A horse to Ride, A sword to wield,
an ocean of grass to tame.
The Seventh was out in the field
to make George Custer’s name.

The village stretched before them,
Custer split his force in three.
Reno’s men struck from the south
and were taking casualties.

Did Custer reach the river
before the natives struck?
This hero of the Civil war
had just run out of luck.

Major. Reno sensed the trap and fled
And found a place to stand
Benteen brought his men to Reno
to lend a helping hand.

A horse to Ride, A sword to wield
An ocean of grass to tame
The Seventh was out in the field
to make George Custer’s name.

Out upon the greasy grass
George tried to make a stand
Two hundred men surrounded
There was a breakdown in command.

Outnumbered and surrounded
Some men simply broke and ran
But death was not to be denied,
Their blood fed thirsty sand.

Custer, mortally wounded,
with a bullet near his heart.
did not live to see the rest.
His troopers hacked apart.

The position held by Reno
And commanded by Benteen
survived several furious assaults
before the natives fled the scene.

Relieved by General Terry’s force,
They sought their fallen ones-
The bodies hacked and naked,
decomposing in the sun.

No horse to Ride, No sword to wield,
an ocean of grass untamed.
The Seventh lay out in the field
That was the cost of fame.

So what I helped a bit,
Turned a blind eye,
Have I not always taught him
To reach for the sky?

He’s a good boy,
Maybe just lost,
But he tries so **** hard
Little knowing the cost.

I must though admit
I too was quite thrown
By the sheer huge amounts
Of payments since shown.

And then here comes Trump
Full of his bluster,
Figuring we’re the Indians
And somehow he’s General Custer.

I know facts aren’t his bag,
He’s short with the truth,
But even he can’t deny
Custer’s end was uncouth.

Peppered with arrows,
Stripped to the skin,
A little demeaning
To want to be him?

But then I forget
The guy’s a big star
And with make-believe
He’s clearly gone far.

Time for a reckoning,
My boot’s on my foot
A strong upward kick
And he’ll surely stay put.

Whales have no wings to fly
But they have eyes to cry

Whales are so big but kind
They're not easy to find

Whales are definitely so nice
**** them not to eat with rice.


Today is Saturday, Sept. 28, the 269th day of 2014 with 94 to follow.

The moon is waxing. Morning stars are Jupiter, Uranus and Venus. Evening stars are Mars, Mercury, Neptune and Saturn.


In 1825, in England, George Stephenson operated the first locomotive to pull a passenger train.



A thought for the day:



No place epitomizes the American experience and the American spirit more than New York City. -- Michael Bloomberg.



QUOTES FOR THE DAY:




He who is void of virtuous attachments in private life is, or very soon will be, void of all regard for his country. There is seldom an instance of a man guilty of betraying his country, who had not before lost the feeling of moral obligations in his private connections.

------------------------

How strangely will the Tools of a Tyrant pervert the plain Meaning of Words!



Samuel Adams



In university they don't tell you that the greater part of the law is learning to tolerate fools.




Doris Lessing




“The character inherent in the American people has done all that has been accomplished; and it would have done somewhat more, if the government had not sometimes got in its way.”



Henry David Thoreau



"Everything you can imagine is real."



Pablo Picasso



“Ugly. Is irrelevant. It is an immeasurable insult to a woman, and then supposedly the worst crime you can commit as a woman. But ugly, as beautiful, is an illusion.”



Margaret Cho




POETRY




TO THE THAWING WIND



Robert Frost





Come with rain, O loud Southwester!
Bring the singer, bring the nester;
Give the buried flower a dream;
Make the settled snowbank steam;
Find the brown beneath the white;
But whate'er you do tonight,
Bathe my window, make it flow,
Melt it as the ice will go;
Melt the glass and leave the sticks
Like a hermit's crucifix;
Burst into my narrow stall;
Swing the picture on the wall;
Run the rattling pages o'er;
Scatter poems on the floor;
Turn the poet out of door.


About this poem
"To the Thawing Wind" was first published in Frost's collection "A Boy's Will" (Holt, 1915).

About Robert Frost
Robert Frost was born on March 26, 1874, in San Francisco. He was the recipient of four Pulitzer Prizes during his lifetime and read at President John F. Kennedy's inauguration. Frost died in Boston on Jan. 29, 1963.

