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the sheriff's deputies
are on duty everyday
they tune into see
what people may say

if it doesn't follow
the sheriff's law act
instantly those folks
are thrown out of the tract

the sheriff's deputies
are an eagle eyed crew
they keenly observe
what others may spew

reports to the sheriff
they note in his log
then he evicts those
non law abiding dogs

the sheriff's deputies
are ever alert and on guard
their line of work
is to keep neat the sheriff's yard

so be warned the deputies
are watching with diligence
and they pass onto the sheriff
all of their intelligence

the sheriff's deputies
are always in the know
they make it their business
to tidy up the show

we need to be prudent
in what we put on air
as the sheriff won't condone
any form of illicit fair

the sheriff's deputies
are thorough at their jobs
they stand by the edicts
that the sheriff lobs
The ladies with the initials M,T,N and G
Keep a good eye on all the postings they see
Should they sight anything which is crook
They immediately put it into the chief's book

Luckily some have escaped the place
And now parade in a less controlled space
They can express themselves more openly
Without the strictures of the chief and his deputies
A brand new sheriff came to town
I'm sure he's not the last
We've had fourteen in the past year
They leave here mighty fast

Some can't stand the pressure
Others end up in boot hill
It ain't easy being Sheriff
Here in Cactus Mill

He was tall, compared to most folks
That's what the undertaker said
"I'm just scouting for the future"
"In case he ends up dead"

He went into his office
Fired both deputies on sight
He said "you wanna get your job back"
"Then, you'll have to do it right"

"I don't hanker to disruptions"
"In the town ... I rule"
"The laws all must be followed"
"Now, boys...it's time for school"

"We're gonna have a meeting"
"You can follow, or can go"
"I'm gonna clean this town up"
"I just thought you both should know"

He'd printed off some flyers
Had them passed out by the men
It was scheduled for the Baptist Church
It was due to start at ten

He cleaned up and got ready
A good impression he would give
Because this man's demeanor
Chose who'd die and who would live

At nine fifteen he left and went
To the church, to say a prayer
He thought it would be empty
But found half the town was there

We waited till the church bells
Chimed ten times ...and he began
"I'm here to be your Sheriff"
"I'll do the best job that I can"

"I don't like injustice"
"Wrong doers...they must pay"
"I like to keep things, well..in house"
"I make decisions in  a day"

"I'm like a judge and jury"
"I hold my own cowboy kind of court"
"I'm like Roy Bean, I guess you'd say"
"It's my town...It is my fort"

"Gunfights, just won't happen"
"If they do, both men are dead"
"One, because he lost it...."
"The other, cause I said"

"Drinking...keep it local"
"Stay inside at the saloon"
"Don't wander the streets at night"
"Standing, howling at the moon"

"You can wear your guns in town"
"But, I don't want to see them out"
"If I do, then you can bet"
"You'll learn fast, what my court is all about"

"Now, coming in, two miles out"
"I saw a sturdy tree"
"The only one who hangs from it"
"Will be decided on....by me"

"Lynchings...not on my watch"
"Rustling....don't you try"
"The rules all must be followed"
"If not....you'll surely die"

"I have a length of rope with me"
"It's been stretched 'bout twenty times"
"Add one more...it's twenty one"
"So, don't commit no crimes"

"I also have two friends right here"
"Mr. Smith and Mr. Wesson"
"Don't make them come on out to play"
"If they do , you'll learn your lesson"

"Back at the jail, there is one more"
"A right old sturdy gun"
"If Smith and Wesson do not work"
"Then you'll meet...Remington"

"I hope that you will follow"
"The rules that I lay down"
"Cactus Mill is pretty"
"I like this little town"

"I might be the new Sheriff"
"And I want to be your friend"
"The choice is which one do you want"
"A long life...or early end?"

He shook the preachers hand then
And he walked on out the door
The towns folk sat in silence
You could hear a feather hit the floor

Now, the question....Did this Sheriff
Clean up little Cactus Mill?
Did Mr. Smith and Mr. Wesson
Keep his hide out of Boot Hill?
Matthew James Apr 2016
Poem 3
How to raise kids

How can you raise kids that are in good health when you don't see the lies that you're selling to yourself?

I got into to teaching to make a difference,
To add some joy to a kids existence,
I knew, so well, the hurt and pain
That kids in secondary school sustain
The tears and the fears and the dread and the...
"Ahahahaha! Look at his Nicks!! He thinks he's got Nikes but he's wearing Nicks!"
And how it switches you off and makes you not care,
Because you just don't want to go back there.
So, you wander into town to HMV
Til your parents feel let down when you only got an E
Until you failed Art and Graphics and Literacy
But at least you got an A in history...
Because academic subjects are "more important"

How can you raise kids that are in good health when you don't see the lies that you're selling to yourself?

So I left 6th form and I needed change
And wanted to go to somewhere strange
(And new)
Somewhere away from all the drama
At 19 I went by myself to Ghana
"God bless our homeland Ghana
And make our nation great and strong,
Vow to defend forever
The cause of Freedom and of Right"
And I taught
Maths and English
With no books
And no training
And no observing
And I was ******* at it... Really bad
But somehow, i felt the change
Just because I cared and they cared

How can you raise kids that are in good health when you don't see the lies that you're selling to yourself?

A few years later I started teachin.
GTP, hands on, straight in.
My teaching mentor was called Mr Hickey,
He smoked a pipe and drank down whiskey
(In school)
My first proper job was Bradford inner city
It was a bit rough and the buildin was ******
There we had a guy who was a lazy old ****
And he had kids tracing instead of learning Art
When I first got there I was overwrought
These weren't like the training lessons that I taught
These kids had opinions. They needed to engage...
To be taught in a way that suited kids of their age
I nearly gave up, because I felt so scared
But at the end of the day, I knew that I still cared

How can you raise kids that are in good health when you don't see the lies that you're selling to yourself?

In my 3rd year I had this year 11 class
They wanted a good lesson and they wanted to pass
But they needed convincing and I nearly cried
So I tried and I tried and I tried and I tried
To listen
And react
To change
And Adapt
And those kids made me better
And for 3 years I got better
Our grades were sky high
The kids wanted to try
They wanted learn, they wanted to know "why"
But I got to the top and I needed to fly
Because I needed somewhere that I could ask the "why"

How can you raise kids that are in good health when you don't see the lies that you're selling to yourself?

You have those moments sometimes in life, where you know that a decision is important, but you don't know why and you don't know which way is the right way to go with it. This was that point for me. Sat in the interview, saying I wanted to pull out but letting them convince me to stay. That was the point, I think where everything changed.

2010. New job. New government.

How can you raise kids that are in good health when you don't see the lies that you're selling to yourself?

I was head of Art and I got noticed
Within a year I got promoted
Faculty leader of creative skills
This is the part where it really kills
What do you do when you just aren't wanted
When people are angry that you're there
When all of your decisions seem to be haunted
By the ghost of a culture where they just don't care
Where nastiness and gossip always bite
Resting in the coffin of a lost tradition
Kids so bored they're turning white
Beaten down to bored submission
And everyone seems to have given up the fight
But they're still convinced that their way's "right"

How can you raise kids that are in good health when you don't see the lies that you're selling to yourself?

