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.

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.

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?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~­~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I
go
where e're
the road goes.
I can not depart
this journey called life, for I am
its sacred trek, and also its sacred traveler.
I am not the treacherous mountains, nor am I the peace filled valleys along the way.
I am merely the dash-
                    between the dates-
                                    etched upon my tombstone-
                                                                ­ the sacred space-
                                                          ­                              between my birth-
                                                          ­                                                     and my death-
                                                                ­                                                             The road goes-
                                                                                                                                                    where e're go I.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~­~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

*A Fibonacci poem is a multiple-line verse based on the Fibonacci sequence so that the number of syllables in each line equals the total number of syllables in the preceding two lines. 1,1,2,3,5,8,13,21,34, etc..

Jojo's
Firm
Meaty
And
Massive
Jumbo
Jiggles
Appear
Sometimes
On
Nasty
Dances.


January
February
Mar­ch
April
May
June
July
August
September
October
November
December­

*Amphigouri- A verse composition, while apparently coherent, contains no sense or meaning

Jojo-
Young girl, barely out of puberty, beautiful and seductive beyond her age, dresses provocatively with high ****** drive, not shy to *******, usually attract older men.
"Look at those middle aged men drooling over that little jojo!"

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

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

He is just a wild mustang,
not roamin' where the other mustang roam.
With one eye on the horizon,
the other on a place he calls home.

And it's a rough road that he travels,
but he know he'll reap all the seeds he's sown.
He is just a wild mustang
not roamin' where the other mustang roam.

He may fall and he may stumble,
but he never seems to let it keep him down.
Just gets back up, shakes off the dust,
and knows next time to run on truer ground.

He keeps his nose to the wind,
as if she was a tellin' which way to go.
He is just a wild mustang
not roamin' where the other mustang roam.

And he's never been the kind
who was content to stay.
To follow with the heard,
or be afraid to stray.

And there's never been a filly
who could ever tie him down,
for he knows just where he's goin',
but he don't know where he's bound.

He's searchin' for the answers
he has yet to comprehend.
He know's he'll need a love,
but for now he'd settle for a friend.

He's always been a loner,
though never really like to be alone.
he is just a wild mustang,
not roamin' where the other mustang roam.

Beulah went to Memphis, just to see where the king was laid.
Bought herself a ticket, first time she’d ever been on a plane.
She sashayed down to Graceland, closest she’d ever been to the king.
Every gaudy jumpsuit, jet planes, and all those diamond rings.
What you gonna do, now that you’re king is dead?
You better get on back to Kentucky, lick your wounds and feed your head.

Beulah went to Memphis, feelin’ just like ol’ Tom and Huck.
All 5 foot and sassy, struttin’ like a Peabody duck.
She’ll be in "Blue Hawaii", long before the crack of noon.

Right where he shot his TV, in that jungle room.
What you gonna do, now that you’re king is dead?
You better get on back to Kentucky, feed your mind and lose your head.

Beulah went to Memphis, didn’t see where the King was slain.
All caught up in Vegas, she didn’t hear His sad refrain.
She was takin’ care of business, while the Angels sang, “We Shall Overcome.”
Didn’t hear the message, dazzled by the pandemonium.
What you gonna do, now that their King is dead?
You better get on back to Kentucky, rest your mind and feed your head.

Beulah went to Memphis, just to see where the king was laid.
Poor ol’ girl, he rocked her world, and then he went away.

If a tale need be tattled,
the snawky Snawk would arise.
With its snickley tongue of arsenic blue,
and loathsome gamboge eyes.

To the King of the stickley Snicklers,
the Snawk would spill his talk.
But scuttlebutt was all t'was,
for he was but a snawky Snawk.

Might you ask
who am I be?
I am a jawky Jawk
who talks incessantly

of the snawky Snawk,
with his snickley tongue,
and his breath of kyarn,
and Beelzebub dung.

You see I knows of him all too well
and well he knows of me.
Invidious brothers, one of the other,
same Mother both have we.

Now the snawky Snawk spins yarns
so dark and thick and odious.
One might find his fatuous canards
to be though flatulent, commodious.

