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  Feb 2015 Joe Cole
Sjr1000
Gather people
for a story
so profound,
Not created by me,
But a rare, rare reality,
Where forces so profound converged,
Generations forward
were forever altered.

Where one person's heroics
were another's fatal error

Where a family's love
was smothered
in
the churning waters
of Big Lagoon.

Big Lagoon sits
north of Agate Beach
shining treasures can be found
in the gathering sands
To the west,
The ocean rises and falls
To the east,
The lagoon's placid grassy waters roll.

It was an Indian Summer's warm, warm day,
Everything it promised was delivered.
Two days after Thanksgiving,
I remember it well,
the fog was gone,
the sun was high.

A family dog beach walk

Howard and Mary,
Olivia,
Gregory, every one called him Geddie,
Geddie's girlfriend, Lily.
The family dog, Fran, chasing sticks
in the ocean and in the sand.

Time stopped for
a diamond moment,
sun reflecting off the ocean.

To chase a stick
Fran ran
a ten foot wave
took her under.

Geddie ankle deep edged forward
when within that frozen moment
another giant wave emerged
the cliff that is the sand gave in,
in the merciless embrace
of the terrible wave,
He was pulled under.

Down the beach
Howard ran
plunged into the waters
to save his son,
He only found
Kingdom come.

While Geddie made his way
out of those frozen waters
and could not find his father,
Called by what unknown voice,
He dove back under,
Not to be found
for hours and miles later.

What is the power of love
which would propel each one?

Mary watching this unfold
could not abide their fate
and herself plunged in
for one last attempt
at saving grace.

The ocean says
"Many have fallen in
but few survive."

Mary and Howard
rolled
in and out
in that frozen water's breath.

While Olivia and Lily
frantically
called 911
and struggled on the beach
out of reach.

The power of the ocean
the power of love
had made three
one.

30 minutes later
Fran ran out
looking to play
one more round.

If by the Pacific Ocean
you stand
see urgent footprints
in the sand,
By chance
you hear the plaintive cry
of
"Marco Polo"
voices calling to one another,
It is the ocean singing
their last lullaby.
A true story, happened 2014 at Big Lagoon, on the Northern California coast, not far from where I sit.
This family was physically fit, marathon runners. Humboldt residents who had taken these walks, daily - weekly,  not strangers to the ocean.
Joe Cole Feb 2015
No permanent home, no mobile phone
He doesn't need any of that.
All that he wants, all that he needs
Carried in a bag on his back

No hot morning shower to brighten his day
Just a dip in an icy cold stream
He wanders the byways and small country roads
Seeking to fulfill all his dreams

He needs no soft bed under a roof
Just a grassy bed under the moon
Far does he travel the small country lanes
He needs no bus tram or train

He's quite content with the life that he chose
The life of a wandering man
No beers or fine wines will he ever drink
For him cool clear water is fine

For his dinner the food that nature provides
So no worries about earning a wage
His life is just an unfinished book
Each new day the start of an unwritten page