After so much pain, we were getting through it
We realised there was much more to it
No more easy working out of booklets
(The teaching equivalent of rhyming couplets)
But every time you made a shift
The goal posts seemed to start to drift
And this all caused a further rift
The final one I couldn't lift

How can you raise kids that are in good health when you don't see the lies that you're selling to yourself?

Gossip and lies caused by others stress
Creates a catastrophic mess
Turns people's lives upside down
Gives off the sense that they're a clown
They're trying. They're just really down
Simply trying not to drown
Marriage ending
Friends unfriending
Children's lives are slowly bending
House and finance are up-ending
Mediation sessions need attending
Everything seems to need mending
And the pain seems to be never-ending

How can you raise kids that are in good health when you don't see the lies that you're selling to yourself?

Professional life vs Personal life
Professional strife = Personal strife
Personal wife goes through professional strife
Personal strife =

"I understand what you're going through, but we need to think about the learners."

Stress in teaching is the expectation
Work life balance has no correlation
The pressures of a confused nation
Makes teachers into the poor relation

Goodbye btec, goodbye vocation
Hello Gove and his minds creation
Goodbye Gove and hello Morgan
Hiding behind a gritty slogan
Creating the pressure of pointless change
For teachers to correct and rearrange

How can you raise kids that are in good health when you don't see the lies that you're selling to yourself?

But here's the thing. It's not their fault.
Sure, they've no idea MPs
They've less common sense than a piece of cheese
But all MPs really do is set
Some criteria that need to be met
A league table
Academies
Appraisal
Curriculums
It's nothing new. They've always done it
But it's given to schools to interpret
We don't lose money, we just get judged
We need conviction that can't be budged
We need to get a message out
To every parent, round about
And what this message needs to say
Is "we aren't doing extra maths today,
We're going to go outside and play
Because whatever MPs say
We'll do what's right for the kids
And here's why it's right you know
Cause we want to see your children grow
We're not just for levels, grades, progress
We're also here to relieve stress
We're also here to make your child feel
That happiness is something real
That in spite of all the crap you see
You can become head of art when you failed gcse."
Learn People skills
Determination
Creativity
Imagination
Honesty
Integrity
Sen­sitivity
And empathy
It's not an easy sell I know
You can't measure how people grow
You can't report or give a grade
But they're qualities that are heaven made
And maybe think the same for teachers
We're all very caring creatures
We care about how kids are raised
We don't need to be constantly appraised
Default 100%?!?
Like energy is heaven sent
Like when your kids are down with flu
You just man up, there's work to do
When you've got a quality person who just needs backing
Why give pressure and then threaten with sacking?

How can you raise kids that are in good health when you don't see the lies that you're selling to yourself?

School - this week mark all your books
I need them up to date so I can look

Teacher - I've got to take my daughter swimming
I've got to see my son try winning

School - read through your teaching standards mate
And leave your children at the gate

End of the week the books are done
But head and deputies are overrun
"We'll have to put these books aside
To push our children down the slide"

And good for them. They work really hard. It's not a job to take lightly and they deserve to be there. But they don't have the time to step back and think "big picture"

Let's flip it round and just imagine

Teacher - I'm sorry, I'm afraid I'm ill
School - you can't be ill the learners will fail
Teacher - I need some patience, I need some time
School - the kids need work which is sublime
Don't they deserve that? Don't you think?
Do you really want your learners to sink?

And there it is. The teacher guilt.
Because that's the way that we've been built
We care too much
We try too much
We give too much
We work too much
And we lose too much
We get ideas above our station
About how this job is a vocation
When we stop and look around
The evidence just can't be found
Someone tells me what to teach
Someone tells me how to teach it
Someone tells me how to plan
Someone tells me when to plan it
Someone tells me how to mark
Someone tells me when to mark it
We work to targets, get appraised
Residuals to get profiles raised
It's industry. I rest my case.

How can you raise kids that are in good health when you don't see the lies that you're selling to yourself?

Or, put it another way.

I just think that teaching has lost all its common sense. And it's kindness. It behaves like an industry which is about getting results and meeting targets. There's nothing that measures people's happiness or how deeply moved or affected someone is by what they've learned. It just checks that they learned it. And we are given this guilt trip. That it's about children and that we are affecting their lives if we don't meet targets. We give up more and more because "teaching is a vocation"  "it's about kids", and yet schools use cover supervisors, cut subjects, limit choices etc to save money and get results. So the profession behaves like an industry but the teachers have to give their lives to it like its a vocation. It's not a vocation. At all. It's a job.

How can you raise kids that are in good health when you don't see the lies that you're selling to yourself?
Rabbit Sep 2018
**** the Police
Coming straight out the underground
Young brother got it bad
Cuz I look Mexican and I'm brown

Can't forget to do diarrhea
on the sheriff deputies
Cuz you wear a uniform and a badge
think you deserve respect like a G

Biggest violaters of civil rights
in the ******* land
take advantage of everybody
cuz you think we're stupid and you can

Where are you going? What's your name? Are you on Probation?
California is not a stop and identify state
How about I cuff your ***
Take you to an alley and let out all my frustration

Am I under arrest?
Or am I free to go is what I ask
Boo bop & slit your throat
come up from behind with a ******* Chucky mask

I'm the worst ******* nightmare
there ever has been
A conscious, Chicano, 5 percenter
Moorish American free national citizen

How about next time you **** one of us
We hunt you down, home invade your family
and launch you all of a cliff in a bus.

Quick to leave a pig bleeding left for dead in a ***** ditch
***** sewed to your mouth, you wanna be me punk *** *****.

Or we'll cut your head off
and stick it to a thousand foot pole
start the vampire nation, count Vlad's idea yea I stole.

14th amendment, 85 percenter
corporate security guard
driving a big *** truck with your undersized *****
and you think your all hard, you ******* ******.

You're obvious and pathetic
I got no time to play
We don't die we multiply and the movement is here to stay.

Get off me stupid I ain't signing no autographs
Che Guevara reincarnated now who has the last laugh?
wandabitch Nov 2012
as a dreamer, in a particle splits the path of thought,
like mud under my fingernails and crystal shells.
Arkansas is driving me insane
come one come all she's the
fare-st if you fall.

neck burned as a fingerprint, itches sore in trash days,
conspiracies and deputies
looking still more strange.

can determined minds build a staircase of reason?
up to a future, teasing
me out in the open
with your temper words.
Phil Lindsey Apr 2015
The new built church was filling up
For its very first Christmas Eve.

It was finished in October
On a piece of vacant land, and
Reverend James had joined the greeters,
At its entrance shaking hands.

From seeming out of nowhere
A stranger just appeared
He was hunched a bit, and limping
With a longer gray-white beard.
His suit was black and dusty,
Like it hadn’t been used in years,
And his eyes were red and misty
Like he’d been shedding countless tears.

The Reverend grabbed his hand and said,
“Welcome!  Welcome, come right in!!
You’re a stranger to these parts I guess,
But we’re mighty glad you came.
And if it’s all the same to you,
We’d like to know your name.”

