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1.

From our
safe windows,
we crane our necks,
rubbernecking
past the slow
motion wreckage
unfolding in Homs.

We remain
perfectly
perched
to marvel at
the elegant arc of
a mortar shell
framing tomorrows
deep horizon,
whistling through
the twilight to
find its fruitful
mark.

In the now
we keep
complicit time,
to the arrest
of beating hearts,
snapping fingers
to the pop
of rifle cracks,
swooning to
the delicious
intoxication of
curling smoke
lofting ever
upward;
yet
thankfully
remain
distant
enough to
recuse any
possibility
of an
intimate
nexus
with the
besieged.

2.

From our
safe windows,
we behold the
urgent arrivals of
The Friends of Syria
demanding
clean sheets
and 4 Star
room service at a
Tunisian Palace
recently cleaned
and under new
management
promising a
much needed
refurbishment.

The gathered,
a clique of
this epochs
movers and shakers,
a veritable
rouges gallery of
ambassadorial
prelates, Emirs and
state department
bureaucrats
summoned
with portfolio
from the
darkest corners
of the globe.

They are
eager to
sanctify
the misery
of Homs,
deflect and
lay blame
with realpolitik
rationalizations,
commencing
official commissions
of inquiry,
deliberating
grave considerations,
issuing indictments
of formal charges for
Crimes Against
Humanity
while
remaining
urgently
engrossed
in the fascination
of interviewing
potential
process servers
to deliver the bad news
to Bashar al-Assad
and his soulless
Baathist
confederates,
if papers
are to be
served.

Yes, the diplomats
are busy meeting
in closed rooms.

In hushed circles
they whisper
into aroused ears,
railing against
Russia’s
gun running
intransigence
and China’s
geopolitical
chess moves.

Statesmen
boast of the
intrepid justice
of tipping points
and the moving poetry
of self serving tales,
weighing the impact
of stern sanctions
amidst the historical
confusion of the
asymmetrical
symmetries
of civil war.

Caravans
of Arab League
envoys roll up
in silver Bentleys,
crossing deserts
of contradictory
obfuscations,
navigating the
endless dunes
with hand held
sextants of
hidden agendas.

The heroic
Bedouins are
eager to offload
their baggage
and share
on the ground
intelligence from
their recent soirées
across Syria.

They beg
a quick fix,
the triage of a
critical catharsis
to bleed their
brains dry
of heinous
recollections,
pleading
release from a
troubled conscience
victimized by
the unnerving paradox
of reconciling
discoveries of
perverse voyeurism
with the sanctioned
explanations
of their respective
ruling elites.

The bellies
of these
scopophiliacs
are distended;
grown queasy
from a steady diet
of malfeasance
an ulcerated
world parades
in continuous loop;
spewing the raw feeds
of real time misery;
forcibly fed
the grim
visions of
frantic
fathers
rushing
the mangled
carcases
of mortally
wounded
children
to crumpled
piles of smashed
concrete that were
once hospitals.

We despondently
ask how
much longer
must we
look into
the eyes
of starving
children
emaciated from
the wanton
indifference
of the world?


3.

From our
safe windows
we wonder
how much
longer can
the urgent
burning
ambivalence
continue
before it
consumes
our common
humanity in
a final
conflagration?

My hair already
singed by the
endless firestorms
sweeping the prairies
of the world.

How can we survive
the trampling hoards,
the marauding
plagues of acrimony
fed by a voracious
blood lust aspiring to
victimize the people
of Homs and a
thousand cities
like it?


4.

From my safe
window I stand in witness
to the state execution of
refugees fleeing the
living nightmare
of Baba Amr.

The ****** of innocents,
today's newly minted martyrs,
women and children
cornered, trapped
on treacherous roads,
mercilessly
slaughtered and
defiled in death
to mark the lesson
of a ruthless master
enthralled with the
power of his
sadistic fascist
lordship.

I cannot avert my eyes
marking sights
of pleading women
begging for the
lives of their children
in exchange for
the gratification
of a sadists
lust.

My heart
is impaled
on the sharp
spear of
outrage
beholding
careening
children mowed
down with the
serrated blades
protruding
from marauding
jeeps of laughing
soldiers.

I drop
to my knees
in lakes of
tears
reflecting
a grotesque
horror stricken
image of myself.

My eyes have
murdered my soul.

The ghastly images
of Homs have chased
away my Holy Ghost
to the safety of a child's
sandbox hidden away
in a long forgotten
revered memory.


5.

From my safe window
I seethe with anger
demanding vengeance,
debating how to rise
to meet the obscenity of
the Butcher of Damascus.

The sword of Damocles
dangles so tantalizingly close
to this tyrants throat.  

The covered women
of Homs scream prayers
“may Allah bring Bashar to ruin”

Dare I pray
that Allah trip the
horsehair trigger
that holds the
sword at bay?

Do I pick up
the sword
a wield it
as an
avenging
angel?

Am I the
John Brown
of our time?

Do I organize
a Lincoln Brigade
and join the growing
leagues of jihadists
amassing at the
Gates of Damascus?

Will my righteous
indignation fit well
in a confederacy
with Hamas and
al-Qaeda as my
comrades in arms?

Do I succumb to
the passion of hate
and become just
another murderous
partisan, or do I
commend the power
of love and marshal
truth to speak with
the force of
satyagraha?

I lift a fervent prayer
to claim the justice
of Allah’s ear,
“may the knowing one
lift the veil of foolishness
that covers my heart in
cloaks of resent, cure
my blindness that ignores
my raging disease of
plausible deniability
ravaging the body politic
of humanity.”

6.

Indeed,
physician heal thyself.

I run to embrace my
illness.

I pine to understand it.

I undertake the
difficult regimen
of a cure to eradicate
the terrible affliction.

This
pernicious
plague,
subverting
the notion
of a shared
humanness
is a cunning
sedition that
undermines
the unity of
the holy spirit.  

The bell from
the toppled steeples
still tolls, echoing
across the space of
continents and eons
of temporal time.

The faithful chimes
gently chides us
to remove the wedge
of perception that
separates, divides
and undermines.

Time has come
to liberally
apply the balm
that salves the
open wounds
so common to
our common
human condition.

The power of prayer
is the joining of hands
with others racked
with the common
affliction of humanness.

Allah,  
My eyes are wide open,
my sacred heart revealed,
my sleeves are rolled up,
my memory is stocked,
my soul filled with resolve,
my hand is lifted
extended to all
brothers and sisters.
Lift us,
gather us
into one
loving embrace.

Selah


7.

From the safe
windows of
our palaces
we live within
earshot of
the trilling
zaghroutas
of exasperation
flowing from
the besieged
city smouldering
under Bashar’s
symphony of terror.

Our nostrils
fill with the
acrid plumes
of unrequited
lamentations
lifting from the
the burning
destruction
of shelled
buildings.

Our eyes spark
from the night
tracers
of sleeking
snipers
flitting along
the city’s
rooftops.

The deadly jinn
indiscriminately
inject the
paralysis of
random fear
into the veins
of the city
with each
skillful
head shot.

These
ghoulish
assassins
lavish in their
macabre work;
like vultures
they eagerly
feast on the
corpses of their ****,
the stench of bloated
bodies drying in the
sun is the perfume
that fills their nostrils.


8.

From our
safe window
we discern the
silhouettes of militants
still boldly standing
amidst the
mounting rubble of an
unbowed Homs
shouting;

Allah Akbar!!!
Allah Akbar!!!
Allah Akbar!!!

raising pumped fists,
singing songs
of resistance,
dancing to
the revelation of
freedom,
refusing to
be coward by
the slashing
whips of a
butchers
terrible
sword.


9.

From my
safe window
my tongue laps
the pap
of infants
suckling from
the depleted
teats of mothers
who cannot cry
for their dying
children;
tears fail
to well from
the exhaustion
of dehydrated
pools.

10.

From my
safe window
my heart stirs
to the muezzin
calling the
desperate faithful
from the toppled
rubble of dashed
minarets.

We can
no longer
shut our ears
to the adhan
of screams
the silent
voices that echo
the blatant injustice
of a people under siege.


11.

From my
safe window,
I pay
Homage to Homs
and call brothers
and sisters to rise
with vigilant
insistence
that hostilities
cease and
humanity be
upheld,
respected and
protected.


12.

