them and from me.
Sooner or later, even my hard head
Had to want the truth and admit
The book of my life was being read
And my lies were a huge part of it.
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