*
The Academy of American Poets is a nonprofit, mission-driven organization, whose aim is to make poetry available to a wider audience. Email The Academy at poem-a-day[at]poets.org.



This poem is in the public domain.
Distributed by King Features Syndicate





A TIP FOR WOMEN




Choosing Eyeliner



Make sure the color of your eyeliner complements your eyes. Dark brown eyes benefit from plum shades. If you have lighter eyes, try navy and charcoal. Brown eyeliner works well no matter what color your eyes are!




JOKES



WHALES



A little girl was talking to her teacher about whales.

The teacher said it was physically impossible for a whale to swallow a human because even though it was a very large mammal its throat was very small.

The little girl stated that Jonah was swallowed by a whale.

Irritated, the teacher reiterated that a whale could not swallow a human; it was physically impossible.

The little girl: said, "When I get to heaven I will ask Jonah".

The teacher: asked, " What if Jonah went to hell?"

The little girl: replied, "Then you ask him".





JURY SELECTION

The tiresome jury selection process continued, each side hotly contesting and dismissing potential jurors. Don O'Brian was called for his question session.

"Property holder?"

"Yes, I am, Your Honor."

"Married or single?"

"Married for twenty years, Your Honor."

"Formed or expressed an opinion?"

"Not in twenty years, Your Honor."





Questionable Predictions



Nostradamus recently turned 500. Here are some other predictions from lesser lights:

- Law will be simplified (over the next century). Lawyers will have diminished, and their fees will have been vastly curtailed. --Junius Henri Browne 1893

- By 1960, work will be limited to three hours a day. --John Langdon-Davies

- Hurrah, Boys, we've caught them napping. We'll finish them up and go home to our station. --George A. Custer, 1876, prior to the Battle of Little Big Horn

- Get rid of the pointed-ears guy. --NBC executive, regarding Mr. Spock of STAR TREK, 1966

- Telephones (will) bring peace on earth, eliminate Southern accents, and save the farm by making farmers less lonely. --printed in THE WALL STREET JOURNAL, Century-old Pronouncements, 1995





Stupid True Headlines



- Something Went Wrong in Jet Crash, Expert Says

- Police Begin Campaign to Run Down Jaywalkers

- Safety Experts Say School Bus Passengers Should Be Belted

- Drunk Gets Nine Months in Violin Case

- Survivor of Siamese Twins Joins Parents

- Farmer Bill Dies in House

- Iraqi Head Seeks Arms

- Is There a Ring of Debris around Uranus?