From my safe
window
I perceive
the zagroutas
of sorrow
manifest as a
whiling hum,
a sweeping
blue mist,
levitating
the coffins
from the rubble
of ravaged streets.

The swirling
chorus of
mourning
joins my
desperate
prayers;
rising in
concert
with the
black billows
of smoke
dancing
away
from the
flaming
embers
of scorched
neighborhoods.


13.

From my
safe window
I heed
the fluttering
wings
of avenging
angels
furiously
batting
as they
climb
the black
plumes,
lifting from
the scattered bricks
of the desecrated
city.

It is the
Jacob’s
Ladder
for our
time;
marking
a new
consecrated
place
where
a New Adam
is destined
to be formed
from the
pulverized
stones of
desolation.

14.

From our
safe windows
we peer into
resplendent
mirrors
beholding
the perfect image of
ourselves
eying
falling tears
dripping blood,
coloring death
onto the
blanched sheets
of disheveled beds.


15.

From our
safe windows
our voices are silenced,
our words mock urgency
our thoughts betray comprehension
our senses fail to illicit empathy
our action is the only worthy prayer


16.

From my
safe window
I hear the
mortar shells
walking toward
my little palace,
the crack
of a ******
shot
precedes
the wiz of a
passing bullet
whispering
its presence
into my
waxen
ear.


17.

From my
safe window,
my palms scoop
the rich soil
of the flower boxes
perched on my sill.
I anoint the tender
green shoots of  the
Arab Spring
with an incessant flow
of bittersweet tears.

Music selection:
John Coltrane
A Love Supreme
Acknowledgment

Oakland
2/28/12
jbm
I am the carnage
dripping with emoluments
reeking of duplicity
occupier of cities
torturer of insurgents
ruler by decree of tweets

A grand vision of myself
is forever fixed
in my mind’s eye

I am the zeitgeist
my murmuration
reverberates
through every
media channel
dazzling the
dizzy digerati
diligently tweeting
my precious
prescient
predilections

I descended from
my gilded 5th Ave tower
conveyed by a downward escalator
to save the common mass
from devastation and destruction

sweeping across
magnificent porticos
making grand entrances
through marine guarded gates
the glint of a rising sun
highlights the halo
of my golden coiff
and the fortitude of
my deep red power tie

I survey the global landscape
that fellow elites and I
have assiduously crafted
to loot unfathomable wealth
to indulge our idiosyncratic whims

The perpetual war
Toppled soverns
The viral terrors
The blighted cities
Ineffectual schools
Strangling bureaucracies
Egregious taxation
Omnipotent corporations
Offshored industries
Meager wages
Balooning wealth gap
Industrial stasis
Imminent domaine
Deteriorating health
Withering private life
Fractured families
Ubiquitous addictions
Disempowerment
Disenfranchisement
Stultifying work
Environmental degradation
Consuming violence
Government  spying
Police State repression
All was created by me
For the benefit of me

I alone can fix the carnage
I and like minded confederates
so cleverly created for our sole benefit


I understand the peril of
The Forgotten Man
He is under siege  
Hiding in the bowels
Of violent cities
He is foreclosed in
Shuttering suburbia
He is lost in the changing
Ethnicity of our homeland
He's been abandoned
By the perpetually elected
Politicians beholden to the
Monied interests
He is set adrift    
To wander among
the tombstones
Of a dying America

We are under siege
By Illegals stealing jobs
Victimized by their crime sprees
They live off the public dole
They undermine America
aided and abetted by the liberals
Who like the terrorists
Are waiting to pounce
with blood dripping fangs
to further their
UnAmerican agenda

I am the corruptor
I bought the politicians
Skidded the regulations
evaded taxes
cut corners
pushed every
envelop to
advance the
cause of me
-the devoted profiteer-
the dissolution
of Atlantic City
is the hallmark
of my handiwork

I gorged myself
at the public troughs
Reaping tax abatements
my skilled hand
always extracting
concessions and coinage
from the public purse
a clever businessman indeed

I am the art of the deal
the bankrupter of businesses
prince of crooked commerce
Defaulter on debts
Whelsher on payments
to workers for service due
I am the darling of the
double dealing derring-do

I am drawn to the beautiful
I am enamoured with me
My favorite pastime,
Watching Celebrity
Apprentice reruns
-the highest rated show
of all time… (a curious alt fact)-
more people attended and
watched my inaugural address
then any other president
throughout history….
PERIOD!

I have a proud collection
of trophy wives ….
the purpose of my family
is to affirm and flatter me
I agree with Howard Stern
that Ivanka is a piece of ***
I wish I could date her

As I walk the fantastic
performance stages of my life
I am radically entitled
to gleefully grab *****
insult disgusting subordinates
castigate uppity females
like Rosie and Megyn
while remaining
a titillated ******
visiting teenage
beauty pageant
dressing rooms

I am a committed
serial adulterer
that staunchly upholds
the sanctity of family values

I made my fortune
Extracting rent
trafficking in vice...
gambling and circuses
For the masses
These are my specialties
and I ***** my name
to all licensees
willing to pay me
to brand any
faux luxerient

I alone can fix the carnage
I and like minded confederates
so cleverly created
for our personal benefit

Tax me with requests
for insights to whom
I am and with whom
I do business
I will offer nothing but
the impenetrable
opaqueness

Look into the mirror
Every base impulse
Every fear, prejudice
Resent you discover
You will find me

I am settled into
every ****** crag
Every worry line
searing your brow
Skillfully plained by me

I am a paradox
wrapped in the
enigma of self
aggrandizing deals

I am the
daring deconstructor
of public schools
Rent seeking
holy privatization
will enrich fellow elites
together we shall
gleefully grease the slide
of the dumb down ride
abhorring facts
ideology, opinions
and optics rule

I cultivate a
suspicion of science
Preferring the superiority
of suspicion in service to
A bloated gut feel
as the ultimate arbiter of
The course to pursue

I pledge allegiance
to the ruthless exploitation
Of Mother Earth
Like a juggernaut
I will roll over the
Standing Rock Protectors
And any opposition
to the extraction
And distribution
of fossil fuels
I'll Frack
the republic to pieces
Direct my armies
To conquest oil rich nations
to quench my insatiable thirst
For the fuel of all capitalist tools

health care is not
a universal right
I care only for
The health of my own
and the welfare of
the privileged few
I promise to *******
Many with my Trumpcare

I am the defiler
of sanctuary cities
Disruption is my pleasure
the route of humanity
Tramping through
this burning world
Is welcomed to my hell

I distrust unity
I slice through cohesion
At ribbon cutting ceremonies

I drain The Swamp
And fill it with quicksand
I Enable anger
It's a sign of manliness

I collaborate with
a rising Confederacy
The Altright promises
To undermine the Union
With assault and battery…

My pout crowns
a cunning heart
My scowl is
the router of joy

Purple bunting
Perpetually hangs
On my heart

The blue line
Is not blue enough
the lawless half
Must be cowed
Into submission

I vow to scrub
The institutional memory
Of the Federal system
and all democratic tradition

I exalt  the fantasies
Of the forgotten man
I will fill his long memory
With fables of his foibles
And litanies of my
next great conquest

My Scepter of deception
Anoint the fictions of me
Attesting to my greatness
My craft is vanity

Putin is my model
I empathize with
How he deals with
dishonest journalists

I am empowered by the
Apartheid of Zion
I too am a builder of walls
Celebrant of separatism
Suspicious of the other
I burn the bridges
Severing all connections to them

Duplicity is our new national religion
My thumbs are bloodied by furtive tweets
My mind is pinched by anguish
The weight of myself
Strides across our
denigrated landscape
like Goya's Colossus
I am the carnage  

Music; Led Zeppelin
When the Levee Breaks

Lavallette
1/29/17
jbm
composed after the Women's March
to honor ****** Hair,
the 45th President of the US
Ma Cherie Aug 2016
You were the boy next door
literally and figuratively
I loved you from the moment I saw you
Beautiful golden wavy hair
cut short but ****
soft eyes of a deer...
such a warm buttery brown

I used to fantasize about this feeling
though didn't know if
how, when, where...why
I was innocent as a newborn lamb
you seemed to only like me
or as if you only wanted ***

I was projecting or protecting
I am not certain
But the soft tender sensuous first kisses
I still can taste in my mouth
like sticky sweet caramel
every time I run my tongue over my lips
I remember....
I loved that mouth... and everything attached to it.

