Freeborn ?
Nay ! Born in *******
to the wiles of life
in ways we need to understand .

Only rebel
against the iniquities we bear
as scars across our mental backs .

Freedom is at best
a dream that's dreamed
in the solitude
of howling winds
"as the times they are a'changing"
but never really does

Three friends in a row
On a windswept hill there
Had they but eyes to see
It’s a spectacle rare.

Three friends in a row
on a former plantation.
Three soldiers confined here
just for the duration.

It was Robert Lee’s land
Before terrible war
Made it a plantation
Like none was before.

There are soldiers and sergeants,
Many heroes, few saints.
Some are here since Antietam
since the war between States.

Marse Robert’s plantation
takes the proud and the few.
No serfs and no slaves,
only freeborn and true.

I would I were a careless child,
  Still dwelling in my Highland cave,
Or roaming through the dusky wild,
  Or bounding o’er the dark blue wave;
The cumbrous pomp of Saxon pride,
  Accords not with the freeborn soul,
Which loves the mountain’s craggy side,
  And seeks the rocks where billows roll.

Fortune! take back these cultur’d lands,
  Take back this name of splendid sound!
I hate the touch of servile hands,
  I hate the slaves that cringe around:
Place me among the rocks I love,
  Which sound to Ocean’s wildest roar;
I ask but this—again to rove
  Through scenes my youth hath known before.

Few are my years, and yet I feel
  The World was ne’er design’d for me:
Ah! why do dark’ning shades conceal
  The hour when man must cease to be?
Once I beheld a splendid dream,
  A visionary scene of bliss:
Truth!—wherefore did thy hated beam
  Awake me to a world like this?

I lov’d—but those I lov’d are gone;
  Had friends—my early friends are fled:
How cheerless feels the heart alone,
  When all its former hopes are dead!
Though gay companions, o’er the bowl
  Dispel awhile the sense of ill;
Though Pleasure stirs the maddening soul,
  The heart—the heart—is lonely still.

How dull! to hear the voice of those
  Whom Rank or Chance, whom Wealth or Power,
Have made, though neither friends nor foes,
  Associates of the festive hour.
Give me again a faithful few,
  In years and feelings still the same,
And I will fly the midnight crew,
  Where boist’rous Joy is but a name.

And Woman, lovely Woman! thou,
  My hope, my comforter, my all!
How cold must be my ***** now,
  When e’en thy smiles begin to pall!
Without a sigh would I resign,
  This busy scene of splendid Woe,
To make that calm contentment mine,
  Which Virtue knows, or seems to know.

Fain would I fly the haunts of men—
  I seek to shun, not hate mankind;
My breast requires the sullen glen,
  Whose gloom may suit a darken’d mind.
Oh! that to me the wings were given,
  Which bear the turtle to her nest!
Then would I cleave the vault of Heaven,
  To flee away, and be at rest.

The gallant Youth, who may have gained,
    Or seeks, a “winsome Marrow,”
Was but an Infant in the lap
    When first I looked on Yarrow;
Once more, by Newark’s Castle-gate
    Long left without a warder,
I stood, looked, listened, and with Thee,
    Great Minstrel of the Border!

Grave thoughts ruled wide on that sweet day,
    Their dignity installing
In gentle bosoms, while sere leaves
    Were on the bough, or falling;
But breezes played, and sunshine gleamed—
    The forest to embolden;
Reddened the fiery hues, and shot
    Transparence through the golden.

For busy thoughts the Stream flowed on
    In foamy agitation;
And slept in many a crystal pool
    For quiet contemplation:
No public and no private care
    The freeborn mind enthralling,
We made a day of happy hours,
    Our happy days recalling.

Brisk Youth appeared, the Morn of youth,
    With freaks of graceful folly,—
Life’s temperate Noon, her sober Eve,
    Her Night not melancholy;
Past, present, future, all appeared
    In harmony united,
Like guests that meet, and some from far,
    By cordial love invited.

And if, as Yarrow, through the woods
    And down the meadow ranging,
Did meet us with unaltered face,
    Though we were changed and changing;
If, then, some natural shadows spread
    Our inward prospect over,
The soul’s deep valley was not slow
    Its brightness to recover.

Eternal blessings on the Muse,
    And her divine employment!
The blameless Muse, who trains her Sons
    For hope and calm enjoyment;
Albeit sickness, lingering yet,
    Has o’er their pillow brooded;
And Care waylays their steps—a Sprite
    Not easily eluded.