“Name’s Everett.  Everett Kent,” he said.
“Been alookin’ for this church.
Knowed some day you’d build it here.
Now I can end my search.”

The stranger loosed the Reverend’s grip,
Limped in and settled down,
At the far left end of the far back pew;
Where no one was around.

He sat through prayers and sermon,
Through a couple hymns as well
And when they got to ‘Silent Night’
He appeared to know it well.  
Silently, he closed his eyes,
The words were his release
“Round yon ******, Mother and Child,”
“Sleep in Heavenly Peace.”
“Sleep in Heavenly Peace.”

As the song went to the second verse,
The bearded stranger, dressed in black
Vanished into silent night,
Not once looking back.

The next day - Christmas Morning,
The ushers found a curious thing
A parchment in the offering plate
******* with a string.
When they untied the string they found
Much to their surprise,
A stack of Hundred Dollar bills
Of a slightly larger size.
They were from a different era,
Was this some kind of a joke?
A heartless cruel trick to play
At the expense of righteous folk.

On the inside of the parchment
In an antique writing style
Was a poem, (or a riddle?)
Now they couldn’t help but smile.

“One Thousand for the Father,
Two Thousand for His Son.
Three Thousand for the men who followed on the run.
Four Thousand for Mother Mary, who must have suffered most,
Five Thousand in remembrance of the wandering Holy Ghost.
That leaves nothing for the Devil
Though he’d like to claim it all.
May it help to pay the mortgage
On the church you built this fall.
Fifteen thousand dollars here,
Count it if you want –
I’ve had it for safe-keepin’
‘Twas much safer than a vault.”


The Reverend and the Deacons counted 15 Grand
The Reverend and the Deacons, together made a plan
Early the next morning of the very next business day,
They found a numismatist
To see what he would say.

He said,
“As currency it’s worthless
But a collector will pay well
These notes are rare and valuable
As far as I can tell.
You’ll get thirty / forty times the face
Look at the condition that they’re in!!
Where the Hell did they come from?”
And, where the Hell have they been?”

Reverend James contradicted
Remembering Everett Kent,
“Sir, it wasn’t Hell they’ve come from.
These notes were Heaven sent.
A stranger came on Christmas Eve
And left them on the pew.
All we did was count them,
And bring them straight to you.”

On the way home, Reverend James perplexed
Reviewed the strange events
Prayed that God would grant him wisdom
So he’d know what to do next
Surely the stranger didn’t know
The value of the notes
He mentioned only Fifteen Thousand
In the poem that he wrote.

A lawyer was a member
Of the Richland Christian Church
So Reverend James implored him
To do a legal search
He vowed to find the stranger Kent
To make known the real worth,
And inform him of the value
Of the bills he left at church.

Three days later, four o’clock
The Reverend heard a frantic knock
“I’ve found something that’ll interest you,
From 23 December, Eighteen Seven Two.


Richland Herald, December 31, 1872
The First National Bank of Richland was robbed last week, on December 23rd, by a man who, holding the tellers at bay with a pistol, demanded that they surrender all the money in the vault, without protest so that none would be harmed.  The thief escaped on horseback, though the Sheriff’s department was duly informed, and the Sheriff and two newly appointed deputies immediately gave chase.

On or about 4 pm the following day, a man matching the thief’s description was said to have been seen at the stage stop, run by Everett Kent, and his wife Mary, two fine people known about these parts for their hospitality and generosity.  As a testament to this fact, an itinerant preacher (known only as Reverend Jim) had been staying at the house for some time and conducting meetings at the stop whenever possible.  It should be mentioned as well that the Kent’s have a young son David, who, taking a liking to the eloquent Reverend Jim, had decided to also preach the Gospel and had taken the his first steps in that Almighty Direction.

As the posse surrounded the house, the thief, perhaps knowing that he could not escape, endeavored to bargain his way out of the situation by taking hostages and thereby securing his own safety.  Everett Kent, pleading for some shred of decency from the villain, asked that his wife and child and Reverend Jim be released, and that he, alone would serve in that capacity.  The thief relented (maybe the only time in his villainous life that he concluded a decent act.)  Mary and David ran from the building and were quickly placed out of harm’s way by the sheriff and his men.

What happened next will never be known to any but those in the building and the Lord God Himself.  What is known, is that yelling and commotion came from the house, and three shots were fired.  Perhaps upon being released, instead of removing himself to safety, Reverend Jim, attacked the villain and a scuffle ensued.  In the process, a kerosene lamp was broken, and the building caught fire.  Although Mary implored the sheriff to rescue her husband who had been tied to a chair, the Sheriff exercising judgment, if not valor, determined that it was already too late.

The thief (identity forever unknown), the valiant Reverend Jim and the pious and unfortunate Everett Kent all perished in the fire.  When the house had burned to the ground and the bodies could be examined, it was determined that the thief was shot through the heart and Reverend Jim also had received a mortal wound.  Everett Kent, though tied to a chair, had somehow procured a bullet wound to his right leg.

The spoils of the robbery, according to the First National Bank, $15,000 in uncirculated $100 bank notes, were never found, and presumed burned to ashes in the fire.


Reverend James felt faint
His knees and legs were weak
He sat down at his desk, and
Heard the lawyer speak.

Reverend James, there’s something more
That you have a right to know.
The stage stop never was rebuilt.
The widow moved away
And raised her son in another town
Very far away.

The son became a preacher
And later changed his name
In honor of the Reverend Jim,
Called himself David James.

You are David’s GG Grandson
You descend from Everett too.
The land where you just built the church?
Left so long ago to you?
Was once the home of Everett Kent
I found that in my search.
The widow left it to her son
And he thus passed it down.
And now you’ve built your brand new church
On that very ground.

You’ll never find the stranger
The notes are yours to spend
And the Christmas Eve Tale of Everett Kent
Has finally reached its end.

“One Thousand for the Father,
Two Thousand for His Son.
Three Thousand for the men who followed on the run.
Four Thousand for Mother Mary, who must have suffered most,
Five Thousand in remembrance of the wandering Holy Ghost.
That leaves nothing for the Devil
Though he’d like to claim it all.
May it help to pay the mortgage
On the church you built this fall.
Fifteen thousand dollars here,
Count it if you want –
I’ve had it for safe-keepin’
‘Twas much safer than a vault.”