Our song was "Hello" by Lionel Richie
And you never knew
I thought of you constantly
after the kiss...for a long time
I waited

So I never thought you were coming back
Graduation came and with a determination
to undo the innocence
craving to know what everyone else already did
The night of baccalaureate
lyrical voices
"strawberry wine
seventeen...
hot July moon
saw everythin'
taste of love
Ahhhh bittersweet
like strawberry wine"
innocently
playing out for real
the most handsome guy there
Said he was 24
asked for a kiss... drunken silly, flirty girl
"Maybe... if I can get a burger first?"
he delivered so we kissed
though he was a gentleman that night
I made a date with destiny

Still remember
I wore a short denim skirt the front like button pants Confederates wear
so kissed warmly by the sun...tanned Native, naive skin...
a lacy white cotten tank top and these terrific kicks...black leather biker boots, square toed...kick ***
curly black long hair... hazel eyes
some say they can see green and gold in there...or something mysterious
Though I don't think I'm much of a mystery
I wore a little mascara... a bit of summertime blush and lip gloss
When I stepped out I got a "Wow"... so beautiful...**** girl"
I used to hear that sometimes but never felt that way... often times it made me uncomfortable
But I smiled and took his hand and trusted him
It was a barn dance so much fun
but I don't remember the ending so well
kind of fuzzy
I guess I drank too much
I do...I do...I do remember his touch
a strange smile just cursed my lips

So that summer I was with him
His father was a ***** pervert, an animal
and I couldn't stand to be around him
I remember jumping in the pool and it's ***** paws trying to touch me
If I told my Father
he would have killed him!
I remember he comforted me though
he did defend me that day
His mother was just such a horrible *****
I'm sure maybe because of his Father...
Brutally honest.. I suppose she told me I was just a plaything
I didn't believe her

Still don't... honestly
He used to like me to sing to him
In the back of his truck where we made a makeshift bed and we'd lie down looking at the stars....
and he left some pretty deep scars
But I remember...focus on the delightful, appealing  things too
like going to the lake and the engine died we had to paddle our way back
and there were bats overhead swooping and diving
He shrieked like a girl and I laughed...
we both did

As it turns out
He was seeing an older woman... I don't know how long
He was really 28 and so was she
Apparently they work together
To spare you the details I ran over his mailbox when I left and I never looked behind me...

I came back
your best friend
was dating my best friend
and you asked if I would go to the beach with you did you really think
I was going to say no?
I climbed in the car there you are
in the backseat
our eyes met like the day of the first kiss
I can still picture it now actually
you took my hand and you pulled me in
I laid my head on your lap...
Looking up in your eyes so happy to be home
we kissed again
finally...

I told you the story of how I'd been hurt
It did matter how much you'd flirt
or caress my hair, touch that spot...rub my neck... lift up my locks...and kiss me there, making yummy sounds...deep and seductive..
making yummy memories...

I was determined not to be hurt that way again
so you courted me for 9 months
And then you asked me to marry you...
So it was never all about ***...
although I know you thought I was **** and beautiful...your curvy hippie girl...and you knew that I thought you were beautiful too...my handsome shadowed face...baseball cap and sneakers, sorta tight fittin blue corduroy  pants  that just looked perfect ... maybe it was the back pockets and a nice white pin striped blue shirt with fold down collars
your laugh, the games of basketball, horseshoes, Frisbee... swimming
food... eating together was like food ***
we so enjoyed the connecting
the sharing...the tastes and flavors
you loved my cooking...thank you

I remember the convertible Mustang
our boat the four wheelers
we had everything and a four-bedroom cape... nice cars..
worked hard....nice things
we did lots of things together
we endured some terrific pain
nearly watching our daughter die
and watching your mother actually go
and your friend... snowmobiling will never be the same again Joey Laquerre... a local racing Legend gone
Irony? I don't know
his son dies at 17 in 2014 an ATV accident...

So many secrets so many skeletons we share in our closet
I miss that safe place and I know you do too
If everyone really knew ...everything..
well...it's such an epic love story
you told our daughter
And our son... how wonderful it all was
Reminisce with them a little too much even
I asked you why
you said you didn't know
and I guess you still don't
you're still with her
the one you left me for... you know
And the guy from baccalaureate he's still with her too
if I was so wonderful
then why did you have to go?

Happy Anniversary to the death of a marriage... 13 years

Cherie Nolan© 2016
I hope this is poetry I felt like it was poetry and hopefully worth reading... I realize it's a bit long but a true story no I'm not sad by the way...all good. :-) it's beautiful here!
MoMo Mar 2012
Everybody calls me Front Porch. It might be ‘cause I’m always in front of the house or maybe it’s just a pet name. Either way I answer to it. I hop down off the railing of our front porch and walk around the big oaks all over the yard. I like the way they turn me all green and how the grass tickles the bottoms of my bare feet. I wonder what I’m gonna play today.
“Hey look, it’s the clown!” a kid yells from the gate, “You know the circus left weeks ago right?”
“Yup!” I yell back, my hands on my hips, “Why didn’t you go with ‘em, Archie?”
“Dang! You look like paper!” another kid, Patrick I think, shouts as he joins Archie at the gate.
“Like you look any better.” I say, turning my nose up at them the way Granma said to when people tease me.
“Hey don’t get mad us at us ‘cause you’re a mutant.” Archie says.
Despite my intentions to ignore them, he’d quipped my interest, “Whadyou mean?”  
“Don’t you know?” Patrick asks, snickering.
“Apparently not, ******.” I say. He glares flamin’ arrows at me, but I ignore him.
“Bein’ albino is a mutation, you know.” Archie says, and gives me a superior look.
I roll my eyes, but make a mental note to ask Momma about it later. I take a few steps back toward the porch to go play soldier and a rock bounces off the grass near my foot. I turn around and one hits me on the arm. It’s gonna leave a bruise.
“The confederates are coming! Protect the flag!” I shout and duck behind an oak. I know Mississippi was part of the confederates, but I’ve always liked the unions. Besides the Civil War was 147 years ago.
“******!” Patrick yells and throws more rocks, but they become confederate bullets in my imagination.  I let loose some fire of my own, the rocks that have landed near me, and I peg Archie right in his pug nose.
“Score!” I shout and pump my fists in the air.
“Alright, that’s enough.” Daniel says, shooing the boys away. “So Momma finally let you dye your hair? Looks nice on you Front Porch.” He says, ruffling my now fire engine red mop.
“I’m not speakin’ to you.” I say, turning around and crossing my arms across my chest.
“Why not?” he asks, scooping me up in a hug.
“A good brother would stop aging and wait for his little sister to catch up. You’re eighteen today, that’s eight years I gotta catch up.” I say, frowning because he’s laughing.
“I’d stop if I could.” He says, setting me on my feet.
“Well I got you a present anyway.”
“What is it?”
“I can’t tell you or it wouldn’t be a surprise.”
He sighs and looks disappointed, but I know he’s faking it.
“Does Momma know you’re out here?” he asks, as we walk up on the porch.
“Nope. She doesn’t ever want me outside, so I had to sneak out.” I say, moving in front of the box with the frog I caught in the creek behind the house in it, “She thinks I’m upstairs.”
“How’d you get down here then?”
“I climbed out the window.”
“Frontia Ann Porch, if you don’t get yourself in this house, you’re gonna get sunburn again!” Momma yells from inside.
“Busted.” Daniel whispers, with a smile.
“Alright Momma, I’m comin’!” I yell back, givin’ Daniel the evil eye. I pick up his amphibious birthday present and hope it doesn’t croak.
It does.
C S Cizek Aug 2014
She dug two tiny trenches in the loose dirt
near the porch steps and enclosed
them with pebble barricades.
Like discharged rounds, a rusted
grill rack seared the grass between them.
The Confederate flag that hung
from the gutter caught the wind and flicked
water onto the stairs and the Northern trench,
turning it thick like Union blood.
Sometimes you have to write from an opposing view point. Written from a third person POV on a little girl playing in the shadow of a Confederate flag. The Union won, but some still hold tight to the South's past ideals.
Lawrence Hall Aug 2017
Fat Confederates in Camouflage Knee-Pants

General Robert E. Lee in in a slogan tee -
One cannot imagine such, nor yet
**** Dowling defending old Galveston
Armed with made-in-China tiki torches

Doctor Martin Luther King adorned in bling -
One cannot imagine such, nor yet
The Little Rock Nine disfigured with tats
Or freedom marchers sporting designer sneaks

So, all you goofs and oafs and slobs and yobs,
Get out of the way; go find yourselves jobs
Emet Ezer Oct 2024
Remember, remember to vote by the fifth of November,
to stop the Socialist’s treasonous plot.
I see far too many reasons,
why the Socialist’s treason,
must be completely stopped.
There truly is a lot.