But If ye be a gawky Gawk
of the snawky Snawk beware,
For his loathsome camboge eyes
can squinny a ribald stare.

To your knees his gaze will bring you,
you'll tell all the tales you know.
Then he'll tattle them to the Snickler King
and off to the headsman you will go.

That is, unless, you know the ballad
the Snawk is most offended by.
'bout the frowzy blowzy stable boy
with only just one eye.

He lost his eye in a snickering match
twixt The Snickley King and he.
But got the best of the old nabob,
for he could cachinnate you see.

He did cachinnate and aggravate,
till the old King did concede.
The stable boy was the better of the two,
his tongue cut like a snickersnee.

For the frowzy blowzy stable boy
was not able to tell a lie,
nor could he mince his words with honey,
of the truth he could not hide.

And if one day you find yourself
in the land of the quidnunc kith.
Shun the snickley Snicklers,
and their sniggering King forthwith.

But if ye meet up with the stable boy
though untidy he may be.
Dare not tattle of a soul,
he'll let fly his snickersnee.

And remember well, the ballad he sings,
of the King he did do down.
Drink in its waspy strain and keep it nigh,
lest the snawky Snawk cometh 'round.

Several million years have past,
since the cosmos dumped it's trash.
But the book said
that it didn't happen that way.

And as this minstrel looks around
at this "drunk on ancient dogma" town
wanting Heaven, all they do is pray.

Celtic faces black with coal,
patiently await the dole.
Smoke and cough and cough and smoke, to Wally World they do fly.

For there's a caustic cross upon their hill,
protected by a local still.
Or is it the other way around in the wettest county, that is dry.

Who is this vagabond I see,
he walks the streets in search of thee?
With the stench of cheap addiction in the air.

While rats guard a yellow stream,
Arthur's long forgotten dream.
He mumbles verses, but no one sees him there.

And down at Ruby's so many more
just can't seem to find the door.
They use to know the game, but have forgotten how to play.

Wild Bill you old crazy sot,
"The Seven" have, but you have not.
Maybe you can show us, show us all the way.

Dr. Stangename counts his jack,
prescribing hits of "hillbilly smack".
Let's pull a tooth and buy another day of cheap grace.

Watch high above the S.S.D.I.,
a once frozen war machine will fly.
While Arthur's dream crumbles into space.

I climbed The Pinnacle to find,
the fallen star had left behind
a bowl of cryptic confusion, guilty illusions in it's wake.

I told a lady with a PHD,
"Now woman in Afghanistan are free".
But she just sneered and said, "for heaven's sake!"

Listen you can hear the swords,
of the ancient feudal lords.
Clans of clans, left over ways of thinking.

Children, bearing children, beg.
While "The Seven" sit upon the keg.
Deeming them not wise enough for drinking.

It wasn't always this way.
Arthur almost had his hay day.
That's when the devil's broken promise beget a faithless town.

And in the years when King Volstead reigned,
some rode on the gravy train.
The ***** were in their court, and they sold his Crown.

I hope someday this rhyme is moot,
and we all get to share the loot.
And they let the ghost of "Ragtime Harney" play.

For it clearly isn't working here,
just like a party with no beer.
There's no reason for anyone to stay.

Up the road it's "a hundred wet",
and I'll see you there I bet.
You'll give them the prize, that you could have won.

And while you smoke and spit and chew,
power-ball and bingo too.
The lesser of the evils, like self righteous boll weevils,
fearing truth upheavals just like this one.

This is a hell of a way to get to Heaven,
livin' your life at the mercy of "The Seven".
Dying to get out. Dying, you stay in.

While "The Seven" get rich, by keeping you poor.
The keepers of the keys to the barrel house door.
And don't tell me that's no sin.
This is a hell of a way to get to Heaven,
a hell of a way to get in.

Puce fresnel washed its light on his over sized African patterned dashiki,
while paisley notes poured from his reeded dreams.
Like the Hamelin piper I was mesmerized by hypnotic tones,
every sweet and spicy slur, every bend of every breath,
I followed him down history’s path and heard the world come boldly through.

“You got to keep the magic”, was his advice .
“Don’t give away too much of the theme.”