Reverend David James III,  recounted to Philip W. Lindsey on 4/13/2015
1252

Like Brooms of Steel
The Snow and Wind
Had swept the Winter Street—
The House was hooked
The Sun sent out
Faint Deputies of Heat—
Where rode the Bird
The Silence tied
His ample—plodding Steed
The Apple in the Cellar snug
Was all the one that played.
Lawrence Hall Aug 2023
Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

          One Judge, Two Sheriff’s Deputies, and Five Police Officers
                                 Take on a 98-Year-Old Woman

                                         “Try that in a small town”

The 11th of August was neither the beginning nor the end
Of sheltering the Constitution from thugs
Some in judicial robes, some in dark uniforms
When Joan Meyer stood
                    between them and us

A newsroom pillaged by judicial fiat
Private homes looted by armed bully-boys
Ordered by a heartless magistrate
When Joan Meyer stood
                    between them and us

When Joan Meyer died
                    between them and us

Raid on Kansas newspaper is an intolerable overreach by police | Editorial (yahoo.com)
Raid on Kansas newspaper is an intolerable overreach by police | Editorial (yahoo.com)
Chuck Mar 2013
I am not an outlaw, but I'm a gambler.
Loaded my ole Colt, then closed my Henry's bolt.
I'll rescue Sally and roam as a rambler.
First, I'll shoot the sheriff and rob his bank volt.
Ride into town, guns blazin', deputies die!
Blow the safe, grab the girl, get shot in the thigh.
Sally starts shootin', kills the corrupt sheriff.
Posse's chasin', a cowboy's love life if rough.
BILLYtheKidster Jul 2010
"Quien es? Quien es?" Billy called out into the dark.
He then heard the sound of thunder and glimpsed briefly a faint spark.
A powerful force struck him and spun him around.
He then found himself face down on the floor.
There was extreme pain within his chest as he struggled gasping his final breath
and then BILLY the Kid was no more.
Pat Garrett would gain power, money and fame for the killing of BILLY the Kid.
He shot an unarmed young man in the dark without warning.
That's all Sheriff Pat Garrett did.
Garrett ran out of the room nearly tripping himself over the bed.
If it was The Kid and he missed he knew he'd be dead.
As he fled out the door into his deputy he ran.
"I just shot The Kid! I just shot The Kid!" he exclaimed again and again.
"That wasn't The Kid," said his deputy man. "Garrett, you've gone and shot the wrong man."
Jesus Silva and Deluvina were the first to arrive at the scene
to inquire as to what all of the noise and comotion had been.
"I just shot The Kid," is what Garrett said.
"Could one of you go back into the room to check to see if he's dead?"
"Go to hell Garrett," is what Jesus Silva said.
"You went and shot him. You check to see if he's dead."
Deluvina however immediatly went into the room to see what she could never un see.
She slowly approached the lifeless form on the floor.
She knealt down, turned him over and gasped in horror at who she saw.
"Is he dead?" Garrett asked. "Is it The Kid?" he asked again.
Deluvina rose to her feet and lounged out at him.
She violently pounded her fists on Garrett's chest
as she screamed the vilest curses she could bestow upon his head.
She wanted to scratch his eyes out of his skull.
She wanted him suffering. She wanted him dead.
Garrett's deputies and her friends tried to pull her away from him
but even with their combined strength it was a task difficult to employ.
Interspersed between her tears, Deluvina Maxwell cried out to all who could hear,
"They've killed my little boy!"
Billy's body was then carried to the carpenter shop
and carefully laid down on top of a table.
Lit candles were placed surrounding The Kid.
The village then held an all night long candle lit vigil.
Women and children, the old and the poor,
even manly men were seen openly weeping,
as they all walked by giving their final good bye
to their fallen young friend now eternally sleeping.
"Duerme bien, Querido" or "Sleep Well, Beloved" are the words that were engraved
on a small wooden cross that Deluvina Maxwell placed at Billy's grave.
This would be the first of many visits she would pay to The Kid.
She would visit him well into her senior years.
Many times she would be seen kneeling down at his grave
with her hand on her heart and often in tears.
Perhaps it's just me but none of this appears to be
the treatment of a feared and hated outlaw.
The feelings expressed by those who knew him best
were feelings of mourning, of loss and much more.
A wanton killer? An unconscionable human being?
BILLY the Kid was none of the above.
All who were his friend displayed it on the night his life did end.
Billy Was Someone Who Was Very Much Loved.
And so, close to midnight, on July 14th in the year of 1881,
William H Bonney was shot and killed, compliments of Pat Garrett's gun.
Pete Maxwell's house is where BILLY the Kid became Billy the deceased.
Billy, may your reckless and restless spirit finally
Rest In Peace.
Wk kortas Aug 2017
I do not know that man, but he looks like an enemy of the people.
Not the strangest of strange assertions
I had ever heard uttered in these sessions,
And normally I may not have even looked up
To identify the speaker,
But as the voice belonged to a woman,
I chanced to raise eyes upward
Just in time to see an arm fully extended,
An accusing finger pointed at myself.
Understand, I had seen more than one of my peers
Dragged from these chambers
Without regard for decorum or ceremony,
And, in a state which was at least close kin to panic,
I saw visions of myself whisked away to a fetid Butyrka cell
Or thrown, bound and gagged, onto some Siberia-bound cattle car
When I heard a voice something like my own spit out
I do not know that woman, but she looks like a ******* to me.
My accuser blanched and sat down
To a chorus of catcalls and derisive whistling,
And one or two deputies in possession
Of sufficient power or powerful friends
Actually waved handfuls of rubles in her direction.
It may not have been grace under pressure,
But there are situations where chivalry
Is more indulgent than admirable.
heaven Oct 2014
ابن أبي داود السجستاني - حائية

تمسك بحبلِ الله وأتبعِ الهُدى ، ولا تكُ بدعيا لعلك تُفلحُ
Hold tightly to the rope of Allaah and the guidance,
And do not be an innovator, so that you might be successful.

ودنْ بكتابِ الله والسننِ التي ، أتت عنْ رسول الله تنجو وتربحُ
And practice your religion based on the Book of Allaah and the Sunan which
have come from the Messenger of Allaah so you will be saved and earn reward.

وقل غيرُ مخلوقٍ كلام مليكنا ، بذلك دان الـأتقياء , وأفصحوا
And say: Not a created thing is the Speech of our great King,
Such was the religious position of the pious ones (before us) who spoke well.

ولا تكُ في القرآن بالوقف قائلاً ، كما قال أتْباعٌ لجمٍ وأسححُوا
And do not be a person who takes no position on the Quran,
As did the followers of Jahm, and they had been too lax (to take the right position).

ولا تقل القرآن حلْقٌ قرأْتُهُ ، فإن كلام اللهِ باللفظ يُوضحُ
And do not say that the Quran is created, meaning: its recitation,
Since the Speech of Allaah, through its recitation, is made clear.

وقل يتجلى الله للخلقِ جهرةً ، كما البدر لا يخفى وربك أوضحُ
And say: Allaah will make himself visible to all the creation, openly,
Just as the full moon is not hard to see, and your Lord (will be seen) more clearly.


وليس بمولدٍ وليس بوالدٍ ، وليس له شِبْهٌ تعالى المُسبحُ
And He was not born, nor has He fathered anyone,
Nor is there anything similar to Him, exalted be the Glorified One.

وقد يُنكِر الجهمي هذا عندنا ، بمصداقِ ما قلنا حديثٌ مصرحُ
A Jahmee rejects this, however, we have
As a testimony to the truth of what we say – a hadeeth that clarifies it.

رواه جريرٌ عم مقالِ مُحمدٍ ، فقلُ مِثل ما قد قال ذاك تنْجحُ
Jareer narrated it, from the words of Muhammad,
So say what he said about that, and you will be successful.

