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Bob B Oct 2016
Merle and June needed a break
From their Midwestern town.
Inundated with sales and receipts,
Both were starting to drown.
 
After years without a vacation,
June found an ideal
Vacation spot at a mountain resort,
And the price was a steal.
 
Ah, finally, to be one with nature!
To sit on their behinds!
To escape the intolerable prairie heat!
To put work out of their minds!
 
During their drive, Merle said, "Dear,
This trip should calm your nerves."
He couldn't see the fear in June's face
As he sped 'round the mountain curves.
 
Once they were settled in their cabin,
June's calm turned out to be brief.
Staring out the window she shrieked
"What?" in disbelief.
 
"Merle," she said, "On the path out there…
I tell you, I could have sworn
I saw a man and woman walk by
As naked as the day they were born!"
 
Grabbing her glasses to read the brochure,
June had to squint
To see that it stated "nudist camp"
In very, very small print.
 
More **** couples sauntered by
With body parts a-dangling.
"Bite the bullet," she said to poor
Merle whose nerves were jangling.
 
"Lock up all of our clothes in our safe
So no one can purloin 'em.
It states right here: No Refund, so
If you CAN'T beat 'em, join 'em."
 
So au naturel Merle and June
Enjoyed the fresh mountain air.
Then Merle got a mosquito bite
On his…well…you know…down there.
 
They started to feel a bit more relaxed
After sitting and sipping
On a few cold drinks. Suddenly, they realized:
They'd never gone skinny dipping.
 
Merle learned in the cool mountain lake
That he was a quick reactor:
Walking back to the shore he complained,
"Blasted shrinkage factor!"
 
Walking around unclad was fine--
With that they had no disputes.
But dining felt a little bit strange
In their birthday suits.
 
Swimming, golfing, hiking, riding,
And sunbathing were all fun,
But they burned parts of their bodies that
Had never seen the sun.
 
Burning his *** wasn't part of the plan,
Merle had to admit.
For three whole days it curtailed activities
Because he couldn't sit.
 
After two weeks of mosquito bites
And sunburned rumps they set
Off on their journey home from a trip
The two would never forget.
 
So, what lessons did they learn?
Being a nature lover
Is fine and dandy, but next time they'll do it
With some sort of cover.
 
And to feel the wind blow on them
Could put their mind at ease;
But they also learned that parts of the body
Don’t need to feel a breeze.

- by Bob B
Ken Pepiton Mar 2019
Truckin' onions down the Grapevine
Jake brake blaring
I am almost HOME
sang the feller drivin' onions,

Singing common man songs
just getting' along

Makes up words when he can

He's an uncommon man
but he takes a lot of pride
in what I am.

They're playing sad Merle Haggard songs
on the radio

Rollin' onions down the Grapevine

Airbrake smokin' smell heavy
fifty miles by now,

Singing trucker man songs
Just getting along

all downhill from there

He was an uncommon man
but he took a lot of  pride
in what I am.

They're still playing  Merle Haggard songs
on the radio
There's onions on the freeway
Clear on down to
Button Willow.

