Who will pick up the torch and light the way again,
keep us on the path of equality and right?
A soldier of love and truth has fallen,
the world is a more fragile place tonight.

Oh young ones look deep inside yourselves with wonder,
at why they could not break this little man.
Take up the reigns and lead the march to freedom,
pick up the torch and light the way again.


*"For to be free is not merely to cast off one's chains, but to live in a way that respects and enhances the freedom of others."-Nelson Mandela 1918-2013

We are the stuff of stars,
left here to learn of love.
Learn of that
which was here before us.

To shed this cloak of flesh,
to look deep within two souls,
see the oneness
of the universe.

We are the stuff of dreams,
never to wake from sleep,
or know the mystery
of this life.

We are the stuff of stars,
that trail the night sky,
from dust we came,
and dust we leave behind.

*The Perseids /ˈpɜrsiːɨdz/ are a prolific meteor shower associated with the comet Swift-Tuttle. The Perseids are so-called because the point from which they appear to come, called the radiant, lies in the constellation Perseus. The name derives in part from the word Perseides, a term found in Greek mythology referring to the sons of Perseus.

On July the 4th in 1976, the bicentennial of our great nation.  I awoke at 3am in Lakeside, Ohio to start a journey to Plant City, Florida. I was to pick up a leased car in Kent, Ohio and take it to Greenwich, Connecticut. Where I joined several others to make the trek to the Sunshine State.  When I crossed the George Washington Bridge over the Hudson River in New York City, off to my right I saw the tall ships heading out to the harbor for the day's celebrations. The radio played every version of God Bless America in their archive. I sang every one of them. We traveled all day and into the night where we saw fireworks in at least 4 states. We reached our destination in Plant City very early in the morning on the 5th of July. But
I Larry Dean Goodwin on July 4th, 1976 in a brand new American made Red Chevrolet Monti Carlo sedan traveled through Ohio, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, New York, Connecticut, Delaware, Maryland, Virginia, Washington D.C., North Carolina, South Carolina, Georgia, Florida.
God Bless America, God Bless Us All.

Tomorrow morning they are going to take them,
what am I going to do?
He says it doesn’t matter to him, because I have a pretty face.
In all the years we've been married, he’s never told me I had a pretty face.
I don’t think he’s going to be able to handle this.
Hell, I don’t think I'm going to be able to handle this.
God ******, I am going to loose my hair,
I am gonna loose my beautiful ******* hair, then everyone will know.
People will put sanitizer on their hands after they shake mine.
All my friends and family will treat me differently.
They’ll feel sorry for me, they won’t know what to say.
And then there’ll be those who will say too much, or the wrong thing.
"I’ll pray for you", some will say,
But I know what they are thinking, they think....
"that is what she gets for drinking her martinis and smoking her ***".
Some will even say it is God’s will.
**** God!
He is stealing my beauty,
my wonderfully gorgeous ****, my hair.
They are a part of me.
I don’t give a **** what a man thinks about my *******,
that they are **** or voluptuous,
they are a part of me.
And now, like a side of beef,
they are going to section me up and take them from me.
What will they do with them?
I mean after they biopsy.
Can I have them to bury?
Sorry, I know that wasn't necessary, but I am mad.
I am mad and afraid, I am so afraid.
I know my husband, he will never be the same.
He doesn’t **** me with his eyes closed, my **** turn him on.
But then any woman’s **** turn him on.
When he reaches to touch them, there’ll be nothing there.
I’ll look like a little boy, nothing.
Maybe I have identified with them too much,
I have made them a big part of my personality.
I've fed my children with them, my boyfriends fought over them,
they have got me into and out of trouble more than once.
****, I am going to have to get a whole new wardrobe.
And now, in the morning
they are going to cut them off of me
and put them in a stainless steel operating room bowl.
Like chicken fat.
Why do I feel like this,
I didn’t cry when the dentist pulled my wisdom teeth?
What if he told me I had to or else I would die, I’d pulled them myself?
I trim my nails, and get my hair cut and dyed.
I exfoliate my skin.
I lost 10lbs last year and I didn’t shed one tear,
my ******* will weigh more than that.
But I am loosing something else,
I am loosing normal.
I'll have to find a new normal.
I am loosing myself
and replacing it with a different person.
I’ll be one of them,
I’ll be a survivor,
a hero.
I'll hold hands with other survivors and walk 10 miles
and wear a **** load of pink.
Hey, but I don't look too bad in pink.

*later this week a friend is going to have a double mastectomy.  These are just a few of the words I have collected from other breast cancer survivors. I had to do something for her. My hope is that we become more aware of the fear and pain that breast cancer victims go through.