- Stud Tires Out

- Prostitutes Appeal to Pope

- Panda Mating Fails; Veterinarian Takes Over

- Soviet ****** Lands Short of Goal Again

- British Left Waffles on Falkland Islands

- Lung Cancer in Women Mushrooms

- Eye Drops off Shelf

- Teacher Strikes Idle Kids

- Include your Children When Baking Cookies

- Squad Helps Dog Bite Victim

- Shot Off Woman's Leg Helps Nicklaus to 66

- Enraged Cow Injures Farmer with Axe

- Plane Too Close to Ground, Crash Probe Told

- Miners Refuse to Work after Death

- Juvenile Court to Try Shooting Defendant

- Stolen Painting Found by Tree

- Two Soviet Ships Collide, One Dies

- Two Sisters Reunited after 18 Years in Checkout Counter

- Killer Sentenced to Die for Second Time in 10 Years



- Never Withhold ****** Infection from Loved One

- Drunken Drivers Paid $1000 in '84

- War Dims Hope for Peace

- If Strike isn't Settled Quickly, It May Last a While

- Cold Wave Linked to Temperatures

- Enfields Couple Slain; Police Suspect Homicide

- Red Tape Holds Up New Bridge

- Deer **** 17,000

- Typhoon Rips Through Cemetery; Hundreds Dead

- Man Struck by Lightning Faces Battery Charge

- New Study of Obesity Looks for Larger Test Group

- Astronaut Takes Blame for Gas in Spacecraft

- Kids Make Nutritious Snacks

- Chef Throws His Heart into Helping Feed Needy

- Arson Suspect is Held in Massachusetts Fire

- British Union Finds Dwarfs in Short Supply

- Ban On Soliciting Dead in Trotwood

- Lansing Residents Can Drop Off Trees

- Local High School Dropouts Cut in Half

- New Vaccine May Contain Rabies

- Man Minus Ear Waives Hearing

- Deaf College Opens Doors to Hearing

- Air Head Fired

- Steals Clock, Faces Time

- Prosecutor Releases Probe into Undersheriff

- Old School Pillars are Replaced by Alumni

- Bank Drive-in Window Blocked by Board

- Hospitals are Sued by 7 Foot Doctors

- Some Pieces of Rock Hudson Sold at Auction

- *** Education Delayed, Teachers Request Training





HAVE A FABULOUS SUNDAY!

One day I will fade
From the annals of time
Along with conceptions
Of my human mind
Words that then gave them life
Be of speech or of pen
Will rust and dissolve
In the reigning of men
And moons waning then
On the powers that be
Will only sunrise
For the living to see
No sad elegy
From the melting ice faces
That filled up my oceans
With dark, empty spaces
My desert's oasis
Last puddle runs dry
The gardens I've tended
Will wither and die
No bluer the sky
No willows will weep
No creatures will mourn
Over my ever-sleep
As forever must keep
Spinning time in its hands
The valley still kneels
And the mountain still stands
Overlooking the lands
That I flowed through in peace
Unperturbed by the force
Of my river's release  
As the winds of change cease
To carry my name
Upon phoenix wings
That ignited my flame
When I felt earth reclaim  
All that I held dear
And saw no kingdom comes
That outshine the one here
No question mark fear
Just my last exclamation
This journey concludes
In the truth's punctuation

General Custer
A celebrated military hero
Once accidentally
Shot his own horse in the head
While he was riding it
True story

Gymnasiums
Modern battlegrounds,,
Those days...

Blood on the floor,
And spittle.

Rival towns,
White - Red.

Sitting Bull long gone,
Custer long dead.

Native sons,
Sons of pioneers
Still locked in enmities,
Remembrances of treaties broken,
Lying words,
Hatreds long unspoken.

So much of fear
So little trust,
Braggarts claiming coup,
Braggarts thinking war
Through basketball.

So it was one night
I slipped and fell
In a reservation gym,
Heard the hiss and laughter,
Felt the rush of fear...
Anger came.

Before my racist pride
Could grow,
I felt a hand,
Heard a voice,
"You okay?'
Spike Bighorn
Pulled me to my feet
Before a silent crowd.

A quiet act of bravery
That spoke aloud
Made me see the way
Through hate,
Set me on a path
To lead me forty years....

An act of kindness
In a place of fear
Defuses tension,
Ends the wars,
Shames the cowards,
Fills the void
With hope.

-------------------

She said it again,
So I repeated myself too,
This time with the

"What"

In "What did you say?"

With the strongest
Emphasis
I could muster.

She's saying it again,
And I still have no clue
Why she would **** in
Like Colonel Custer
Did to the Indians.

I bid her adieu,
And left her to wonder
What my answer could've been
If she didn't adjust her
Opinions based on
Her audience.

But anyway....
The fraudulents
Won't go away.

They hide behind me,
Trying to scam me,
Like I'd just walk blindly
Into a ****
Double whammy
Or something.

That thumping.
That thumping.

It's chronic,
And constantly bumping
Against this cage.

My patience is thinning
With each year I age,
Leaving me feeling
Like Greenland.

Is it so much to ask
For new beginnings?

A different page?

Anything other than
Feeling the same?

I suppose that it is,
And I just have to accept
That I'm asleep in a grave,
And all that I see,
All that I feel,
All that I know
Are all that's left.
The last static spasms
Of a decomposing mind.

I saw my sister today,
We got lunch at Union Station.
It's been years,
So I noticed the changes
In how she looks,
How she acts,
How she reacts to my
Shortcomings as a brother.

I told her to think of
Everyone she knows,
Or has known,
Or will know,
Or has seen
In person.

On a screen.

In a picture.

From a moving car.

In a dream.

I told her to think of all these people
Who have lives, and credit cards, and vacations, and stressors, and morning showers.
I told her they're all dead.
They are gone, forever,
And never coming back.

Worm food.

Spirits.

Contradictions.