I guess old Merle died too, today.
I later saw that wreck as a poster in the dmv, when I wen to renew my farm labor bus driver license. I remembered back in 2016 when Merle died, I think.
Nat Lipstadt Dec 2016
A minyan is an assembly of ten Jews.  With ten present, the group can perform a fuller service, adding congregational prayers that an individual alone cannot say, and in heaven, received, as if from a 
more powerful, unified voice.

~~~
Satan laughing with delight at the happy news,
unusually proud of his soul-retrieving,
red state minions,
having scored late in the '16 season,
a long awaited prize,
a high priest of music, a hallelujah singer
just come  cross the borderline,
once a mere earth bound legend,
now to be mockingly enjoyed
in this, his legendary peculiar tier of heaven
~
a banner year it was, a cornucopia of new arrivals,
singers, songwriters, composers, conductors, rock 'n rollers,
itinerant blues musicians,
who as a rule, were not the most faithful observers
of the Ten Commandments and its host of detailed relatives
~
body and drug abusers,
of traditional morals, not such big users,
and as for their *** lives,
best not discussed in front of the baby devils,
just quite yet
~
all this made for easy "pluckings,"
as he smiled devilishly, his own ironic sense of humor,
an added delight for the new American Pie
that would forever serenade him henceforth
~
indeed this Leo-nine most new arrival,
intensifies the pleasure,
for deep in this one had waxed the god-spark,
his own fractured demise,
now allowing the cracks of light to be closing,
lessening by an immeasurable fraction
the despised joy to the world
-
then a raucous rustling heard,
a voice unseen but siren penetratingly heard proclaiming:

**** you Satan,
this time you've gone too far!

return unto me them all,
for you have overstepped the boundaries I have constructed
when birthed I the universe so long ago

these children, mine,
for though they were not perfect in their lives,
they perfected ever so much my designs,
the world I granted them,
with their music, voice and hands,
absolving them of all their sins

Surrender to me them all!

my Prince,
my lion, Cohen, high priest of my temple,
my haggard and worn Merle,
the greyed and Frey'd eagle, Glenn,
Natalie, daughter of the Earth King of Cole,
my rose of Sharon Jones,
my Emerson and my Lake,
Leon Russell,
my white bearded russet
who wrote 'A Song For You,'
the Duchess, Patty,
my Bobby Vee,
the first ro see
'the night has a thousand eyes,'
Frank Sinatra Jr., his fathers torch bearer,
my David, my right arm, my Bowieknife carrier,
who fell from heaven and needs returning unto me,
mine own Kanter,Jeffersonian pilot of my Airplane,
my Michael, George,
my Martin, George,
who never sang a word
but gifted us some Beatles,
My black and White Maurice,
who reignited the Earth, with Wind and Fire

all these mine and all the musicians of this year,
they have died, but not their music,
now to join my heavenly chorus,
my musicians' minyan
Second of a trilogy, but the first one posted,
about Leonard Cohen

Kohen or cohen (or kohain; Hebrew: כֹּהֵן‎, "priest", pl. כֹּהֲנִים‎ kohanim) is the Hebrew word for priest used colloquially in reference to the Aaronic priesthood. Jewish kohanim are traditionally believed and halakhically required to be of direct patrilineal descent from the biblical Aaron. The term is colloquially used in Orthodox Judaism in reference to modern day descendants of Aharon, brother of Moses.

Among the few remaining responsibility of a cohen today is the chanting of the priestly  blessing in the synagogue on high holy days in a special tune, instantly recognizable  by every Jew.   When the  Jewish priest chants the blessing, the Spirit of God is presumed to become present in the synagogue, and all bow their heads, fathers cover their children's eyes, lest one witness  god's image. Ironically, the special way that a cohen extends his arms and holds his fingers in a V  shape, was borrowed by another Canadian Jew, Leonard Nimoy, as inspiration for Spock's  greeting.

see en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Priestly_Blessing

see
//jewcy.com/jewish-arts-and-culture/leonard-nimoy-vulcan-salute-yiddish
No more Big City
No Working Man Blues
No more Swinging Doors
No more patriotic tunes

No more California Cottonfields
No Bonnie and Clyde
No Amazing Grace
No Always on My Mind

No more the Way I Am
No Waiting For A Train
No more Where Have All The Hobos Gone
Or When My Blue Moon Turns To Gold Again

Goodbye Mighty Merle
Thanks for the gift you gave
There will never be another
Who can take your place

To me you were the best