Everyone should be stunned,
but the world is numb,
and twiddles its thumbs,
as nations completely rot.

With their totalitarian hearts filled with hate,
the corrupt Socialists, ‘tis their intent,
to destroy the United States of America.

The Socialist horse has already been brought in the gate,
but it may not be too late.
We can still win,
if we capture the Socialist soldiers that came from within.
They are notorious for projecting the illusion that Republicans are an intrusion,
keeping us all busy fighting each other,
while they dig under our nation's foundation.
They wait for the Republic to collapse into chaos and destitution,
so they can execute their final solution.

They live by the saying “laws are for thee but not for me”.
They love to disguise socialism as democracy,
and Republicans as a threat to thee.
What they really mean is they are a threat to their hypocrisy.
They gaslight our nation into sedation,
wear us down to control our towns.

They wish for the sacrifices of our national heroes to have been in vain,
as they attempt to flush our Constitution down the drain.
Many are fooled under their guise of safety,
should they give up their liberty hastily.

They have damaged alliances and stoked the fires of war.
They tax our retirees while rewarding our enemies.
They have intentionally hindered military aid to our Israeli confederates.
They have failed many of our military veterans,
that have come on their knees with broken psyches,
while continuing to feed our enemies.

In the meanwhile they drained our petroleum stockpile to provide for the vile.
They wasted our nation’s FEMA funds on the illegal ones.
They print more Bens to implement short term mends.
Their heavy inflation is crippling our nation.
They fuel racial division among man,
encourage violence to begin,
unless we grant them more power within.
They appease the mobs if it will help keep their jobs.

Many lies they have spread.
One even led to a madman taking a shot at Trump's head.
We thank God that Trump is not dead.
Another one lain in wait at his golf estate to assassinate.
Again, we thank God that Trump is not now the late.
They once peddled a fake dossier,
with hope that it would put President Trump away.
If you aren’t already aware,
they’re practicing banana republic lawfare,
to get him put in ironware and fitted for orange outerwear.
They’re trying to drain the billionaire.
They thought they could give him a major scare,
to get him to surrender in fear.
But they were wrong.
He continues to stay strong,
has a growing throng.

They participate in many criminal activities,
it sparks theories of conspiracies.
They marginalize and persecute the theorists as enemies.

They think facts should consider their feelings.
If one points this out it sends them reeling.
Those that deny their misinformation,
have their speech labeled lies to be censored from the nation.
They control most of the media,
and wish to rewrite our history in the encyclopedia.

The Socialists wish to abolish free speech,
and to be able to teach defiers a lesson.
First they must outlaw your Smith & Wesson.

They seek to destroy the owner of X,
because he won't support the Marxists.
He has been a global voice of reason,
loves to mock their treason.

They use government funded education,
to brainwash future generations,
malnourish kids of essential knowledge and good morals,
to make them ignorant depraved government slaves.
Many colleges are scamming our youth,
and withholding the truth.

They wish to dissolve traditional fams,
and convince kids to be trans.
If parents attempt to protect them,
they run the risk that the government will nick them.
If you don’t affirm their delusions,
they will see that you are met with a nasty conclusion.

They harm our little ones,
feeding them social media carcinogens,
to rot their mind, body and soul,
that they might become societal tumors instead of productive bloomers.

Science to them means whatever they want it to mean,
and it is the absolute truth, so it would seem.
We are expected to live with faith and reliance on their fake science.
If you pry, defy and not comply,
you could kiss your job goodbye.
Those that show no defiance to their fake science,
believe they will get reprieve from the Socialist’s persecution.
It seems they now unofficially practice a state sponsored religion based on this fake science as well as perverse, unethical and immoral behavior.
If you practice a religion they haven’t approved,
they might have you removed.

Their D.E.I. hire doth conspire to move even higher.
The serpent whispers in her ear,
“do anything you want,
no matter how severe.
It’s OK, it’s for your career.”
She stabbed President Biden,
and ain't even hidden,
that she aims for more power than Poseidon,
to wield the Tridents of war.
Now she’s the Democrat’s presidential nominee,
without even receiving a single vote from you or me.
But it’s ok, because they say, it’s all to protect our democracy,
run by their bureaucracy.
She hides behind Biden’s name,
so she doesn’t have to accept the blame.
She claims that she will start doing her job,
if voters finalize the motion to give her the promotion.
She has taken as her running mate,
a Manchurian candidate.
When he debates it sounds like he isn’t sure,
that he actually agrees with her.
As our current Border Czar,
she allows in raiders to get votes later.
She looks the other way,
while the largest slave trade in the world is made.
Our streets are filled with fentanyl,
because she refuses to finish the wall.
She thinks it would be nice if she could abolish I.C.E.
She should have thought twice before suggesting that bad advice.
It has all led to a lot of strife.
Now our nation is torn.

The United States of America they seek to destroy.

We must fight the plight of the Socialist’s might.
Socialists need to be ripped from their thrones,
and be no longer known.
We need to unify our nation with one determination.
Act forthwith lest our family and friends turn to foes.
Our communities need mending and socialism needs ending.

Holler patriots, holler, let the truth ring out.
Fight patriots, fight, never surrender.
Vote patriots, vote.

God save The United States of America!

© [2024] Author: Emet Ezer  All Rights Reserved
Inspired by John Milton's “In Quintum Novembris“
Brendan Watch May 2013
Hello, old friend,
whose semi-permanent smile
laces my vision like toxic ranks of pearly whites.

Hello, old friend,
whose sparkling eyes blaze
like the funeral pyre of my pride and prejudice.

Hello, old friend,
whose apparent ineptitude melts like happiness
as your name burns in black on that page.

You signed my yearbook like a death certificate,
wrote an affectionate note in the shape of nothing
worth knowing.
The lines bleed, multiply, crackle and shine
in the dull light of this most tiring expanse of computers.
Their brains function better than mine.

Hello, old friend,
whose pen now swirls across the work you were assigned,
work you pursue less like a lion
and more like a cougar,
if you get my message.
(There’s no taking the jungle out of you, Amazon.)

Hello, old friend.
Keep snapping pictures with your iPhone,
like it’s New Years and you just kissed DiCaprio in Times Square,
wearing a dress with all the greens of envy
splattered across the fabric.

Hello, old friend.
Keep telling me you hate it when I act like this,
when your eyes turn to four points and your skin to letters
from colleges begging like a forgotten lover
for you to take them and make them home.
The home you’re leaving for next month.

Hello, old friend.
Today is now solemn in so many new ways.
You achieved higher than the skyscrapers in the photograph
next to your eight-line submission.

Hello, old friend.
No.
Revision time.
Revision like the backspace key and the scribbled lines
over inadequate things I wrote
to try and climb your Olympian pedestal.

Revision like the eraser on the pen,
revision like the keys thumping as though this machine
had a heart,
as though mine wasn’t broken
because I’m never good enough for anybody.
I write my best poetry when I’m angry.

Ironic that poetry made me angry.
I can taste the paradox spinning like the clock hands
that tick, tick, tick until the day when you sit in a car
on top of a thousand suitcases
and a few well-wishes from your confederates in college.
I can taste it like a toxin.