وقد ينكرُ الجهمي أيضاً يمينهُ ، وكِلتا يديه بالفواضلِ تنْفحُ
And perhaps a Jahmee might deny His Right Hand as well,
While both of His Hands are giving out all kinds of bounties.

وقل ينزلُ الجبارُ في كلِّ ليلةٍ ، بر كيفَ جلَّ الواحدُ المُتمَدحُ
And say: The Ever-Compelling descends each night,
Without asking for exact details, magnificent is the One God and most worthy of praise.

إلى طبقِ الدنيا يمُنُّ بفضلهِ ، فتفرجُ أبواب السماءِ وتُفتحُ
Down to the lowest heaven, granting bounties from His Grace,
As the gates of the heavens are opened and spread widely.

يقولُ أَلا مُستغفرٌ يَلقَ غافراً ، ومُستمنحٌ خيراً ورِزْقاً فُمنحُ
He says: Is there anyone seeking forgiveness who would like to meet a Forgiver?
Or anyone seeking bounties of goodness and provisions, so he could be given (what he requests)?

روى ذاك قومٌ لا يردُّ حديثُهم ، ألا خابَ قومٌ كذبوهم وقُبِّحوا
A group have reported this whose reports are not to be rejected,
But sadly some have went wrong and did not believe them, marring themselves.

وقل: إنَّ خير النَّاسِ بعد محمَّدٍ ، وزيراهُ قدَماً ثم عثمانُ الارجَحُ
And say: Indeed the best of the people after Muhammad
Were his two deputies of old, and then ‘Uthmaan, according to the most correct position.

ورابعهُمْ خيرُ البريَّة بعدهُم ، عليٌّ حليفُ الخيرِ بالخيرِ مُنْجِحُ
And the fourth of them was the best of creation after them,
‘Alee, the companion of goodness, through goodness he was successful.

وإنَّهم للرَّهطُ لا ريبَ فيهمُ ، على نُجبِ الفردوسِ بالنُّور تَسرحُ
Those are the people, those who we have no doubt about,
Upon the great camels of Firdows, shining brightly and roaming about.

سعيدٌ وسعدٌ وابن عوفٍ وطلحةُ ، وعامرُ فهرٍ والزبيرُ الممدَّح
Sa’eed, Sa’d, Ibn ‘Awf, Talhah,
‘Aamir of Fihr, and Zubayr the praiseworthy.

وقل خيرض قولٍ في الصحابة كلِّهم ، ولا تك طعَّاناً تعيبُ وتجرحُ
And speak with the best terms about the Companions, all of them,
And do not be one who speaks ill of them, pointing out their faults and criticizing,

فقد نطقَ الوحيُ المبينث بفضلِهم ، وفي الفتح آيٌ للصَّحابةِ تمدحُ
Since the clear Revelation has spoke of their excellence,
And in (Soorah) al-Fat-h are verses about the Companions, praising them.

وبالقدرِ المقدورِ أيقِن فإنَّه ، دعامةُ عقدِ الدِّين ، والدِّينُ أفيحُ
And regarding the pre-ordained Qadr, be convinced, since it is
The pillar that combines many affairs of the Religion, and the Religion encompasses much.

ولا تُنكِرَنْ جهلاً نكيراً ومُنكراً ، ولا الحوْضَ والِميزانَ انك تُنصحُ
And do not reject, out of ignorance, (belief in) Nakeer and Munkar,
Or the Pool or the Scales, surely you are being advised sincerely.

وقُلْ يُخرجُ اللهُ الْعظيمُ بِفَضلِهِ ، مِنَ النارِ أجْساداً مِنَ الفَحْمِ تُطرحُ
And say: Allaah, the Great, will remove, from of His Grace,
Out of the Fire, people, burned severely, who will then be tossed.

عَلى النهرِ في الفِرْدوسِ تَحْيَا بِمَائِهِ ، كَحِبِّ حَمِيلِ السَّيْلِ إذْ جَاءَ يَطْفَحُ
Into the river in Firdows, wherein they will regain life by its water,
Like a seed taken by a flood that comes and wipes things away with its abundant water.

وإن رَسُولَ اللهِ للخَلْقِ شَافِعٌ ، وقُلْ في عَذابِ القَبْرِ حَقّ موَُضحُ
And surely, the Messenger of Allaah will intercede,
And speak about the punishment of the grave, that it is the truth, made clear.

ولاَ تُكْفِرنْ أَهلَ الصلاةِ وإِنْ عَصَوْا ، فَكُلهُمُ يَعْصِي وذُو العَرشِ يَصفَحُ
And do not make takfeer of those who pray, even if they commit sins,
Since all of them commits sins, while the Owner of the Throne forgives graciously.

ولَا تَعتقِدْ رأيَ الْخَوَارجِ إِنهُ ، مقَالٌ لَمنْ يَهواهُ يُردي ويَفْضَحُ
And do not hold a belief like that of the Khawaarij, for it is
A position held by only those who desire it, and it is destructive and disgraceful.

ولا تكُ مُرْجيًّا لَعُوبا بدينهِ ، ألاَ إِنمَا المُرْجِي بِالدينِ يَمْزحُ
And do not be a Murji’, one who plays games with his religion,
Surely, the Murji’ is joking about the religion (ie. not taking it seriously).

وقلْ : إنمَا الإِيمانُ : قولٌ ونِيةٌ ، وفعلٌ عَلَى قولِ النبِي مُصَرحُ
And say: Eemaan (faith) consists of statements, intentions,
And Actions, according to the explicit statement of the Prophet.

ويَنْقُصُ طوراً بالمَعَاصِي وتَارةً ، بِطَاعَتِهِ يَمْنَي وفي الوَزْنِ يَرْجَحُ
And it decreases sometimes, due to disobedience, and sometimes
Because of obedience it grows, and on the Scale it will outweigh (other things).

ودعْ عَنْكَ آراءَ الرجالِ وقَوْلَهُمْ ، فقولُ رسولِ اللهِ أزكَى وأَشْرحُ
And keep yourself from the opinions of people and their stances,
Since the stance of the Messenger of Allaah is more befitting and easier on one’s chest.

ولا تَكُ مِن قوْمٍ تلهوْا بدينِهِمْ ، فَتَطْعَنَ في أهلِ الحَديثِ وتقدحُ
And do not be from those who play games with their religion,
Attacking the people of hadeeth and reviling them.

إِذَا مَا اعْتقدْت الدهْرَ يا صَاحِ هذهِ ، فأَنْت عَلَى خَيْرٍ تبيتُ وتُصْبِحُ
If you keep this belief all your life, O holder of this (poem),
You will be upon goodness, day and night.
Al-haa iyyah
by Ibn Abi Dawud Assijistanee
John Stevens Aug 2014
April 24 2010 there was a Boy Scout display in the parking lot North of Mickey Ds and by the Imagination Station. Tony was fascinated by many of the displays. The Sheriff’s Office was well represented with several displays. Tony got to climb up on the rescue boat, the one we see going by our house frequently in the summer to fish someone out of the river. The two Sheriff’s Office Deputies in charge of the boat were really good with the kids. About 15 minutes later Tony bent over the bow of the boat, I was on the good ole solid ground, and said to me, “These guys are really COOL grandpa.” I said, “yup, they are.” and looked over at one of guys. I ask, “Did you hear that?” With a big grin he said, “I sure did.” He had a big grin on his face for a while. Tony debarked and headed to new territory. I have to have speedy shoes on to keep up some days. I wish I could find a pair of those.

