I just want another chance
To grow up
My mind is stirring with the
False hopes of childhood
My pockets are empty
And my soul is tired
They say I still have far to go
But how much further can it be?
I keep slipping on the same slopes
Don't give me lectures
Give me peace

Oh little bee,
What must you mean
To hold that heavy key

Little bitty bee,
Striving to keep flying
Efforts are only that I can see

The water on you
Is full of a color wonder
Unexpected from the simple dew

The flowers of pink
Set you apart from the rest
As you rest to think

Oh little bee
What you must mean
To hold such a heavy key

"Be the change you wish to see in the world"...
But I was born upside down
and instead I am all the things I know I need to change,
but don't.

did you have a
good thanksgiving?
not to bring you down
but the people who
first helped the whites
are the poorest folk around.

the Nations of Lakota
the Navajo. the Sioux
they live their lives despairingly
not knowing what to do.

these people have rich heritage
some live off the land.
but the rez may not be able
to give them ground to stand.

what Caucasian people
gave the native folk
were the parts unwanted
a disgrace!  a joke!

some put up casinos
to "help" them in their plight
but much of this income
is wrenched from them by the white!

drugs and "fire water"
are a great deal to blame
for destruction of a culture
which bears noble name!

I have read the stories
of Gallup New Mexico
of many deaths of citizens
of the nation Navajo

because intoxication
and the bitter cold
have them sleeping under cars
or so the stories told.

when the owner of the vehicle
gets in and drives away
they run over the poor drunkard
who dies where they lay.

other grave conditions
have these people fraught
they have no essentials
we don't give a thought.

don't want to be crass
don't want to be gross
but they have no toilet paper
use newspaper! or worse!

there are churches. charity
but the folk are proud
they have basic dignity
this is not allowed.

but you can help their Nations
by giving to THEM
the worthy tribal leaders
will help them once again.

I felt lead to write this
I am SO concerned
they are the source of inspiration
by a great respect
they've earned.


SoulSurvivor
(C) 11/27/2015

Truth is the trigger, and it's scent of the pure gun powder.
Guns hired, shots fired, crossed fired, everything hey wired.
Rippling of bullets, Trail of ****** rounds, Tracer rounds, all rebounds.

Faltering skies, Blistering eyes, all those lies, bullets fly!
Like sharp blade, taking turns to trade, those bullets raid.
Smoke in the barrel, those sweet gun carol, music of bangs vector zero.

reigning bullets, covered in red, shots on the head.
Spinning around, dazed and confused, all but train wrecks.
Street lights blur, speaking in slur, losing mind without a cure.

Love with the gun, all came close to none, and ready for the fun.
Squeeze to aim true, and everything blew, all those bullets flew.
Purity in those bullets, truth in the trigger, faith in the gun.

Those bullets in the dark, lighten by the spark, stray bullets embark.
Dripping of red, streaks of red, all those people dead.
Judge not the bullet, not the gun, but the man pulling the trigger!

Imaginary home plate was just off the back stoop.

I tossed a rock up a yard or so and as it fell
I whacked it with my stick

and watched its skyward arch -

conjuring fantasies of Tiger Stadium.



      The phantom crowd stood and roared.
      “It looks like a long one folks - going, going ...”

CRACK!

Mr. McCrary’s garage window
splintered into a thousand shards.
My stadium vanished and I was naked in the garden -
desperate for a fig leaf.

I fled into the house (where I could not hide)
shaking with mortal dread
and not being catholic, I had no choice
but to confess my sin to my actual father.

Dad cradled my terror in his hands
and led me to Mr. McCrary’s back porch
where I knocked then stammered out my sorrys.

Soon, with dad as foreman,
I chiseled, measured and glazed away
until Mr. McCrary’s window
was entirely healed and restored.

Pushing the mower a half year later
I sensed movement across the fence
and looked up to find myself
staring into old man McCrary's eyes -

My guilty heart shivered as I
braced for the verbal thunder to follow.

But there would be no storm.
The old man's face softened into a smile;
he tipped his hat and pressed his *** into the soil.

Feel my breath adorn your stiffened shoulders
Now your cloak, as thick as heavy satin
Beneath ruby black sleeves your skin smoulders
From tattoos inked in my red-lipped Latin
Our songs are pressurized into jewels
I place the lovely earrings on your lobes
That stern gaze I taught you won't suffer fools
Nor entertain hissing genophobes
My precious mineral complexion acts
As the speckled fur underneath your crown
Tenuous heart strings of mine set their traps
And from my throat queue the trumpeting sound
Hold still, stand up proud, bare that throat fresh blue
Take the steps - and thus I coronate you