Singing for the working man
I only wish my friend
I could have shook your hand

RLB

You were the best country music has ever known.
Un oiseau siffle dans les branches
Et sautille ***, plein d'espoir,
Sur les herbes, de givre blanches,
En bottes jaunes, en frac noir.

C'est un merle, chanteur crédule,
Ignorant du calendrier,
Qui rêve soleil, et module
L'hymne d'avril en février.

Pourtant il vente, il pleut à verse ;
L'Arve jaunit le Rhône bleu,
Et le salon, tendu de perse,
Tient tous ses hôtes près du feu.

Les monts sur l'épaule ont l'hermine,
Comme des magistrats siégeant.
Leur blanc tribunal examine
Un cas d'hiver se prolongeant.

Lustrant son aile qu'il essuie,
L'oiseau persiste en sa chanson,
Malgré neige, brouillard et pluie,
Il croit à la jeune saison.

Il gronde l'aube paresseuse
De rester au lit si longtemps
Et, gourmandant la fleur frileuse,
Met en demeure le printemps.

Il voit le jour derrière l'ombre,
Tel un croyant, dans le saint lieu,
L'autel désert, sous la nef sombre,
Avec sa foi voit toujours Dieu.

A la nature il se confie,
Car son instinct pressent la loi.
Qui rit de ta philosophie,
Beau merle, est moins sage que toi !
Thomas Crone Mar 2013
A funeral is always a saddening thing,
For everybody is somebody to someone.
But some funeral scenes chill you to the bone
And one day in our town we had one.

A very young mother had died;
Something that you just don't expect.
And the shops and stores had all closed their doors;
They did it out of love and respect.

And in the crowded funeral home that day,
With everyone present weeping,
The sound of a little girl's voice was heard.
She said, "That's my mommie, she's sleeping."

Then I heard the sound of her little feet, "tap, tap, tap,"
As she made her way down the aisle.
Her little purse dangled from her tiny wrist
and it brushed her best Sunday dress,
And she boldly asserted the confidence
That little folks like her possess.

To the life that has no final chapter
There's no ending and no last mile.
The preacher and the rest were petrified,
But on the little girl's face was a smile.

She said, "Wake up, Mommie, wake up."
And still not satisfied she reached out with her little hand
And touched her face and cried.
Then the broken hearted daddy spoke
With a gentleness and with power,
And the words that issued from his lips
Was the sermon for the hour.

In a child like faith he told her
That the dead in Christ will rise
"God gave us his word," he said,
"And we know he never lies.

We can't wake up our sleeping Mommie,
But we know someone who can.
Baby, only God can wake up Mommie.
Let's go home and leave her in his hands."
I'm not a religious person, but that doesn't change my opinion towards this poem, and my desire to share it with the world.
Solitary puppeteers working
their angles , scripting heartfelt
psalms , revealing their dark past
with chilling vocals , accompanied
by simple , twangy , acoustic guitars
Touching the lives of ordinary -
folks struggling to get by
Riding into town with the morning Sun
Moving on by the light of the Moon
An open , honest , country balladeer
The 'Working Mans icon ' called home
on a plain old day in April ..
Copyright April 17 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
JJ Hutton Oct 2012
I don't dream of you either. Not at night. The occasional daydream occurs. You crawl into my mind in sentimental coffee shop conversations we never shared, love made in hotels we never went to, picking up naked dolls with frayed blonde hair that the daughter we'll never have left out. Sometimes it's lovely not to question the reality.

Usually the night drives keep me in Oklahoma. I don't know how many times I've stopped in Kingfisher to look at that terrible statue of Sam Walton. But he reminds me that no matter how successful a man becomes, in the end his legacy is depicted by his leftovers. There's a sadness in that. But also a freedom.

Wednesday's drive took me to Ulysses, Kansas. Light pollution gave up just outside of Woodward. Guiding me like a weary wise man who forgot his frankincense, stars beamed and made for suitable company. I love passing through small towns at night. I become a ghost. I'm above them. I'm not exactly there. Brief haunt. Then on my way again.

I parked about 100 feet from my grandmother's old house. Judging by the minivan, some young family's new house. They were in the process of adding to the east side. I wanted to tear at every fresh board. Instead I picked up a couple pieces of my grandmother's gravel. Put them in my pocket. Touched her old mailbox, and drove to the cemetery.