Later we were at a different car on display. The people there were young intern or trainee types wearing the Sheriff’’s Office shirt and hardware. Tony had bailed out of the armored car where he had been playing for 20 minutes and was standing next to me watching the young group yucking it up. They were loud and horsing around some… with out the horse. All of a sudden he got a scowl on his face and said in a rather loud voice, “Grandpa, those are NOT real cops. Why are they wearing uniforms? They should not do that.” Well that was hard to explain and I was hoping “they” did not hear what he said. We left rapidly.

I guess he thought they were not acting the way officers should act. At least not like the COOL guys at the boat. I suppose that comes from trying to instill respect in the uniform of peace officers. The lesson is one each of us needs to remember. If we say we are (fill in the blank) then we had better act the part or we can lead an impressionable young mind astray. So lets be COOL.

That’s my story and I am sticking to it.
This has been hanging around in limbo for years so here it is.
Graff1980 Nov 2017
American Nightmares
Prologue
The pale moon hangs, glowing in the blank sky, shining just enough light for the thick foliage and densely pack trees to be seen. Evening sounds silenced by the sloshing of rushing feet racing through the woods.  In the distance a beagle howls in frustration. Sniffing and wheezing as he tries to pick up a lost trail.
Deeper in the woods a lone figure races at a maddening pace, bumping into trees, scratching his flesh against their harsh bark; causing bleeding. The young man’s eyes water up from a mixture of sweat, pain, and fatigue. Fear permeates his entire being
A thin orange suit clings lazily to his sweaty bronze skin, almost mocking his emaciated frame, which is actually a couple sizes too small for the jumpsuit. The dark figure has been running for days. Hot on his heels, his pursuers persisted. He knows being caught would mean a far worse fate than what he escaped.
Another mile and his legs began to leaden. Each step becoming heavier than the last. The sharp sting of lactic acid burning his side. Breath becoming spasmodic. Eyes bulging, still he maintains a frantic pace.
Running full force until his left foot catches the edge of a dark brown rotten root rising from the earth. A cloud of dirt explodes from ground immersing him in a brown mist. Spittle and blood spew from the runner’s mouth as he coughs violently. His breath rushing away even as he tries to calm himself.
Crawling from the dirt he searches for some sort of purchase, finding none he rests his weary frame against the nearest oak. Then the waterworks really hit. The sound of moans escaped his busted and parched lips.
“I will make it home.” He repeats over and over, like a mantra.
His fingers feel the frame of the tree he is resting against. Hands begin falling and rising for some strange reason, until they settle at the base. There just inches away from his digits sits a patch of mushrooms. The forgotten pain of hunger returns, so without examining the fungus he plucks them up and swallows them whole. Then half crawling half stumbling he moves to the stream which lay a few yards from the tree.
Cupping his hands he fills his palm with water; then slurps it up, repeating the process again and again till he has drunk his fill. Next he splashes the cool liquid on his face, hair, pits, chest, and other portions of his body massaging the blood and dirt from his aching skin till he manages to cleanse the wounds all over his person. Closing his eyes, he finally succumbs to the exhaustion that has been ******* him.
A bulge of earth begins to rise pushing his limp frame away from the stream and pulls him back to the tree. Then branches and leaves coalesce around his body till he is safely hidden from plain sight.
He awakens; eyes dilated, and body shivering. While brushing away the brush he turns to the tree, stands up shakily, and then wipes away the rest of the leaves and dirt, not noticing the slowly growing dark spot on his orange jumpsuit.
Tears streaming he softly whispers “Hello tree my name is John.”






















Chapter 1

Tree, sweet Tree, I beg of you tell me. Why does America hate me? I did everything I was told to do. I went to school. I stayed away from white women, never made eye contact with white men, became a teacher, and took care of my people.
What the hell was all that for? I am going to end up another dead black man in the backwoods of some southern hick state! I got these stupid leg irons weighing me down, and hells hounds are riding my trail.
Stupid ******* animals!
Filthy ******* *******!
What is the ******* point? Huh?
My dad was a good man too. He followed the unwritten rules of the white man. Never stole anything or hurt anyone, mostly. Do you know what they did to him Tree? Well do you?
They tied him to a post, sliced chunks of flesh from his hard muscular frame while burning him alive. They burnt him alive, Tree.
My father was a strong and righteous man, a man who loved his wife and child. My mother, who was barely half his weight and a good foot shorter, she had the palest skin of any black woman I have ever met. Her hair was the perfect shade of earth with eyes a couple tints darker. Her nose was tiny and lips thin as any white woman’s. I’d imagine she was as white as any ***** could get. She had a voice that soothed my darkest pains and fears. At night when I went to bed she would sing to me.
Oh my darling
Brown skin angel
Don’t be frightened
I’ll be right here
Hold you tight and
Watch you sleep
Guard you tonight
While you sleep
Oh my darling
I’ll be here
To keep your heart
Safe my sweet dear
Everything will be alright