And now,
now you’re going
and there’s only time to say:
good-bye, old friend.
Julian Mar 2019
Flippant polymaths exude the frippery of travail for lapsed inordinate surgical gains in temporal but temporary acclaim that owes its provenance to the gullarge accentuated by the guttural tempests of silent windfalls that wrestle with sharks and snarky cagamosis with pilfered fame without rulers for rules that own the profligacy of a cineaste game

We cannot surpass our talents with ease when the treecheese of inevitable distance between equipoise and insanity is a tantamount inanity of prolixity for the sake of freedom rather than servitude to the slow meandered steps of trudged verbigeration that needs to be exorcised from the seat of authority for the plodding inconvenience of time earned that shakes the listless yearning people who lie and spurn

Demagogues are trifles because they are anoegenetic and care not for the abligurition that consumes the energy of a dismal life lived on fringes rather than reaped with grimaces for binges that continue to absorb the painful pangs of twinges that hedonists are of interest

We cannot exorcise the demons that give stygian weight to exchequers beyond the gamut of money but rather the currency of velocity of thought that owes its weight to weightlessness of spaces between the spacious and the limited tract of isolative territory that many mendicants looking for sustenance travail in insolence and in perjury of their solemn duties for self-serious honesty they lack a vista to see their crimes as more than just a pettifoggery of disputatious wranglers that wrench and then contemn the objects of their moral scruples to contend with nothing but the vacant expanse of a limitless injury for a momentary slip of cultivation and countenance

Frippery is hard to cobble with lapidary wit because succinct grievances are fallow ground for the permanence of atrocity and the temperance of felicity to conform to the desiccated pathways of limpid but livid excoriations of willful ingenuity met with aleatory rambles that sprawl incalescence with words as a dying occupation that is resurrected from the abeyance of its pragmatic utility to distinguish class from crust.

The triadic fatuousness of snarky sharks recruiting the gullarge of paranoiacs to deputized alacrity lead many strident vocations astray as they pilfer the nullibiety of spectral ignorance and defy the gravitas of the primiparas of a swollen technocracy, an outrage that scarecrows with prevenance have adumbrated against with strident accelerations of sublime velocity

So we swim in perilous straits against the demiurge of inclemency in fated rittles for the turpitude of wraiths and engineer every aborning day a new foofaraw of unalloyed atrocity
Now more than never should be deployed to ensure that the castigation of scoundrels and guttersnipes that exert a rip tide to those stranded on the shores of littoral desiccation might find the pristine beachgoing public an amenable treat proffered by exorcised sheepishness in reiterative bleats that quarkswarm only the antinomy of sentient masteries by shoveled civilizations proctor to horological insistence in design

So we designated an abeyance of heydays to create a rippled nostalgia that creeps in the winter storms that singe even glabrous ignorance with the twinges in absentia of the regal crows that circle the sun as the sustenance of the alighted moon as we reach for the heaved Richter teeming with ablution for venial commination of prolix croons that exert a Palo Alto rhyme

Phenomenological fields distal to the cephalocaudal origination of limber and the ironic counterpoint to that strife in excess rather than dearth of the henchmen behind the exchequer showcase that fluid thoughts surpass the limits of the dentistry of cosmetic cosmology simultaneously a scientific boon but a coarse albatross

We are criminals in a world stranded by ****** apostasy because of the sincerity of minstrels meets plodding human ignorance as exemplars rather than the apotheosis of divine excoriation of wastrels and flattybouches who webdoodle their way into the extinction line in some computer file swiped from eccedentesiasts who often in uncouth barbarity forgetfully abide without the temperance of floss

So what are we to make of magisterial wits of wiseacres who pilot tenable objectives like Indiana Jones flexing his comical whip when the gunfire of cacophony inundates our ears with a lisp of cockalorum imposture rich in chewing tobacco and its ungainly gripes and tenacious grip

Should we seek salvation from the treecheese of arboreous terrain amenable to the newfangled windfall of agricultural whims that dare now with caprice but not quixotic disdain to reconfigure the parsimonious levered engagement of melliferous fungible transaction between sabbaticals and chief financiers dubbing the vociferous limn of the primeval fulgurant incandescent ethereal quips?

We strive for palaces issued with dimes, dozens and scores of retinues that retain the patina of sophistry as the gullarge makes the vangermytes cozy in their defensively mechanized citadel buffered against the unheralded malversations of mammon intersecting with primordial chemistry that give the philanderer a guise of philanthropy despite professed gainsay that perjures because hucksters are winsome with fiduciary risk

So we calumniate with lapsed puns and Potter’s Spells as we dredge the indemnity of bustling heydays that extend beyond the bailiwick stated because of the prolonged trace of nostalgia that frazzles our voluntary expeditions with misanthropy as each libertine instinct becomes subject to stop and frisk

How to balk at such a garrulous repartee as proffered by swanky intransigence that shakes it off in a quaky town that hates the Swift refrain that endangers the fatalism of recuperated foresight borrowed from the armamentarium of corrupted killjoys who swim in a dalliance with the itchy myths that drift from powerlessness to voguish debauchery of insouciant internecine fringes frayed by the tomes that decry Stygian drift

Shiftless and rooted in rintinole absolved by plackiques that enchant the voyeurism of repined squalor of industrious frippery deracinated from the aureate complicity of largesse calibrated to mobilize the skittish mercurial yuppies to a dance with divestiture, taxes and an earthen death, we sprint the evergreen mile toward the scrupulous invention of enthusiastic euphemisms arbitrated by the procrustean silt of the leaky faucet of enigmatic timelessness etched by chiselers to beat “Us and Them” and warn the vanguard of the front rank about the thespian rift

Exhaustive rescue squads prepared for the dearth of monetary heft in times of perilous drought denigrate the authors of famine to the indulgent parents of inordinate sabotage of narrative for riskless arbitrage that is the outrage of sciamachies between platonic indifference and the tantrums of the feckless in the dangerous hearth of the cavernous wilderness of limitless imaginations that stagger so far beyond orbit they become satellites to vagrancy and whittled paragons too distant to dissolve in the ethereal chemistry of incalescent uproar sadly flanged by the Dopplers of ephemeral fate

Squandered by the desuetude of a snarky intervention I issue invective at the proctors of deafferented limbs for barbarous swine meeting expediency in demise, bemoaning the placid distaste of rectified cries that issue candles for each acrimony beyond the permutation of the staid inflexible limit of 88’

Bashfully we careen through argosies of curiosity to fossick the stalactites of timeworn intuition and reckon with their converse ironies that drip faucets of mildew that remain hidden unless poked by plucky flashlights to inspect the paragon of erosive filigrees of a bewildering paradox of polarized design that one meets the ceiling at inception and the cousin strives to clamber empty space to know with faint certainty the bulldozed irony of superordinate coexistence

Now we return to the majesty of a spurned wiseacre that evades the snappy parlance of a wrenched friction between the physical and the metaphysical elements that constitute a commensurate reality so supernal that its ostentation creates lifetimes of reiterative growth that spawns crimson red and bloviated blues to find a fulcrum of balance between the malversation on one hand of criminal sinister machinations and on the other hand the execrable self-righteous ignorance of a hidden vehicles of dexterity that are subsumed by a subtlety of legislative graft that owes its forbearance to the sanctimony of perseveration without the laurels of persistence

Now we wed the concepts between the ambidexterity of a monolithic titan who wanes rather than waxes himself because his glabrous head already exposed requires nothing new because the empire that struck back is denuded by the thorny imbroglio of a sunken Rose

Timmynoggies are perfect for haberdasheries of saccharine and glib excellence as measured by the ****** cacophony of unmerited applause that strains the resourcefulness of the silent mastery of magistrates in mellifluous alcoves surrounded by the soundproofed rigors of an execrable dereliction wilt into the imaginations of the few that watch movies with errantry rather than pleasantries of gaudy nonsense enchanted by a striptease of the wanton zeitgeist that some balk at but everyone knows

Time earns the spangled banners of sloganeering because of the fastidious creations of pole folders that maneuver between quips borrowed from antique movies and swindled affectations of yearning of many of all fears inevitable with the malevolent passage of the technocracy from cheers to vehement inveighed jeers

We should fear the watershed because it necessitates the evaporation of winsome ambition and implores the subservience of a guiltless fascination with abominable regress concomitant to the acceleration of money preceding a whipsawed downfall ensured by the funereal spates of requiems to oneironauts who plunged to their deaths on headlong flickering whims past the craggy landscape of lunar concordance and through the abeyance of qualms to flabbergasted self-importance in the eradication of provident fears

Memorials exist encoded in the temporal twinges of agony that straddle the cardiovascular throbs of impermanence that sweat with each simple beat to blather about the repetitious nature of a livid nature scrambled in exodus of the emigration of senseless blather to the subroutines of regimented sleepless paragons of travail in every pedestrian feat accelerated with each passing foot traversed by vigilant and eager feet