Through fake fog he swirled his love,
his passion, his calling.
“Summertime”, played on an oboe
is like hot liquid southern summer ***.
It crawls up your spine and explodes in your brain,
and you understand the songs meaning without one word sung.
Hundreds of years of vassalage reenacted in every blue colored measure.

This man did not think of himself as a descendant of slavery though.
He was, like all of his brothers of color,
a descendant of great Princes and Kings,
stealthy Hunters and fearless Warriors,
grand Land Owners and Wise Men,
Great Leaders of Peace and Brotherhood,
and he lived out his life as they did,
changing the world one note at a time.
He played the music of all people,
“World Music” it later came to be known.

Listen….he is in the rhythm still.
Wherever there is an ethnicity holding on to their heritage in song.
Wherever there is an indigenous rhythm, a harmony, a feeling……
Yusef is there, and he will be there forever.


*Yesef Lateef
Born October 9, 1920 in Chattanooga, TN
Died December 23, 2013 Shutesburry, MA

Musician, author, spokesman, educator

Instruments: tenor saxophone, flute, oboe, bassoon, bamboo flute, shehnai, shofar, arghul, koto


Recalling a magical night at Stratton Mt.,Vermont, in the winter of 1975 when I opened for Yusef Lateef.

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

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.

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.

====(==O==== )

I saw an old soldier at the nursing home today.
He was sitting in a wheelchair, slowly making his way down the hall to play bingo.
Judging by his age and the tattoos on his arms he had been in WW2.
This was not a frail man, he still had some muscle tone in his arms.
And as he gently put his hands on the wheels, he looked up at me as I walked by.
I saw in his face, the face of a soldier determined to climb that last hill into battle.

###====(==O==== )

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.

Visit my home
Visit my Parents
Parents are shaky
Parents are old
Old and crippled
Old and afraid
Afraid of life
Afraid of death
Death is real
Death is coming
Coming of age
Coming and going
Going for broke
Going to try
Try to behave
Try to shine
Shine and sparkle
Shine my shoes
Shoes to fill
Shoes are big
Big, but belittles
Big and bad
Bad little boy
Bad wooden cane
Cane or crutch
Cane for Dad
Dad is old
Dad is limping
Limping too much
Limping from Karma
Karma is debt
Karma is old
Old and battered
Old and grey
Grey brings fear
Grey and blue
Blue on blue
Blue but free
Free as wind
Free as snow
Snow and snow
Snow must go
Go back home
Go from fear
Fear and tears
Fear is past
Past is gone
Past is insane
insane....
past...




*Blitz Poem
Line 1 should be one short phrase or image
Line 2 should be another short phrase or image using the same first word as the first word in Line 1
Lines 3 and 4 should be short phrases or images using the last word of Line 2 as their first words
Lines 5 and 6 should be short phrases or images using the last word of Line 4 as their first words, and so on until you’ve made it through 48 lines
Line 49 should be the last word of Line 48
Line 50 should be the last word of Line 47
The title of the poem should be three words long and follow this format: (first word of Line 3) (preposition or conjunction) (first word of line 47)
There should be no punctuation

My Whippet gone,
now dust once again.

I've given him back,
from whence he came.

To run again
in cosmic fields,
waiting to be born.

*Shanzi is a syllabic poem in seven lines  4/5 5/4 4/4/5
Unrhymed
Lines 1 and 2   INTRODUCE the SUBJECT
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

Harrogate, TN  November, 2014

The Rusted creaking lies,
whispered through putrid crooked teeth,
from underneath his ragged brim.

Time-worn top-hat sits tilted on his bony head,  
yakking jaw, spitting prostulations, intimidations,  
while swirling tattoos filled my eyes and propagandized, and hypnotized.

He is here, he is there,  
on mossy rock, on broken chair,  
floating phantom through foggy air,
to tear into my heart with his dark despair.

His words......his words, I can not trust
they haunt me as the moon.
His chilling breath fowl with death,
my skull becomes my tomb.

And then I hear a distant bell,
it breaks his grip on me.
I run and fall in gentle new snow
and am once again a child.