I remember when I came home that day. I saw my dad clutching the tiny limp frame of my mother, sobbing furiously. Her body looked paler than usual. I had never seen tears fall from my father’s face. I don’t think he even saw me come in. I just stood in the doorway. I stood there and waited for him to say something. I wanted to cry but I was so scared that I just held my breath instead.
Our neighbor came and took me to their house. Back then I did not know what had happened. It took me over seven years to find out what happened to my mother. Do you know what happened Tree?
A handful of white men came to our house and ***** my mother.
Sometimes in my nightmares, that horrible scene plays out. I hear the sound of rapping at our door; the yells of angry men echoing through the house. I see the wooden door bulge as it begins to crack under their onslaught. Then I watch as men with no faces explode into our house, sweeping my mother off her feet, ripping the clothes off her body as she scream in horror, I would wake up in a state of horror and sorrow, weeping.
I am haunted even now. I cannot begin to imagine the pain my father felt, but I do know what happened next, because I snuck out of our neighbor’s house to comfort my father. I watched as he left our home with rage and violence in his heart. In one hand he held a knife; it seemed to be a foot long, half handle half cold hard sharpened steel; in the other hand he carried a gun. I followed him from a safe distances, heard him scream for the men that had attacked my mother.
When the sheriff came to calm him down, dad was startled and turned around accidently cutting Mr. Brinkley with the blade. The sheriff and his deputies arrested my father. I was certain that everything would be okay. The sheriff was a decent man. I heard him talking calmly to my father. He told my dad that he understood what was going on.
That night white men came for my father. They hollered for justice, screaming “bring out that ******* ******.”
The sheriff tried to reason with the mob. He told them “This is between me and my prisoner.”
He tried to stop the mob with force, but there were at least fifty men. Probably more if you counted the people that kept joining up with the mob. The mob broke down the prison door, took my father from his small stone cell, all the while taunting him.  “You’re gonna fry ******.” From a distance and hidden in shadows I watched.
I saw an old lady spit on him. I watched as children raced around my father, dancing in and out of the procession, and tossed stones, from the side of the road, at my father. The mob drug him down to the town square. Tied him up, and lit a fire beneath him. The whole time my father’s head was hung in defeat. I swear he knew what was coming. It seemed that In the face of that onslaught all emotion had faded from his face. I guess he didn’t want to give them the pleasure of seeing him squirm.
As the flames started to consume his flesh, I saw the sheriff go for his gun. He raised his pistol and aimed for my father’s head, but the men in the mob wrestled the gun from his hand. Meanwhile my father had given into the horror and pain. He began to howl like an animal as the flames danced across his flesh crackling and pooping. He screamed for some sort of mercy, crying out for someone to shoot him.
I raced from the shadows, stealing a gun from some old white man. Then I shot my father in the head. Most of the men in the mob looked on dumbstruck. That gave me enough time to get away so I hightailed it out of there. I never went back for anything. I spent the rest of that night in the woods praying that what I had done was the right thing.
In the weeks and months to come I slept very little. When I did manage to fall asleep my dreams would cycle from the flaming horrors of my father’s death to the ****** of my mother.
Still, I managed to make something out of myself despite those sick atrocities. By working hard I finished school and became a teacher. A couple years after I started teaching I was arrested. They took me to jail; brought me up on some ******* charges. Part of me was certain I would end up being lynched, so when I was sentenced to a chain gang, man I was relieved.
Had I known what was gonna happen I would have preferred being lynched, at least then I would have been dead. Instead they worked me **** near to death, starving, and beating me like a slave. My brown skin has brought me nothing but grief. So tell me Tree, why does America hate me?











Interlude

“Tell me tree, why does America hate me?” John sputters.
A soft breeze caresses his skin.
“Why the hell am I talking to a tree?” He cries. “What is the point?”
The blood stain on John’s clothes still expanding, and his shivers become far worse.
“Tell me tree, what is the ******* point? America hates Negroes. I’m going to die out here. Say something.”
The air swirls around him, and a soft voice fills his head.
“Do you think you are alone in your suffering? Know now that you are not. My children suffer horrors too.  Listen carefully and I will tell you.
John turns to find the source; finding nothing he collapses, listening straining to hear the voice again.















Chapter 2

Dear John I am the spirit of the winds, mother to the natives. Do you think that yours is the only tongue to taste the bitter fruit of America’s wrath? My child let me tell you of the first people of America. Listen to the tragic tale of my children. Before the Europeans came many tribes roamed this land. They were human and as such had flaws of their own, but in many ways they were poetry in the form of flesh.
The men would hunt during the day. Anything they caught was considered a sacred gift. They would use all that they could from the body of the beast. They treated my mother’s brown dirt earth, flesh as sacred, and I loved them for that. Women held equal value and had equal say in their tribes. There were wars, of course, but mostly my children strived to live in harmony with the land.
Then white men came. My children welcomed them with open arms, helped them survive, and do you know how they were repaid that kindness? Once received and no longer needed, it was returned with treachery and violence. Bit by bit they pushed my children back. Pushing them off one parcel of land and then another, slaughtering tribes after tribe. Still my children survived.  When the white men could not **** all of my progeny, they came for the children. Some parents wept, some fought back, and some merely accepted it as inevitable.
I watched it all. I saw the men on horseback come for the children. The songs of lament tortured my heart. The tears of the children ripped at my very soul. I lashed out at the white men with all of nature’s fury, biting their flesh with my fierce and frosty winds. I sent the fiercest wind I had at my disposal. However, the children were still taken.
The children were dragged to schools far from their homes. They would cry out in their native tongues. I remember my sweet Rose. Yes, Rose was her name, John. She was as strong as the oak tree. Passion coursed through her veins faster and harder than the river’s water. She was born so tiny that the elder of the village was certain she would not make it. Yet, when she broke free of the womb coughing and sputtering, she cried with such a powerful voice that even I was taken aback. This tender babe had my attention. I swore I would watch over her.
The first seven summers of her life were spent in the loving care of her tribe. Her black hair grew almost down to her feet. Her eyes were brown, brimming with the unknown depth of her soul. She was unafraid, the pride of her father and joy of her mother, a creature to be cherished.
One fall morning as the orange sun was slowly ascending the soldiers came. Little Rose was wrenched her from her parents’ arms. Her father’s rage was stopped by a bullet that bled him dry. No one else would fight for this child, so I beat against the soldiers back. I struggled to wrench her from their arms and return her to her mother’s safe embrace.
The soldiers did not even recognize my fury. With that failure I watched Rose’s mother fell into despair. Her prayers of peace and love soon turned to prayers for vengeance and the return of her child. Many nights we wept together mourning the loss of father and daughter.
Rose’s mother could not join her child, so I tried to watch out for her. I followed the soldier to a tall white washed building that had been liberated from the southerners during the previous war. I heard the headmaster say “in order to save the child, we must **** the savage within.”
Day and night I raged against the solid white structure, slamming shutters and doors, pounding the roofs with torrential fury. Only stopping when I realized that the children were shuddering in fear of me.
At night Rose would sing the songs of her people. During the day she would stare in defiance as the teachers tried to make her speak the English tongue. She refused to yield, so they responded to her spirit with violence. The taste of soap saturated her mouth while the stinging welts marred her backside. Still my Rose remained strong. I was filled with pride. I had seen older children fall into silence and subservience.
Rose was a cut about the rest. Still, one can only fight for so long before the fire begins to wane. Each day some of her resilience would fade. I could not enter the building to comfort her, but when she was outside I would wrap her in my windy arms, cradling her spirit against mine. I would carry the whispered words of love her mother sent, and return Rose’s love to her mother. Had I known what was going on in that building maybe I could have blown harder, maybe I could have pelted the nuns and the preacher with sharp stones and hardwood.
As the glimmer of light faded even faster, I started catching the whispers of my children. Their dead bodies began to scar the sacred earth. One after another fell, faster and faster. I watch their flames die. What kind of wind was I that could not fly them away from harm?
One day while blustering away I caught the most horrid sight. I saw a sick man lay his hands on my Rose. She shivered in disgust as he groped her bare skin. He took such sick liberties. In my rage I waited and stewed, plotting and hoping he would come outside. My anger gave me more power than I had ever known. I flung him to and fro spinning him round and round, beating him down every time he tried to rise. I hurled stones and sticks at him. When I was spent, his face was dripping with blood, his lip busted and swollen. He ran like a coward.
Rose remained trapped in that house of horrors. More children died. Day after day Rose lost more of her language. Till one day she could not remember the songs of her people. I watched her sobbing while trying to recall the words as a nun slapped her in the face.
One night under the pale glow of moonlight Rose lit herself on fire. She became a burning flame to match her once radiant spirit. As she burned she screamed out for release. I tried to put out the flames with gusts of wind and heavy rain, but I was too late. Rose fell to ashes resting on the moist earth. Gathering what I could of her remains I sent her last words and ashes home to her tribe.
That night rang with lamentation of her people. Sobs of regret filled her mother’s body. As hard as tried I could not comfort Rose’s mother. She would not be consoled. On the coldest night of that year Rose’s mother walked from her abode, slipping off her clothes, she moved in silence. Every step adding to the numbness she longed
Tryst Jun 2014
He was a brawned and ugly gun-slinger, and he came from the wild west;
He had the names of six dead Texan boys, tattoed on his chest;
His hat was 15 gallons tall, his long-coat midnight black;
He wore his holsters mighty high and he said his name was Jack.