Tempests crowd the cluttered hamartithia of dredged incompetence leading to the foreclosure that precedes the simple derelictions that amount to grievous uncertainties that squawk in the plumage of the frippery decay of an autumnal fall from gracile riches landlocked without room to sprawl rigged against every track that is a surefire gleeful keepsake to meet, greet and serenade the claques adorned with the monikers of the Greeks

Trembling beneath the weight of mellifluous sauntering dingy designs that exude the anguish of our provident but incidental remonstration against the plodding indifference of the artistic clerisy we sputter against intransigent annulments of the emotive human engine calibrated with creaky pistons that rumble with furor of abrasive protest in timely haphazard elemental designs for vanguard ears

Tridents shed the fossicked leaves that are divisible by two but not inevitably glue that solders the identities of people congregated around a situation of gleeful sprees rather than wistful regress into a temerity without regret that gets dangled in the purview of the spiteful wings of armies that drawl when they sing vapid songs for vaped bongs but not the soberly cheers because of the deafening din of conformity oblivious of the honorific crescendos that still peak after so many restless years

Confederates line the avenues of bustling caverns of cumulative human disdain so willfully flouted by the wrenched corrosive frictions of vibrant deformation of the cultural narrative that encapsulates the collective bubbles chewed and jettisoned like bandied candy and then defamed without justice because  hurricanes churn up the reclusive emergence of protective vanity chased down as a sunken cost for a siphoned glory of tribal pride despite the strictures of logic

Creeping with insistence is a subaudition of governing gravel that entombs many steadfast lies that embodied people living delusory lives under a paradigm that has been subverted by the feats of science into a morass of irrelevance and the chances are many of those so deluded still breathe the air now more polluted but balk at the memories of the fallen passengers on the convalescent train that accelerates sunblind but respectfully toward a systematic engrossment of swollen intellects whimpering about the tautologic

We finance our prescient rodomontade with rodeos equipped with zany clowns who spurn the tridents of Poseidon because of the iridescent gloss of sheepish and flippant zealots who churn against the wrestling match of televised irony with accentuated eccedentesiastic disdain amended by a tolerable diversion of ennobled gallantry zip-zagging among the many valid quodlibets and missing the mark entirely on purpose to vacate the possible raillery of those who balk at time’s chosen serpentine tracks because of limited pedagogical tracts

So lets solder a forceful brunt against the senseless regalia of modern omphalos and return to the plenipotentiary fields of resourceful human inquiry into the chagrins outmoded by convenience but amplified in vociferation by the prosthetic extension of a grangull humanity outfoxing itself into a zugzwang inevitable in the future with collateral losses because of senseless invidiousness orchestrated by the immiscible dermatology of divisive facts often about race and ineluctable tax

We conclude with the optimism that refineries become gentrified by the superlunary squadrons who bask in beatific beams of anonymity and that the pollution preceding our evolution is just adventitious rather than central to the amelioration of wavy screens ennobling so many upstarts to teach themselves the majesty of lucid dreams and to capitalize on ludic ideals divorced from the urchins of radical idealisms that ironically poach rarefied air with smug pollution of narrative scares

Without trepidation we can muster the largesse of civility to create a progeny that has a recursive progeny of heirs that defiantly imagine a world bereft of specters of the soporific imagination enforced by the lapidation of insight from termagants who stride with ursine acrimony naked bare and envision a global meliorism that is careful, picaresque, pragmatic and filled with meritocratic care

With those ornaments of an aureate measure in mind


We leap beyond the enumerated infinity in time's proper design
527

To put this World down, like a Bundle—
And walk steady, away,
Requires Energy—possibly Agony—
’Tis the Scarlet way

Trodden with straight renunciation
By the Son of God—
Later, his faint Confederates
Justify the Road—

Flavors of that old Crucifixion—
Filaments of Bloom, Pontius Pilate sowed—
Strong Clusters, from Barabbas’ Tomb—

Sacrament, Saints partook before us—
Patent, every drop,
With the Brand of the Gentile Drinker
Who indorsed the Cup—
Kurt Philip Behm Apr 2024
It was 3:00 a.m. in Bowie Maryland in the year of our Lord, 1861.

A drum roll passed by in the night not more than a mile away, and Billy couldn’t tell whether it was coming from the Yanks or the Rebs. Both of Billy’s brothers had left home in the past two months.  His oldest brother Jeb having joined the Army of Northern Virginia, while his next oldest brother Seth was now fighting for the Union with Major General George G. Meade in the Army of the Potomac. Billy’s family was like a lot of other families in Maryland, and the Western Shore of Virginia, with some men choosing to fight for the North while many chose the South.

Billy was just about to turn sixteen and still had not chosen his side.  He had friends and family fighting for both and knew that the time was getting short for him to choose.  He couldn’t imagine fighting against either of his older brothers, but once he decided the possibility would definitely be there.  Billy pulled the bed covers over his head and thought back to a more pleasant time — a day when his two older brothers had taken him fishing in Mayo along the western shore of the Chesapeake Bay.

His brothers couldn’t have been more different.  Jeb was large and domineering with a personality that fit the profile of the typical soldier or warrior.  Seth was more studious and would rather have his nose stuck in a book than behind the sights of a Springfield Rifle Model 1861.  The 1861 was the most widely used rifle on both sides. The south called their version the Fayetteville Rifle, and Billy’s Dad had given his to Jeb just before he died last year.  Billy had never fired the big gun and had only carried it for his father and brother when they went on their weekly hunts for deer and small game.

Billy Finally Drifted Off To Sleep …

The next morning, his mother told him that Union soldiers had passed by in the night under the command of Colonel Elmer E. Ellsworth.  They were on their way to Alexandria Virginia to join with Colonel Orlando B. Wilcox in an attempt to retake Alexandria and drive the confederates out.  It was just too close to Washington D.C. and had to be secured. For several months confederate troops had been infiltrating Maryland and sightings had been reported from Hagerstown to Anne Arundel County. Billy wondered about the fighting that would take place later that week and hoped that wherever his brothers were engaged they were safe and out of harms way.

After breakfast, Billy decided to spend the day fishing along the Patuxent River just southeast of his home.  He rode their old Tennessee Walker George as his blue tick hound Alfie ran along side. It took Billy an hour to get to the river and he used the time to once again try and decide what the right thing was for him to do.  He had sympathies for both sides, and the decision in his mind was neither black nor white.  He wished that it was because then he could get this all over with and leave today. Billy was famous in his area for being able to get across the water. Whether it was a makeshift raft, dugout canoe, or just some drift lumber available, Billy had made it across long open stretches of the Chesapeake Bay — never once having been deterred.

He Was An Early Day Chesapeake Waterman

Billy returned home from fishing that day and found his house burned to the ground.  His mother was standing out front still in tears with her arms wrapped around Billy’s little sister Meg.  A rear-guard unit from Ellsworth’s column had gotten word that Billy’s brother Jeb was fighting for the South and just assumed that the entire family were southern sympathizers. Billy’s mother tried to tell the soldiers that her middle son was fighting with the Army of The Potomac.  No matter how hard she pleaded with the sergeant in charge, he evacuated all in the house (Billy’s Mother, Sister and Aunt Bess) and then covered the front porch in coal oil, lit it with a torch, and then just rode away. He never even turned around to watch it burn.

That Union Sergeant had now made Billy’s decision crystal clear, at least for the moment.  Once he got his mother, sister, and aunt resettled, he would make his way to Virginia and join with his older brother in the confederate cause. He remembered his brother Jeb telling him that the Confederate Soldiers had more respect, and he couldn’t imagine them doing to his family what the Union Army had just done.

It took Billy two weeks to get his Mother resettled with family up in Annapolis.  He then packed the little that remained of his belongings, loaded up old George, and said goodbye to the life he knew.  It would be a week’s ride to get past the Union Camps in Southern Maryland and Northern Virginia, and he knew he would have to stay in the tree line and travel at night.  If caught by the Yanks, his only chance of survival would be to join up with them, and he couldn’t imagine fighting for those who had just destroyed his home. His conviction to get past Fredericksburg was now determined and strong.

All Billy had to arm himself with was an 1860 percussion squirrel rifle that his brothers had bought him before going off to war.  It was only.36 caliber, but still gave Billy some feeling of security as he slowly passed through the trees in the dark. His plan was to hug the western shore of the bay, as far as Charlotte Hall, and then take two short ferry rides. His first would be across the Patuxent River and then one across the Potomac on his way to Fredericksburg.  He prayed and he hoped that the ferry’s he found were not under Union control.