I told her we are all dead,
And our imagined lives
Are just contrived efforts
To reconcile that truth
With ourselves.

All this empty time,
The moments that
Happen over and over
Every day
That we cannot pin down
Or really remember,
Except when they're happening,

Like walking up the escalator
From the subway,

Or making some *******
A ****** sandwich at work,

Or eating breakfast,

Or riding the elevator
Up to your floor,

Or taking a ****,

Or feeding the cat,

All these moments that happen so frequently and uneventfully
That it's as if they don't happen at all,
They're just static electricity
Discharging in a rotting brain.

Last ditch efforts to maintain
A sense of order,
A coping mechanism for the
Emptiness where God should be,
Filler to hide the reality
That nothing is happening,
That nothing is reality.

I told her we can
Fill that space with
Whatever we want,
That death is what you make it,
It's your death to live,
Your own make-believe
Joys and sorrows.

With a furrowed brow,
She didn't say anything
Until she asked for the check,
And said she had a bus to catch.

I said good luck with the baby,
I'll babysit when it's born,
If you want me to.

There is something that I can not see
Why the UNITED STATES has broken
So many AMERICAN INDIAN treaties?
We should put our heads down in shame
For the AMERICAN INDIANS are
Not the ones to blame.
They have been fighting so long for their rights
And have made the ultimate sacrifice.
They have given their lives for this nation
And still do not see their salvation.
All other ethnic groups have
become free from oppression
And their Indian rights have been
left to the u.s. discretion.
Why are they still classified as wards
Of the government, and their lives
Are still below the poverty line?
Isn’t this the biggest sign !
That they are still discriminated against.
They live in one room houses and shacks
And the government has turned their backs.
No running water and no electricity.
Is this the way it’s got to be?
A family of four or more
Sleeping on a ***** floor.
They were once known as the Indian nations
Now it’s total devastation.
People all over the world have heard
How the west was won
That it was with the almighty gun.
They just hear the one sided story
Of how Custer rode to glory.
But not the sufferings that they
Put the Indians through
And all they had to endure.
And suffer the humiliation of defeat
And drop down and scrounge for meat.

I came to witness the future
Archon, archetype
an emanation of opposites.
"not every spirit is in
spiritarionic"

try 'em. Is God? Ax ye 'em dat.

Is God, ified, a re
warder of the unwarded,
or the warded?

expiration, due date duty, now,
reporting
ad hoc an'all, do you remember
who you intended
to become?

Do you remember who we emu
late, as our flames lick
next and next and next in
bubbles

axiomatic sparks stored in that
mother lode of mitochondriac
ical me-we-canicle chronicle time

reason. Ax dem ex-spirit-eers,
what is a spirtual bypass?

It's a heart way to avoid
growing old and
wise.

====
witchist, I y'know, 'r j?

alla words's once said, aloud, right?
alla words writ, once was heard, right.
check.
goodt'go. Hoorah.

the code. Who? RA! powerless sans
knowing that.
Yahoo, same set of mis con ceived
battle songs
which ended wars never fought.

the preacher claimed to have known
a poor wise man, who by his
wisdom saved a city, yet
not one of us knew,
the preacher said,
that poor wise man's name.

Ja', tha's who rah, ya'll laugh later.

this is visitation day at the comedian
rehabituational s'cool.

D'jew know why you listen to non sense,
from motley clad lads an'lassies?

Culture. Kultur. Gut biome axioms
juicin' carbs 'n' fiber. Fectin'

laughter trigger,
good meds. Good medicine, as General
Custer or Emory or somebody
said of blankets. In 1763. Oh,
You know, AI knows you know and now

we watch your eyes. Grin. All done, jest

let me with
draw the cathe.... there. All better.

Wisdom will seep through. Y'live.

Rapid City wears its patriotism like a shroud.
Corner streets are populated with less than
life-size statues of past presidents
squinting at the distant Black Hills
where the grandeur of Mt. Rushmore
casually crumbles their bronze dreams.

Wax settlers, loggers and gold miners
stake claims with souvenir hunters
touring a mine, panning for fool’s gold.

In nearby Custer, 75 breaths  from Wounded Knee,
shops hawk Chief Joseph, Sitting Bull, Geronimo t-shirts
proclaiming them “ The Original Founding Fathers.”
Mixed in are those in star-spangled letters and fireworks
proudly streaming “Welcome to America. Now Speak English.”