I close my eyes and drift to our place,  
away from his gaze and grumblings,  
to our mosaic covered Sacristy.

And you take my hand to bring me back.
You, with your Spring scented breath,
kissing away my hoary dreams.  
The bells clang pure as midnight snow,
and I am safe again in your arms.

When I was young I use to sit in my windowsill,
and smell the foundry late at night.
I could hear the rumble of the coal cars,
I could feel my parents fight.

Then I'd watch the trees dancing in the breeze,
while the moon played Peekaboo.
Life was just a game
on Maple Avenue.

And there were bright Winter mornings and long Summer nights,
but I never knew what they meant.
There were sermons on making time and money,
but it never made a dent.

Amid the factories there were dreams to please,
though you wondered if they'd ever come true.
It was hard to escape
from Maple Avenue.

Yet, somewhere inside of me,
where no one had ever been.
Below the goodness,
and above the sin.

Was a spark of silence,
that no one ever heard.
And I'd close my eyes and follow it
and savor every word.

And even without asking
it told me what to do.
It told me son, you've gotta run,
from Maple Avenue.

Now some of us were sinners,
none of us were saints.
Some of us were ***** and dreamless,
but we had no complaints.

We'd trade it all for just a glimpse
of what we might turn into.
But money only traded money
on Maple Avenue.

I've tried to get it all back again,
but it's not like it was before.
You can't come back into the pack,
when the ***** don't know her pups no more.

It's not a small thing for a man to die happy,
it's not a hard thing to do.
That's just one little thing I've learned
from Maple Avenue.

1.
You can never go home,
not to the home you left.
When you leave, you get bigger.
Not necessarily in girth, but in consciousness.
When you come back,  everything,
even the walls of your parent's house,
seem to have shrunk.

2.
Look.....
Here comes the parade.
With its paper mache floats
and twirling batons.
Cub scouts and boy scouts,
all in a neat blue and drab green row,
followed by a high school marching band
playing "Stars and Stripes Forever".
From bygone wars, limbless surviving soldiers flinch with every cymbal crash.

3.
I watched billows of cottonwood clouds
swirl down a summer hometown avenue,
they met on the street corner for a song........
"Alley Oop", or "I Like Bread And Butter"
These ghostlike voices will live there forever,
innocent, asleep, numb, waiting.
Soon, the postman will bring your future.
Soon, you will be just a number on a lotery ball.
Soon, you will have to dissect luck or fate.

4.
I took my 87 year old Father to gather his tools
from his long time place of work.
The instruments of his livelihood.
He did not need them anymore, he had retired.
Some tools he had used since World War II,
some he made for a specific job.... never to use again.
All neatly placed in toolboxes built in the 30s and 40s,
yet not a trace of rust.
These were the tools of a tradesman,
a (Tool and Die Man).
He once told me, “Son, if I can’t fix it because I don’t have the right tool, I will make the tool”.
I thought him to be Superman.
But there I was, loading up my Father’s history,
to take home, to be sold to the highest bidder.  
I myself have made my living playing music for audiences.
I also have tools.
Guitars, amplifiers, harmonicas, microphones.
There will come a day, in the not too distant future,
when I will have to “retire” the instruments of my livelihood.
Though I will not be as stoic as my World War II Father,
I will go kicking and screaming to the pawn shop,
remembering every song that fed me,
and every chord that made people dance.

Near an old Kentucky town
I made my livin' underground.
And seldom would I see the light of day.

Where coal once was king,
I made may hammer ring.
That's a sound that will not soon fade away.

But now the coal train’s turned to rust,
and my lungs are full of dust.
And my time on this earth is through.

For forty years I dug their coal,
till the minin' took its toll.
Now all I ask is this favor of you.

When I die, when I'm gone,
o'er my body sing a song.
So the angels will come and take my soul.

Dig my grave neath the pines,
on a hill far from the mines.
Make my tombstone out of number nine coal,
make my tombstone out of number nine coal.

Near an old Kentucky town,
while the leaves were fallin' down,
a family lay their kin to rest.

While they sang "Amazing Grace",
with a tear on every face,
a miner got his last request.

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.