Billy spent his first night in Churchton along the western shore. It was quiet and uneventful, and he was actually able to get a good night’s sleep.  He had run out of oats for George though, and in the morning needed to find an understanding farmer to help fortify his mount.  As he approached the town of Sunderland, he saw a farmer off to his right (West) tending to his fields.  Billy approached the farmer cautiously making sure he rode around in front of the farmer and not approaching from the rear.

The farmer said his name was Hawkins, and he told Billy there were oats over in the barn and two water troughs in front of the house.  He also said that if he was hungry there was a woman inside who would fix him something to eat.  He then told him that he could spend the night in his barn but since it was still early in the day, he said he was sure that Billy wanted to move on.

Billy thought it was strange that the man asked no other questions of him.  He seemed to accept Billy for all that he was at the moment — a young man riddled with uncertainty and doubt and on his way to a place he still wasn’t sure was right for him.  The look in the man’s eyes pointed Billy in the direction he now needed to go, and as he turned to thank him for his hospitality the man had already turned back to his plow.

In the barn were three large barrels of oats and five empty stalls. Two of the stalls looked like they had recently been slept in because there were two empty plates and one pair of socks still lying in the stall furthest to the left.  Billy fed George the oats and then walked outside.  Everything looked quiet in the house as he approached the front door.  He knocked twice, and a handsome looking woman about his mother’s age answered before he could knock a third time.  The woman’s name was Martha and as she invited Billy inside, she asked him when was the last time he had eaten?
Yesterday morning Ma’m, Billy said, as Martha prepared him some cold pork and cooked beans.  Billy was so hungry that he thought it was the best thing that he had ever tasted. Martha then told Billy to be careful in the woods because both union and rebel forces had been seen recently and there were stories of atrocities from both sides as they passed on their way.  Martha also said she had heard that Union forces had burned a farm up in Bowie a few weeks ago.  Billy stayed quiet and didn’t utter a word.

Billy Remained Quiet

After he finished his meal, Billy thanked Martha who had packed salt pork for him to take on his way.  Billy walked George to the water trough and waited as George drank.  He looked across the fields and he could sense what was coming.  This tranquil and pastoral scene was soon to be transformed into blood and gore as the epic struggle between North and South finished its first year. It was late fall in 1861 and Billy’s birthday was in two more weeks.  This was never the way he envisioned turning sixteen to be.

Billy thanked Martha, put the salted pork in his pouch, and remounted George. Martha said:  Whichever side you are riding to, may God be with you, young man.  Billy thought it was strange that she knew where he was heading without him telling.  He then also thought that he was probably not the first young traveler to stop at this farm for some kind words and sustenance. He rode back out in the field to thank the farmer, but when he got to the spot where he had met him before, the farmer was not there.  Billy wondered where he could have gone.  As he rode back down the cobbled dirt road, he noticed a sign at the end where it reconnected with the main road — Billett’s Farm. That wasn’t the name the farmer had told him when they were first introduced before.

Hawkins He Had Said

Billy worked his way towards Charlotte Hall.  From there he would head East to Pope’s Creek and try to get on the short ferry that would take him across the Potomac River and over to Virginia. Then Billy was sure he would finally be safe.  Tonight though, he only made it as far as Benedict Maryland, and he again needed to find secluded shelter for the night. Benedict was right along the banks of the Patuxent River where the farming was good, and the fishing was even better.

It was getting dark when Billy spotted what he was looking for.  There was a large farm up ahead with two large barns and three out buildings.  Billy sat inside the trees and waited for dark.  It was inside the outbuilding furthest to the east that he intended to stay the night.  As darkness covered the fields, Billy walked slowly towards the large shack.  He led George behind him by his lead and hoped that he would remain quiet.  George was an older horse, now fifteen, and seemed to always know what was required of him without asking.  Not that you can really ask a horse to do anything, but George did just seem to know.

Billy got to the outbuilding and put his ear to the back wall to see if he could hear anything from inside.  When he was sure it was safe, he walked around front to the door, opened it, and he and George quickly walked inside.  In the very dim moonlight, Billy could see that it was about 20’ X 20’ and had chopped wood stored against the back wall.  There were also two empty stalls and a loft up above about 10’ X 20.’  Billy decided to sleep downstairs in case he had to get away fast, and after tying George to the furthest back stall, he laid down in the stall to its right and fell fast asleep.
Billy doesn’t know how long he had been asleep, but all at once he heard the sound of clicking and could feel the cold hard press of steel against his left temple.  He woke up in a start and could see five men with lanterns standing over him in the stall.  As his eyes started to adjust, he noticed something strange.  Three of these five men were black.

Whatcha doin here boy, and where you headed, the biggest of the three black men asked him?  Billy knew that how he was to answer that question would probably determine whether he lived through the night. I’m headed to Virginia to try and find my older brother. Our farm was burned a few weeks ago and my mother and baby sister are now living with relatives.  I need to let my brother know, so he will know where to find us when the war is over.
I think this here boy’s fixin to join up with the Rebs, another of the black men shouted out.  Tell the truth boy, you’re headed to Richmond to sign up with old Jeff Davis ain’t you?  Billy lied and said he wasn’t sure of which side to fight for and that he had a brother fighting for each.  With that, the biggest of the three sat him on a barrel in the corner and began to talk again …
What you done tonight boy is decide to camp in a rural spot of the Underground Railroad.  You know what that is boy?  We have a real problem now because you knows where it’s at.  We can’t trust that you won’t tell nobody else and ruin other’s chances to get North and be free.  Billy just stared into the man’s face.  He had a strength mixed with kindness behind his eyes and for a reason Billy couldn’t understand, he felt safe in this man’s presence.

Son, we is makin our way over to Preston on the western shore where we catches a train to the North.  We have one more stop before there and that’s at the Hawkins place just thirty miles up the road.  Billy then knew why the stalls back at Martha’s barn had looked slept in.  He still wondered why the sign at the farm entrance had said Billett instead of Hawkins.  The black man then said: My names Lester, and those two men over there are brothers named Rayford and Link.  By now, the two white men were gone and only the four of them were left in the stall.

Since you say you haven’t made your mind up yet about which side to join, let me help you a little with your choosin.  Lester then went on to tell Billy that Rayford and Link had five other brothers and two sisters that were all killed while trying to escape to the North.  Not only were they killed, but they were tortured before being hanged just outside of Columbia South Carolina.  Lester then asked Rayford and Link to remove their shirts.  As they did, Lester took his lantern and shined it over both of their backs.  Both were totally covered with scars from the several lashings they had received on the plantation where they had worked back in South Carolina.  Lester said this was not unusual, and no man should be treated that way.  This was worse treatment than the slave owner would ever do to any of his animals.

Lester then said again: It’ll be a shame to have to **** you boy, but for the better good of all involved, I’ll do what I gots to do. With that, the three men walked outside, and Billy could hear them talking in hushed tones for what seemed like an hour.  Lester walked back inside alone and said: What’s your name son?  We’ve decided we're taking you with us up the road a piece.  You might come in handy if we need a hostage or someone with local knowledge of the area as we make our way t’wards Preston. Go back to sleep and we’ll wake you in an hour when it’s time to go.

Billy couldn’t sleep. It had been a long day of interrogation and darkness was again approaching.  He heard the men talking outside and from what they were saying, he realized they did all of their traveling at night hiding out in small barns and shacks like this during the light of day. He wondered now if he’d ever see home again.  He wondered even more about his previous decision to fight for the South.

In an hour, Lester came in and asked Billy if that was his horse in the stall next to him.  Billy said it was and Lester said: Get him outside, we’re going to load him with the chillens and then be on our way.  When Billy walked outside he saw eight other black people in addition to the three he had previously met.  It was a mother and father and five children all aged between three and eleven.  Lester hoisted the three smallest children up on George’s back, as the other two lined up to walk alongside.  They would make sure that none of the younger ones fell off as they maneuvered their way North through the trees at night.  The mother and father walked quietly behind, as the three large black men led the way with Link scouting up ahead for anything unforeseen.