He's quite content living this way
Living under the moon and the stars
But he knows it will end as for all men it must
When he finally writes his last page.
This was originally posted as The Wanderer.  Just a few subtle changes
Joe Cole Feb 2015
You know
There are those here
Who have smelt the gunsmoke
And had the blood of death on our hands
But for the most part it was in an honest war
And in war men must and do die
And we plied the trade of war
And what could result
But these days its a different war
An insidious snake
Squirming its way into the bowels of societies
Kids indoctrinated via the internet
A car bomb by a mosque
Simply became I have a different belief
Yes, cut his head off with a long blunt knife
Man that really makes you hard
Oh, yeah well of course his hands were tied
After all it wouldn't be good video
If he was fighting back.
  Feb 2015 Joe Cole
Roger Turner - Poet
Jim Brady was a local man
His life was non-descript
He was not on local radar
In fact, he was a blip
He moved around but no-one knew
Just who Jim Brady was
they knew not where he came from
They didn't know his flaws
He worked under the table
He wasn't on the grid
But of all the money that Jim made
He gave most to his kids
He worked nights at Giannis
In the kitchen, ***** stuff
He cleaned up after closing
The work here...it was tough
But Jim, worked hard and honest
Earned his money every day
And Gianni, as a favour
Off the records he would pay
Jim Brady was a soldier
He was broken...and no good
But Gianni, saw his life light
And he did what all men should
He gave Jim work and fed him
Kept him clean and made a life
For Jim had come home injured
But it was internal strife
Jim's mind was torn and tattered
Simple thoughts could cause him pain
Jim Brady was a soldier
But would never serve again
He had trouble with his anger
He was not quite in control
But Gianni saw a soldier
Who needed help out of a hole
Gianni ran a restaurant
Been there for 30 years
He helped all those who knew him
Through the smiles and the tears
He housed the ones who needed
Just to get off of the streets
He fed the tired and hungry
And he performed other feats
Gianni was a hero
To all in this poor town
He would never turn a man away
If he knew that he was down
When Jim came in one evening
Gianni read his face
He said "Son, I'll help you"
"And you're now working in this place"
Jim lived by the water
The noises kept him calm
But on nights of wild weather
He stay at Giannis, nice and warm
Loud noises brought the nightmares
Put the pictures in his head
Of the IED explosion
And of his three companions dead
He went to get some treatment
But the VA said "You're fine"
"there's more important cases
than just you out in the line"
He was shuffled home to start again
A damaged, broken man
But with issues like poor Jim did have
He tried as one man can
His marriage broke down quickly
His wife was not to blame
But Jim came home with issues
And the **** war was to blame
He looked for help at every turn
But no-one would help out
Until he met Gianni
Jim's new hero I won't doubt
He gave him work and money
Jim then gained some self esteem
He wasn't Jim the soldier
But, you could see who he had been
His pride was back, his head was high
But still he had the dreams
There was nothing that they knew of
To alleviate the screams
But Gianni, still the hero
Thought "I know what might just work"
He introduced Jim to The Bluesman
He also has a minor quirk
The Bluesman as you seem to know
Lives out behind and plays
His music in the alley
Where he spends most of his days
Gianni helped The Bluesman
Maybe he could now help Jim
It could be The Bluesman's music
Might just be right for him
Most nights when Jim was working
He'd leave the window open some
Just to let Bluesman's music
Find the kitchen . make Jim hum
Jim liked The Bluesman's music
It painted pictures in his head
But this time they were joyful ones
Not pictures of the dead
They helped him come to terms with things
That made his life a mess
They did what others couldn't do
His problems were addressed
With Gianni and The Bluesman
Jim moved on and did quite well
Funny how a restauranteur
And music man could bring Jim back from hell.
  Feb 2015 Joe Cole
ShamusDeyo
This is a poem......
you don't have to read.
You're busy at home
watching Cable TV.
On Twitter or Facebook,
reading all the minuta
that comes down the feed.
My words may be little,
my words may be small.
But, each and every one
of them, I own them all.
Some will take time,
and others will pass by.
These words will be mine,
till the day that I die.....JMF 2/19/15
I think my inspiration for this was Dr. Seuss, if you think about it he is the Foundation of a lot of Poets by exposing them to it at an early age

All the Work here is licensed under the Name
®SilverSilkenTongue and the © Property of J.Flack
Joe Cole Feb 2015
It rained again last night
The flooded trenches alive with rats
Behind us pigs from destroyed farms
Feast on the bodies of French long dead
Shell fire ceaseless
Machine guns sing, men die
Yes men die
Just a mile away, a gentle *****
Leads to Pachendale ridge
Just a gentle walk in peacetime
With slow meandering streams
I am long since dead, destroyed by
Shot and shell
I gave my life for you my love
For you, for you not for my country that I fell
Out lads out and the whistles shrilled
Out lad out 'this your time to be killed
Robots of old, numbed, scrambled minds
We left the safety of this place
Into the holocaust of *******
To be mangled and destroyed by burning
Shot and shell
Keep going boys, keep going
There's just a mile to cross
But a mile of mud and devils hell
And for every yard a man was lost
Cleanly killed by the bullets bite!!!!
If he was lucky yes
But more likely to drown in mud and blood
As the gory shell hole ****** him down

Ypres 1915
  Feb 2015 Joe Cole
SG Holter
I am a man against violence.
See my own blood spilled, rather
Than that of any other.

But I have a wall full of knives.
I've collected them my whole life.
Still do. Tools of war.

Tools of craftmanship.
I know the story behind every
Blade, Bowie or handmade

Russian letter opener.
I am not a man of religion.
I see God in every thing.

Worship all; therefore none.
But I collect rosaries.
The one on my desk, I bought in

Vatican City. The one above my
Bed was brought to me from
Transilvania.

I know the story behind each
One. I may seem confused at
Times; contradictory.

Construction working poet.
Heavy metal loving meditator.
iPad wielding viking.

I collect interacting opposites.
Wear snakeskin boots with my
Funeral suit.

Shave only my head at times.
Warrior monk. Knives and rosaries.
Stabbing at

Gods. Praying
For my
Enemies.
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