"Nothing will ever come between us", you said,
now there is something playing in your head.
I know he's just an old boyfriend from school,
but don't you see I look like a fool?

This is the last straw, the last drop of wine,
you'll have to tell him yourself my friend.
I am fresh out of understanding,
and don't say that I am too demanding.
We are to long together to start playing games
let's not watch this go up in flames.

Can't you see you are living your past,
trying to hold on to what you can't grasp?
I am sorry, he can't spend the night.
No, I am not trying to start a fight.

I'm sure he's got someone else to *****.
Someone, somewhere that he can do.
Did you tell him that we're a pair,
it appears he doesn't seem to care?
We are to long together to start playing games,
let's not watch this go up in flames.

Walls are thin I can hear what you say,
I think it's time he went on his way.
It's been like I am not even there,
What do you mean I'm not being fair?

There he sits with my scotch in his hand.
Is that his bike in the drive, who does he think he is?
I see his eyes follow you,
watching every curve like I use to do.
We are to long together to start playing games,
let's not watch this go up in flames.

Why did you let the Letterman in,
with his motorcycle helmet and all his leather garb?
Tattoos and earrings are scaring me half to death,
this is the suburbs you know?



*A peek at an otherwise happily married fictitious couple named Bob and Mary....... And there surly visitor Steve, the Letterman.

Awake! Ye ancient brittle bones,
Unfold yourselves to me.
For I am sick at heart
And an unprevailing cause mocks my sleep.
Our time is upon us.
We must gather together now as one
While the squeak and gibber
Of these impious spirits haunt our very purpose.

Awake! Ye sleeping minions,
Ye true warriors of love,
With hearts and souls at well deserved rest.
Though our duty hath been done 'tis true,
And deserv'd the slumber of all eternity,
The devil's fray is ashore
And 'tis time we take on flesh and finish the closing battle.

As it is unwritten on our souls in heaven
We, the last moral servants,
True at heart and conscience,
Are to become one in the flesh for the last clash.
Aye, but here's the rub,
There'll be no battlefield for to drive our staves into.
No streams to run red with the blood of gentle kin and death mongers.
No blackened sky from pyers ablaze.
This, the last battle shall be fought
Not with blades of contempt and disdain,
But with the sacred sword of Love,
A sword that God Himself shall forge.
He shall gather all our souls
And cast them into His sacred furnace, to make His sacred whirling mace from heaven.
For no man hath made a weapon that can ever thwart the madness of war.

The power of Love has come to fruition
And we mortal warriors shall wield Its might.
For hate is the true enemy here,
Not zealous underlings
Eager to serve their dispirited hearts.
Hate is what burns in their eyes,
Hate is also what blinds them.
And now, like a handful of bees,
They torment the earth with their misguided mission.
Hate is the tinder
And lies are the winds that fan their unholy flames.
With the patience of a weaver
They loom their imperfect prayer rug,
That the god in their mind may think them humble.
Yea, even now as the pestilence kneels and prays
And bows its head in gesture,
It is in gesture only.
His ancient prayers, though once righteous and profound,
Now come from lips tight with blind hatred
And God strains to hear his worshipping.
For the God his forefathers bowed to was a loving merciful God
Who's auspicious whispers kissed the words of love, hope and forgiveness.
Nay, death was not upon His lips.
Though they wave the ****** banner of their unportentous god,
With misread writ their disjointed false prophets blindly lead them on.
Like scornfilled women whose wrath is tainted with the blood of a thousand censorious years
And can not wipe their memories clean.
Their ceaseless thoughts of revenge eat at them,
Like brain-sick harpies madly gnawing off their own limbs.
Bid you make haste,
For he is at the door.
He has been here, settled in and quiet.
He wears the hats of peasant folk and hides.
Fie, fie!
To skinny among the masses and plant seeds of terror
Like impish gnomes.

Rise up bones! You rusted mantle clad mercenaries of the dark
I do beseech you
Walk into the light, into the light of omega
The reckoning
On to fight on no battleground!
On to fight for no faith nor religion!
On to fight for no flag nor country!
On to fight for all mankind!
On into the battle to end all battles!
For the **** crew and the earth has begun its retrograde.
Already have our thews began to form,
Soon, once dusty, moldy hands will take up the truncheon's length of Hope
And do the deed for which we were born,
And for which we gave our breath.
Heaven hath made us one,
And our single beating heart of love is the sword with which the dragon shall be slain.
Fuse skeletons of passion's might,
Our virtuous calling awaits.
No more will the earth tremble in fear,
No more will there be this god and that god,
No more will man be blinded by his mind.
For his pure and loving heart will be his home,
And his long awaited soul will be his peace.