Just before dawn, Billy recognized where they were.  They were at the end of that farm road he had just come down the day before, but the sign now read in faded letters Hawkins.  Billy looked back at the sign and he could see something written on the back.  As he squinted into the approaching sun, he could see the letters B-I-L-L-E-T-T written of the back of the board.  Billy was now more confused than ever.  Lester told them all to wait in the trees to the left of the farm road, as he took out three small rocks from his pants pocket. The sun was almost up and this was the most dangerous part of their day.

He approached the house slowly and threw the first stone onto the front porch roof — then followed by the second and then the third.  Without any lights being lit, the front door opened and Lester walked inside.  In less than a minute, he was back in the trees and said:  It now OK fo us to makes our way to the barn, where we’s gonna hide for the day.

After they were settled in the five empty stalls, Lester decided who would then take the first watch.  He needed to have two people on watch, one looking outside for approaching strangers and one watching Billy so he wouldn’t try to escape.  What Lester didn’t know was that Billy wasn’t sure he wanted to go anywhere right now and was starting to feel like he was more part of what was going on than any hostage or prisoner.

In another hour, Martha came in with two big baskets of food: Oh I see you have found my young friend Billy, I didn’t know that he worked for the road.  Lester told Martha that he didn’t, and he was still not sure of what to do with him.  Martha just looked down at Billy and smiled. I’m sure you’ll know the right thing to do Lester, and then she walked back outside toward the house. Lester told Billy that Martha was a staple on the Road to Preston and that without her, hundreds, maybe thousands of black slaves would now be dead between Virginia and Delaware.  He then told Billy that Martha was a widow, and both her husband and two sons had been killed recently at the Battle of Bull Run.  They had fought on the Confederate side, but Martha still had never agreed with slavery.  Her husband and sons hadn’t either, but they sympathized with everything else that the South was trying to do.

Billy’s head felt like it wanted to explode.  Here was a woman who had lost everything at the hands of Yankee soldiers and yet was still trying to help runaway slaves achieve freedom as they worked their way through Maryland.  Billy wanted to talk to Martha.  He also wondered who that man was in the field the previous morning when he had stopped to introduce himself.  He was sure at the time it had been Martha’s husband, but now Lester had just said that she was a widow. More than anything though, Billy wanted to talk to Martha!

Billy asked Lester when he returned from his watch if he could go see Martha inside the house.  Lester said: What fer boy, you’s be better off jus sittin quietly in this here barn. Billy told Lester that if he mentioned to Martha that he wanted to see her, he was sure she would know why and then agree to talk with him.  Lester said: I’ll think on it boy, now go get ya some sleep.  Oh by the way, did you get somethin to eat?  Matha’s biscuits are the best you’ll ever taste.  Billy said, Yes, and then tried to lie down and go to sleep.  His mind stayed restless though and he knew deep in his heart, and in a way he couldn’t explain, that Martha held the answer he was desperately in need of.

In about two more hours Martha returned with more food.  She wanted to dispense it among the children first, but three were still sleeping so she wrapped theirs and put it beside them where they lay.  After feeding the adults, she walked over to Billy and said: Would you help me carry the baskets back up to the house? Billy looked at Lester and he just nodded his head.  On the way back to the house Martha said: I understand you want to talk to me. I knew I should have talked with you before, but you were in such a hurry we never got the chance.  Let’s go inside and sit down while I prepare the final meal.

Martha then explained to Billy that she had been raised in Philadelphia.  She had met her husband while on a trip to Baltimore one summer to visit relatives.  Her husband had been working on a fishing boat docked in Londontown just south of Baltimore.  It was love at first sight, and they were married within three weeks.  Martha had only been back to Philadelphia twice since then to attend the funerals of both of her parents.  She then told Billy what a tragedy this new war was on the face of America … with brother fighting brother, and in some cases, fathers fighting their own sons. It not only divides us as a nation, but divides thousands of families, especially those along the Mason-Dixon line where our farm is located now.

She also told Billy her name was Billett, but they used Hawkins at night as the name of her Railway Stop along the Road. Hawkins was Martha’s maiden name and to her knowledge was not well known in these parts. Hawkins was also the name distributed throughout the South to runaway slaves who were trying to make their way North. Martha felt that if they were looking for someone in her area named Hawkins, they would have a hard time tracing it back to her.  The Courthouse that she and her husband had been married in burned down over fifteen years ago and all records of births, deaths, and marriages, had been consumed by that fire.

By reversing the sign at night to Hawkins, it allowed the runaway slaves to find her in the darkness while protecting her identity in the event that they were caught.  Under questioning, they might give up the name Hawkins while having no knowledge of the name Billett which in these parts was well known. Martha also told Billy that she had nothing left to lose now except her dignity and pride.  Her two sons and husband had been taken at Bull Run and now all she wanted was for the war to end and for those living imprisoned in slavery to be set free and released. Her dignity and pride forced her to try and do everything she could to help.

When Billy asked Martha … How did you know the right thing to do? she said: The right thing is already planted there deep inside you.  All that’s required is for you to be totally honest with yourself to know the answer.  Martha then turned back to her cooking.

Lester then walked into the kitchen and said: Martha Ma’m, what’s we gonna do wit dis boy?  Martha only looked at Billy and smiled as she said, Lester, this boy’s gonna do just fine.  Lester then looked at Billy and said: Somethin you wanta say to me son? Billy asked if he could go feed his horse and then come back in a few minutes.  Lester said that he could but not to take too long.

When Billy walked back into the barn, George was tied to a wall cleat in the far left corner.  He walked him out to the water trough in the dark and then back inside where he gave him another half- bucket of oats.  He looked in George’s eyes for that surety that George always had about him.  Just as he started to look away, George ****** up his head and looked to his left.  The youngest of the black children was walking toward George with something in her hand.  She was with her older sister, and she was carrying an apple — an apple for George. George took the apple from her hand as he nudged the side of her face with his nose.  Billy looked at the scene, and, in the moment’s revelation, knew instantly the right thing for him to do.

Billy went back inside where Lester and Martha were drinking coffee by the fire.  Billy told Lester that NOBODY knew these backwaters like he and his brothers. He also told Lester that by joining his cause he would never be faced with the possibility of meeting either of his brothers on the field of battle.  This seemed to strike a nerve with Lester who had a brother of his own fighting for the south somewhere in Louisiana.  In Louisiana, many of the black’s were free men and fought under General Nathan Bedford Forrest where they would comport themselves with honor and bravery throughout the entire war.

Billy then told Lester he had never agreed with slavery, and his father had always refused to own them.  This made the work harder on he and his brothers, and some of their neighbors ostracized them for their choice.  Billy said his father didn’t care and told him many times that … No man should ever own another or Lord over him and be able to tell him what he can or cannot do.

Lester then asked Billy what he knew about these backwaters.  Billy said he knew every creek and tributary along the Patuxent River and all the easiest places to get across and get across safely where no one could see.  Lester said they had a friendly ferry across the bay to Taylors Island, but many times the hardest part was getting across the Patuxent to where they were now.  From here, they would then decide whether to go across the bay to Preston or head further North to other friendly stops along the Road to Delaware. Billy said he would be most helpful along those stops further North and on this Western side of the bay as he knew the terrain so well.

For four more years Billy worked out of Martha’s farm hiding and transporting runaway slaves on their way North.  He would make occasional trips back to Bowie to fortify the barn that the Union soldiers had not burned when they torched his house that day.  His family’s barn would become the main Railroad Stop before taking those last steps to freedom that lay just 100 miles beyond in the free state of Delaware.

After reconstruction, Billy went on to become a lawyer and then a judge in Calvert County Maryland.  Martha had left Billy the farm in her will, and he now used it as a haven for black people who were freely emigrating from the south and needed a place to stay and rest before continuing on to the Industrial cities of the northeast.

When Martha was dying, Billy asked her who that mysterious farmer was that was out tending her field that morning when he first stopped by so many years ago? Martha said:Why don’t you know; that was my father, Ethan Hawkins. He worked that field every day since my husband and two boys were killed.  I’m surprised he let you see him.  I thought I was the only one who ever knew he was there.  But, but, but, your father died many years ago I thought.  Martha looked at Billy with those beautiful and gentle eyes and just smiled …

Seeing him that day had changed Billy and the direction
of his life forever, making what seemed like King
Solomon’s choice — the right and only one for him.


Kurt Philip Behm

— The End —