Rushmore was dynamited from a cliff
by a creator who spent the rest of his life
erecting grand Confederate gestures
out of ****** Georgia quartz monzonite—
finished and opened 100 years to the day
after Abraham Lincoln’s assassination.  

Thirty minutes from Rushmore, existing in its shadow
on private land filled with dusty trails,
unfinished after seventy years,
probably still unfinished after twenty  more,
facing away from these great stone faces,
emerging from the side of great Thunderhead Mountain,

on an ivory stead with a mane of flowing river and wind,
exists the Oglala Lakota warrior Tasunke Witko
the worm of Crazy Horse the Old and Rattling Blanket Woman,
sibling of Little Hawk and Laughing One, memory of the spirit of
Black Buffalo and White Cow who walked with an Iron Cane,
all enclosed with him in this massive breath of white stone.

The history of this great Indian space stretches the land,
four times higher than the Statue of Liberty,
extending beyond the warrior frown, the pointing left arm.
The horse’s ear alone is the size of a rusty  reservation bus.
When finished it will be the largest sculpture in history,
bigger than the land, breath and all of Indian memory.

It was the Vision Quest of Chief Henry Standing Bear to show the whites that the red man had great heroes, too.
In a man named Korczak he found a kindred spirit,
a storyteller in stone, a survivor of Omaha Beach,
who when the first wife faltered, found a second
who gave him enough children to carry, sculpt the Bear Dream.  

The big chief’s face is still the only finished part.
Korczak’s wife and children toil with the rest,
struggling to capture the essence of a warrior
who never allowed his shadow to be snared
in the false glow of the white man’s light,
trusting only the rain beams that fall

onto his people, mountains, plains and buffaloes,
onto Paha Sapa, “the heart of everything that is,”
where the Lakota huddled while the world was created,
now a land of broken treaties and dying dreams,
drenched in the dust of tears underneath,
while this white face torn from red gazes East.

There is something that I can not see
Why the UNITED STATES has broken
So many AMERICAN INDIAN treaties?
We should put our heads down in shame
For the AMERICAN INDIANS are
Not the ones to blame.
They have been fighting so long for their rights
And have made the ultimate sacrifice.
They have given their lives for this nation
And still do not see their salvation.
All other ethnic groups have
become free from oppression
And their Indian rights have been
left to the u.s. discretion.
Why are they still classified as wards
Of the government, and their lives
Are still below the poverty line?
Isn’t this the biggest sign !
That they are still discriminated against.
They live in one room houses and shacks
And the government has turned their backs.
No running water and no electricity.
Is this the way it’s got to be?
A family of four or more
Sleeping on a ***** floor.
They were once known as the Indian nations
Now it’s total devastation.
People all over the world have heard
How the west was won
That it was with the almighty gun.
They just hear the one sided story
Of how Custer rode to glory.
But not the sufferings that they
Put the Indians through
And all they had to endure.
And suffer the humiliation of defeat
And drop down and scrounge for meat.

We survived the Trail Of Tears
never forgotten about Wounded Knee
we saw to it that Custer would make his last stand
and mourned for the Sand Creek massacre
with Geronimo we would keep riding on
to save what should of never been gone

For over five hundred years
we would fight to be free
and our blood would spill on this land
we saw respect for our Mother Earth
and did what we could to protect her
with our Spirit Guides we became one with the animal
this was the way with all of our people

Our religion was strong with the Great Spirit
but White Man tried to teach us how to forget
and corrupted our children at birth
teaching them to forget the ways of our culture
only to make their eye's blind not to see
that this was our way taught to be
that should of never been gone
Spiritwind ©2016

just ask any waitress
in the diner
still sane.

ask a businessman
locked behind a desk.

ask a cop in jail for theft
or custer
or van gogh

or a child in harlem
foodless and cold.

ask the grey day
evaporated by the sun

just ask.


we all want to burn,
to dance and sidestep
through are own private hells

to hang
upon
a church bell
high above a cathedral
in notre dame
laughing,
in love with the finality of fire.

the fire
is a man with shotgun
standing in a savings and loan

the fire
is a 16 year old girl
in a
short
short
dress
with oh
so
long legs

the fire cries like snow geese
warm
so warm
into this cold winter's night.

this life we love
is but a hawk on fire
flying
flaming
into the sun of our existence...

we want what we fear,
i want the sun


i am burning.