*Peace       Salam      Shalom

Just mahogany and horsehide glue,
machine heads and a ***** or two.
Plywood top, solid sides and back,
bone and fake ivory, ebony, and shellac.

Steel and bronze wire, to make her ring.
A well placed sound hole to let her sing.
But for love or money I played here every week,
for 30 years she has earned my keep.

Four star restaurants, or beer soaked bars,
or serenading a lover under summer night stars.
A joyous birthday, sad funeral of a friend,
she's always been there, on one I can depend.

Drunken'- Dancin' New Years Eve bashes,
barbequed sun baked poolside splashes.
St. Valentine's Day love songs, wine and roses,
or a smoky old blues club that never closes.

A nursing home sing along on St. Patty's day,
a hurricane party till we all got blown away.
Christmas carols by soft candlelight,
I've played this guitar most every night.

From Florida to Canada, Vegas to NYC,
from Frank Sinatra, to Conway Twitty.
Zeppelin to Bach, JT to Pink Floyd,
anything to keep me from being employed.

One night in Nashville Greg Allman played on her,
And asked me to join him, oh what an honor.
We make people happy, we bring them together,
when I play on her I am as light as a feather.

Some fell in love, and got married from our tunes,
some nights we're alone on sugar beach dunes.
She's filled up my tip jar, and filled up my heart.
Because of this guitar my life got its start.

I've sat up with her all night, when she was sick,
changed strings a million times, broken many a pick.
Caressed her, strummed her, as she dashed my fears,
cussed her and ****** her, as she tasted my tears.

With her I wooed my lover, until she married me.
She has been my addiction, and she has set me free.
They applaud for me, but she's really the star.
I know it's just wood and wire, but she's my guitar.
###====(==O==== )###====(==O==== ) ###====(==O==== )

*For my Takamine "Lawsuit" I bought in Nashville in 1982.

The good wife has gone mad, the cows have gone dry.
The dog has up and died, and the cream has turned.
And now I can not find the new can of lye.
And even the gray cat seems to be concerned.
When the wee one came to help harvest the rye,
I thought him to be childlike, but soon I learned.

Though Celtic in his speech, from the Moors he came.
Dancing and playing, everything was a game.
My house guest brought nothing but trouble to me,
no fanciful friend, but a Pixie you see.

*Rispetto, ( Italian:: “respect,” )  a Tuscan folk verse form, a version of strambotto. The rispetto lyric, in its earliest rhyme scheme, has been usually abababccdd.

My whippet ran
as fast as the wind.

With a cheetahs gate
he could catch all.

And now he rests
his race is done,
all rabbits happy.

*Shanzi is a syllabic poem in seven lines  4/5 5/4 4/4/5
Unrhymed
Lines 1 and 2   INTRODUCE the SUBECT
Lines 3 and 4   AMPLIFY what is affected by the image/subject.
Line 5 thru 7    Focus on NEW SUBJECT that complements and provides a meditative conclusion.
Shanzi may be Titled

A sadness in my heart tonight
must be told, then dim that light.
To never see its face again,
and feel the pain that eats within.

A tragedy befell, you see,
and stormy nights still torture me.
She fell and died while in my keep,
and now it haunts my every sleep.

Her face so blank and eyes opaque,
my heart fell hard, and then to ache.
No turning back what time hath wrought,
my constant conscience battles fought.

A fear of storms was Mollie's fate,
the night was dark, the hour late.
As thunder rumbled in her chest,
and her heart pounded in her breast.

To run and hide, but never from
the storm that was about to come.
She climbed atop a place to see,
what made this horror, what could it be.

But leashes length, a noose had made.
Fell to her death, no more afraid.
I found her hanging from the chair,
part of my soul still hanging there.

For simple errors can take a life,
trip up the stairs, slip of the knife.
I put the wrong leash on that night,
it strangled her, I took her life.


*Forgive me my fellow poets for this unintentionally dark poem. The tragedy happened a year ago and I am still trying to find some closure. Mollie was a little mixed dog that I was fostering for a local shelter. She was kind and playful, but deathly afraid of storms

She gave me that funky vibe,
left over from her dysfunctional tribe.
You see that's how things are done,
when you are not the only one.

But I come from a different place,
Mama would just slap my face,
So how are we to coexist,
both checking off a different list?