When I got to the headstone, which read Merle and Virgil Mawhirter, I thought back to the last thing my grandmother said to Karen and myself. We visited her in the hospital right before she found herself in the pangs of a ventilator and scattershot science. It was her birthday. I bought her a book she never read.

As Karen and I left, she stopped us. "Don't forget to bring me some ice cream. Good to see you, Floyd and Margie." Not sure who they were. Ice cream. Even at the end, she laughed in the face of diabetes.

Do you think Tim will be the name beside yours on your headstone?

I lied down by my grandparents' graves. Dim moonlight seeped through small breaks in the amethyst clouds. Dead leaves feathered to the ground beside me. I wanted to say some words of encouragement to her. For her, but mostly for myself.

All I said though -- My name is Joshua, Grandma.
Holly Salvatore Apr 2013
It's a take-your-top-off
Kind of day
And I'm getting naked
In the backyard
Merle Haggard rambling
Feverishly in my mind
I'm letting the sun
Get a little frisky
Kiss me anywhere it wishes
And the lilacs whisper
Fragrance
There's a new cadence
of Grasshopper sounds
I'm gonna change things
I'm gonna be that girl
That everybody falls in love with
Everybody knows her name
Dark-skinned
All muscle
All smiles
Living life outside
Kissing all the boys
And making them cry
Living life famously
Shamelessly
Physically
With a closet full of jorts and cut-off tees
I'm gonna be that girl
Because
It's a take-your-top-off
Kind of day
And I'm already naked
I'm a wild mustang
I've got nothing
To lose but my shirt
and my inhibitions
This is what I did today with my day off. I'll probably keep editing this one.
Aniq Ahmad  Aug 2018
Football
Aniq Ahmad Aug 2018
I started watching football when I was eight

At that moment I had everything to hate



The next day I went with the squad

I played with a poor morale



Than as the time passed by

People said Ronaldo in Madrid is *****



Than as the Manuel Neur got the fame

Messi got him chipped later in the game



In June they compared Andre Gomes with James

For real? Thats just lame



Merle said "Football players are like prostitutes"



They said "Giroud comes to show off his beard"

Footballers like Yahya dont even drink beer



While some footballers go to the club when they hit the big time

Tottenham striker said "He cant remember going to a club last time"



Bayern Munich bailed out Dortmund with a loan in the past

Oil money of PSG on Neymar gave me a flabbergast..
Terry Collett Feb 2015
Your father and other men
Play cards and smoke around the

Table in the other room.
Your mother sits knitting by

The fire listening to
The radio low. You sit

On the sofa reading a
Book sensing the fire’s warm

Glow. Your sister Kate is out
With that young man from the store

To see a movie and won’t
Be late. A man laughs out loud

From the other room and your
Mother looks up and shakes her

Head and knits on, the battered
Radio playing Country.

You turn a page of the book,
The characters coming to

Life, the tale unfolding. Your
Cousin Merle is upstairs with

Some girl although your mother
Doesn’t know she believes he’s

Studying hard in his room
Sitting digesting the books.

You listen for some sounds from
Upstairs, a small cry or shrill

Laughter from being tickled
Or bed springs moving, but all

Is hush, just the sounds of your
Mother knitting and men and

Your father talking and low
County music playing on

The radio. You picture
Merle on his bed keeping the

Girl’s voice down low shafting her
Real slow while out of the small

Window the full moon’s all glow.
AROUND THE FIRE IN OLD DAYS.
Un vase, flanqué d'un masque,
En faïence de Courtrai,
Vieille floraison fantasque
Où j'ai mis un rosier vrai,

Sur ma fenêtre grimace,
Et, quoiqu'il soit assez laid,
Ce matin, du toit d'en face,
Un merle ami lui parlait.

Le merle, oiseau leste et braque,
Bavard jamais enrhumé,
Est pitre dans la baraque
Toute en fleurs, du mois de mai.

Il contait au *** aux roses
Un effronté boniment,
Car il faut de grosses choses
Pour faire rire un Flamand.

Sur une patte, et l'air farce,
Et comme on vide un panier,
Il jetait sa verve éparse
De son toit à mon grenier.

Gare au mauvais goût des merles !
J'omets ses propos hardis ;
Son bec semait peu de perles ;
Et moi, rêveur, je me dis :

La minute est opportune ;
Je suis à m'éprendre enclin ;
Puisque j'ai cette fortune
De rencontrer un malin,

Il faut que je le consulte
Sur ma conquête d'hier.
Et je cria : - Merle adulte,
Sais-tu pourquoi je suis fier ?

Il dit, gardant sa posture,
Semblable au diable boiteux :
- C'est pour la même aventure
Dont Gros-Guillaume est honteux.

— The End —