Coup Stick
A Poem by Corset


When I was a small child
I would often try to walk
silently like the warriors
it never failed that a twig
would snap beneath my feet
but I am a grown woman now.

Here, where the earth and blade
are dry, the wind spirit
can hear my footsteps,
this is not a good place
to hunt the wind and I
am not afraid to die.

Privacy fences block my view
of the white tipped mountain,
tumbleweeds whisper the names
of the fallen
and there are no buffalo
to fall beside the iron horse,
and the only tracks to follow
belong to the old railroad.

The brave will ride the red path
his pouch tied to the mane
of his pony, his whistle plays
the shrill of the great hunt
a vengeance to collect in scalp,
spirit claws sewn onto
his chest, blessed,
he is dressed for death.

It is a good day to die.

Paint us like the white
spotted leopard so that
the arrows fly in reverse.

Fierce in verse
like Crazy Horse;
who took the evil man's
thirst and with it,
Cut Custer in two,
I will not be halved.

Listen now, as I sing the
song of drums
no longer a twin of mine
as to the number whispered
into the dream.

I'll not be controlled.

On the green grass,
one can move silently
and be as mighty as
a pack of wolves,
I am as unconcerned
as a November cub,
yowling at the moon.

Sticks and stones,
words can not harm us.

I will not be silenced.


Choose the path wisely,
walk softly, carry a
big feathered coup,
for a war of dishonor.

The darkness can not effect
a sacred blaze, but daylight
can most certainly invade
the greedy, hungry night.

I was Satan in the House of
God , Custer before his final enemy ,
a candle before the storm ,
a young boy trapped in nettle and thorn

George Best had it,
Wily Coyote tries so hard
that we have to
give it to him,

Gandhi for some reason
doesn't have it
special
though he is,

Geronimo has it,
as does Cochise,
Back Elk
& Sitting Bull,
actually Custer has
a little too,
despite all
his failings,

& the dude who jumped
from space,
has it,
oh yes he does,

& Woodpeckers have it
as do Kingfishers,
& Tigers have it,
for **** sure,
but then
so do
Lemurs,

Great Whites
just ooze it,
cannot argue
with that one,

San Francisco has it
L.A. doesn't,
Detroit did have it,
& deserves to
win it back,

***** has it,
though who can
know that
these days,
English food
definitely doesn't,
oh but Thai,
oh Thai
really does,

my son has it,
when he's
all done up
for a
school concert,
or actually
any old time
really,
cos I just
see to
in him.

The ancient one stood on a bank remote
Overlooking a stream,
Where dark at noon the water flowed
In the shade at his feet.
In springtime, when the mayflies rose
To dance their hour of love,
He basked in the joy of new growth
And held the spring in his arms.

When thousands fell at Gettysburg dead
And Custer the hatchet felt on his head,
He felt the sun of summer days
And dreamed of his heaven
In the long, warm evening haze.
His needles were brown
When Kennedy went down;
His boughs bent with snow
Through the winter sleeping
When Russia saw Napoleon retreating,
Men starving, freezing,
Their horses eating.    

In time,
His branches lower swung,
His face bowed to his own reflection,
Unseen, unsung.
One night in winter,
Boughs loaded with snow,
He toppled silently, slow,
Roots tearing frozen soil,
Long branches crushing ice,
Penetrating the stream's muddy bed--
Sprawled, face flattened,
Feeling freezing water,
Finding his end.

Spring's flood rocks the carcass,
Lifts, tugs at limbs submerged,
Sways his trunk so it groans;
Moving water, irresistible force,
Rotates the corpse into a bend,
Shoves it against the bank;
Some limbs splinter, some extend.

In summer he rests on wet sand exposed;
On the bank above, tall marsh grass grows
As one day comes and another one goes.  
Needles fall;
Over years bugs crawl,
Bark disappears, decay advances
Until curved, white branches
Rise like dinosaur bones,
From black water that flows slow,
While mayflies dance their dances,
Silently like snow.