As a child
I would sometimes urinate in my sleep.
The warm wetness would turn cold, and wake me.
Ashamed, I’d take off my Pjs and crawl under the comfort of my Sister covers.
She was studying to be a teacher and taking courses in child psychology
About the time I started “bedwetting”.
Recognizing my unnecessary guilt, she told me not to be upset.
“If that ever happens,  just spoon with me and we’ll take care of it in the morning.”
I did know what that meant.
Mother would get so mad.
Of course I had no idea why I would "wet the bed",
but she did.
Our Parents would often argue into the night.
And although I did not understand any of it,
like a dog,
I felt the tension.  
I sensed the discourse in their voices.
It was the same discourse they used to scold me.
Therefore, I thought they were angry at me.
The silence was worse though.
Even though their biting tone would cease, I could still feel the smoldering anger.
The air was thick with it.
My Sister was a young woman, soon to be married and out of that hell.
She was the Mother I never had.
She had a huge black RCA transistor radio and use to put it next to my bed,
tuned to a Rock and Roll station.  
I never knew why she did that until many years later.
It drowned out our Parents fighting.
The music became my solace.
“I like bread and butter, I like toast and jam”
And soon,
I stopped urinating in my sleep.
Of course the by-product of her intervention was
that I have been a professional musician and entertainer all of my life.
Music has been and always will be my solace.
It blocks out the arguing in the world.

*thanks Sis

You want me to tell you what happened,
don't you?
You want me to bare it all,
every sordid detail.*
..... And so she sat there at the dining room table,
even now 20 plus years later, I still feel sorry for her.
How hard it must have been for her to say,
"I think we have become too familiar with one another,
and I need to find myself".
What the **** did that mean?
She has never said anything like that in the 10 years we'd been married.
What the ****?
I didn't know then, but those were euphemisms a friend had told her to say.
She wasn’t really all that good at communicating you see.
She took a bight of souffle and kept blankly staring at the refurbished china hutch,
the one she picked out at the flea market and said we would refinish it together.
We... never did.
I said, with a new found fear in my voice, "So this is it?".
I hadn’t yet felt the sting of actually getting a divorce.
And with a heart stopping seriousness in here eyes she said,
"I think it is."
Blood rushed to my head, like a car running a stop sign in front of me,
I crashed.
On my one shoulder was a devil that wanted to yell and scream and call her names.
On the other was the Angel of Karma, telling me that this is one of those moments in life
that you are either going to be proud of,
or regret.
So quietly I said,
"how can I help you find yourself ?".  
All the while frantically thinking.....
Think, think, think of something to say that will keep her from leaving.

I'll be drinkin' white lightning tonight,
alone with my guitar.
tryin' to remember all the words.


*For George Jones Born: September 12, 1931, Saratoga
Died: April 26, 2013

The Window Up Above  
Songwriter: George Jones

I've been living a new way
Of life that I love so
But I can see the clouds are gath'ring
And the storm will wreck our home
For last night he held you tightly
And you didn't even shove
This is true for I've been watching
From the window up above

You must have thought that I was sleeping
And I wish that I had been
But I guess it's best to know you
And the way your heart can sin

I thought we belonged together
And our hearts fit like a glove
I was wrong for I've been watching
From the window up above

From my eyes the teardrops started
As I listened on and on
I heard you whisper to him softly
That our marriage was all wrong

But I hope he makes you happy
And you will never lose his love
I was wrong, I was watching
From the window up above

How I wish I could be dreaming
And wake up to an honest love
I was wrong for I was watching
From the window up above...

I am not Jesus.
I am not Krishna
I am not Allah
I am not Abraham
I am not Buddha
I am me.

I can try to fit it all into their neat little box,
but try is all I can do.
The words I was told to worship,
twisted to fit the day,
misconstrued to fit all time,
have lost their meaning,
turned to myth.
Archaic ideals hold only some truth in this moment.
For do we not judge our present with the eyes of the past?
And so who am I now if not made up from the tattered cloth of time?
I am not dogma.
I am not that.
I am me.
I am now.
I am this very sacred moment.
Filled up, spilling over and pouring down into my shoes.

Verse I
See the footprints that we're making,
some will never go away.
Living like there's no tomorrow,
think there's no price to pay.

Verse II
We slash and burn our forests,
though they make the air we breathe.
Turn our heads and close our eyes,
in this land of make believe.

Chorus
The earth does not belong to man,
the earth does not belong to man,
the earth does not belong to man,
we belong to the earth.

Verse III
The politicians tell us,
just what we want to hear.
So we won't have to know the truth,
and live our lives in fear.

Verse IV
The earth is calling out to us,
determined to be heard.
Every mountain, every stream,
every mammal and every bird.

Verse V
But we don't have to remain silent,
There's so much we can do.
To keep this earth from dying,
it's up to me and you.

Verse VI*
We belong to the earth,
it does not belong to man.
It's time we stopped and listened,
to the rhythm of the land.