For thee, O Scott! compelled to change
    Green Eildon—hill and Cheviot
For warm Vesuvio’s vine-clad slopes;
    And leave thy Tweed and Tiviot
For mild Sorrento’s breezy waves;
    May classic Fancy, linking
With native Fancy her fresh aid,
    Preserve thy heart from sinking!

Oh! while they minister to thee,
    Each vying with the other,
May Health return to mellow Age
    With Strength, her venturous brother;
And Tiber, and each brook and rill
    Renowned in song and story,
With unimagined beauty shine,
    Nor lose one ray of glory!

For Thou, upon a hundred streams,
    By tales of love and sorrow,
Of faithful love, undaunted truth
    Hast shed the power of Yarrow;
And streams unknown, hills yet unseen,
    Wherever they invite Thee,
At parent Nature’s grateful call,
    With gladness must requite Thee.

A gracious welcome shall be thine,
    Such looks of love and honour
As thy own Yarrow gave to me
    When first I gazed upon her;
Beheld what I had feared to see,
    Unwilling to surrender
Dreams treasured up from early days,
    The holy and the tender.

And what, for this frail world, were all
    That mortals do or suffer,
Did no responsive harp, no pen,
    Memorial tribute offer?
Yea, what were mighty Nature’s self?
    Her features, could they win us,
Unhelped by the poetic voice
    That hourly speaks within us?

Nor deem that localized Romance
    Plays false with our affections;
Unsanctifies our tears-made sport
    For fanciful dejections:
Ah, no! the visions of the past
    Sustain the heart in feeling
Life as she is-our changeful Life,
    With friends and kindred dealing.

Bear witness, Ye, whose thoughts that day
    In Yarrow’s groves were centred;
Who through the silent portal arch
    Of mouldering Newark entered;
And clomb the winding stair that once
    Too timidly was mounted
By the “last Minstrel,”(not the last!)
    Ere he his Tale recounted.

Flow on for ever, Yarrow Stream!
    Fulfil thy pensive duty,
Well pleased that future Bards should chant
    For simple hearts thy beauty;
To dream-light dear while yet unseen,
    Dear to the common sunshine,
And dearer still, as now I feel,
    To memory’s shadowy moonshine!

The wind slices through my hair,
     like a knife through butter,

My skin embraces the feeling,
     like the warmth of a mother.

My fingers slowly graze the grass I stand upon,
     then suddenly tighten as I gasp for air.

My eyes stare blankly into the sky,
     as my lungs begin to tear.

They fill quickly with dust and small rocks,
     making it impossible to breathe.

My legs are weak and shake forcefully,
     I am summoned on to my knee's.

I willingly open my arms wide,
     accepting the future ahead of me.

As my skin disintegrates I'm released,
     my soul has finally become free.

Chaos fills my surroundings,
     with screams from the innocent.

The world is crumbling quickly,
     the situation arising causes content.

I have been absorbed into the chaos,
     I have become a fear.

I am what haunts you as you plead,
     your love to those who are dear.

You perceive this to be a disaster,
     yet to me it is a master piece of art.

The chaos will not end,
     until I have absorbed your heart.

freeborn mustang lopes
unchained throughout curtailed life
fur snared in barbed wire

Were I as freeborn as a pale white cloud wearing
the light of turquoise in my eyes
I could see distant enough to travel away from your elegy
and fall in love with life again far from
this crossroad region of clavicular souls in frigid
confusion and shame that navigate the howling wind alone
in their plain and very ordinary alarm so that they can
stay in one particular place
but I would forfeit all my vanity and
trade in the caramel pleasures served before my
marble face each day for True happiness
and vow to protect my consciousness as if it were a dove

Written by Sara Fielder © Sept 2015

©PmcCoywrites 2019

I don’t need a bed to drift off;
these days to have a nightmare.
I no longer fear the dark.
What terrifies me is the future.
And what it holds in its belly.

Take me aback to the ancient times.
I’m choking with this novel occult;
we all unknowingly belong to.
Where kids are taught evil as good.
And they paint good as evil.

I’m so tired of staying woke.
Let me sleep and be peaceful.
We’ve embraced what will make;
us less human and be super-human.
I’m losing my mind at these thoughts.

They create distractions for innocent children.
Their grips on us so strong.
Yet, the people sing their praises.
While they wallow more in unrecognizable *******.
‘Cause they present their tricks seemingly harmless.

We’re indoctrinated daily.
With their many charming channels;
with which they chain us.
We sell ourselves into slavery.
Even while we live like Freeborn.

The thought of tomorrow;
puts me off the purest ecstasy.
And I sometimes wish I was long gone.
‘Cause there are a million things;
I know I can never change.