He rode a palamino horse on the day he came to town;
Three deputies were in the street, and he shot those suckers down;
Dismounting by the sheriffs door, he hollered out a cry,
"Get yer no-good chicken *** outside, today yer gonna die."

The sheriff boldly stepped outside, a shotgun in his hand,
"You'd best be coming quiet son, or your life aint worth a ****."
Jack tipped his hat and curled his lip, he turned his head and spat,
"You shot my brother, sheriff, and yer gonna pay for that."

The sheriff paused to ponder, then he slowly shook his head,
"Your Jimmy robbed a stagecoach and he left the driver dead."
Jack grimaced at his brother's name, and his hands twitched by his side,
"You can call it how you like", he said, "But I'm gonna have yer hide."

The sheriff put the shotgun down, and they faced off in the street,
His hands were poised above his guns, he was sweating in the heat;
He waited till he saw Jack flinch, and his hands flew lightning fast,
His trusty colts were smoking as they fired their deadly blast.

For a moment they both stood stock still, then Jack fell to the ground,
His face was full of shocked surprise, but he never made a sound;
The sheriff felt a tinge of pain, and he saw his badge was bust;
As the blood came seeping from his chest, he fell into the dust.

The townsfolk still recall the day, when Jack rode into town,
And every year they say a prayer, on the day they both fell down;
They were buried up on old Boot Hill, their graves were side by side;
The sheriff renowned for killing Jack, with the man who took his hide.
Bootleggers on Sunday evening  ,  a little pink house on Kelleytown Road !  Waiting by the cattle gate , taking money  , calling back to the house via radio ! Waving customers through , one by one , driving by the shack without braking once , trunk wide open , in goes the whiskey , slammed shut , out the back gate , and off they went !  Sheriff Donald didn't seem to have a clue , alcohol sales on late Sunday afternoons ? For forty odd years this house became a legend , Councilmen , Deputies and Mayors knew of it's existence ! Cars from distant counties all over the state , flying up dirt roads leaving dust in their wake ! It was surely without doubt , the entire county convinced that the Sheriff drew a months salary on Sunday evenings !
Copyright October 10 , 2015 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
Matthew James Jun 2016
How can you raise kids that are in good health when you don't see the lies that you're selling to yourself?



I was head of Art and I got noticed

Within a year I got promoted

Faculty leader of creative skills

This is the part where it really kills

Building them up from deep rock bottom

With jealousy aimed at the job I'd gotten

A job that I had never wanted

That I only took because I cared

All of my decisions seemed to be haunted

By the ghost of a culture where they just don't care

Resting in the coffin of a lost tradition

Kids so bored they're turning white

Beaten down to bored submission

And everyone seems to have given up the fight

But they're still convinced that their way's "right"



How can you raise kids that are in good health when you don't see the lies that you're selling to yourself?



We laid foundations, a team was built

The weighing scales began to tilt

But every time you made a shift

The goal posts seemed to start to drift

And this all caused a further rift

The final one I couldn't lift



How can you raise kids that are in good health when you don't see the lies that you're selling to yourself?



Gossip and lies caused by others stress

Creates a catastrophic mess

Turns people's lives upside down

Gives off the sense that they're a clown

They're trying. They're just really down

Simply trying not to drown

Marriage ending

Friends unfriending

Children's lives are slowly bending

House and finance are up-ending

Mediation sessions need attending

Everything seems to need mending

And the pain seems to be never-ending



How can you raise kids that are in good health when you don't see the lies that you're selling to yourself?



Professional life vs Personal life

Professional strife = Personal strife

Personal wife goes through professional strife

Personal strife =



"I understand what you're going through, but we need to think about the learners."



Stress in teaching is the expectation

Work life balance has no correlation

The pressures of a confused nation

Makes teachers into the poor relation



Goodbye btec, goodbye vocation

Hello Gove and his minds creation

Goodbye Gove and hello Morgan

Hiding behind a gritty slogan

Creating the pressure of pointless change

For teachers to correct and rearrange



How can you raise kids that are in good health when you don't see the lies that you're selling to yourself?



"I need you to mark and enter all years grades

By the end of the week, I am afraid"



"I've got to take my daughter swimming

I've got to see my son try winning"



"Read through your teaching standards mate

And leave your children at the gate"



End of the week the books are done

But head and deputies are overrun

"We'll have to put these books aside

To push our children down the slide"



Let's flip it round and just imagine



"I'm sorry, I'm afraid I'm ill"

"You can't be ill the learners will fail"

"I need some patience, I need some time"

"The kids work needs to be sublime

Don't they deserve that? Don't you think?

Do you want to see your learners to sink?"



And there it is. The teacher guilt.

Because that's the way that we've been built

We care too much

We try too much

We give too much

We work too much

And we lose too much

Default 100%?!?

Like energy is heaven sent??

Like when your kids are down with flu

You just man up, there's work to do

We get ideas above our station

Of how this job is a vocation

When we stop and look around

The evidence just can't be found

Someone tells me what to teach

Someone tells me how to teach it

Someone tells me how to plan

Someone tells me when to plan it

Someone tells me how to mark

Someone tells me when to mark it

We work to targets, get appraised

Residuals to get profiles raised

It's industry. I rest my case.

How can you raise kids that are in good health when you don't see the lies that you're selling to yourself?
Christopher Jun 2018
I remember death
not by the pitting feeling of gravity
swallowing my stomach,
or the nausea that ensues
as the vertigo sets in,
or the narrowing vision preempting
liquid legs that spill
and overflow as I am drowned
by the darkness that will never cease
for them
laying forever still
at my knees.

No, I do not remember death
for how it burdens my soul.
These deaths are not mine to bear –
I merely shoulder the toll they exact
for but a few minutes,
sometimes nights, weeks, or even months.
I’ve lost count again and again and again.

They are not mine to bear.
They are not mine to bear.
They are not mine to bear.

I remember death instead by those survived
when one is extinguished,
like the amber lights that cease to spin,
the defibrillator that powers down,
the sweaty brows that unfurl and dip,
and the valiant hopes that wane.
I remember death most by those
resigned to hear the last words
I have to offer.

To the grandchildren on the phone
speeding forty minutes away too late
to share this woman’s last meal.
the charred turkey smell lingers deep
into our hungry lungs as we breathe
in and out
into her for the last time.
I’m sorry, but there is nothing more we can do.

To the son frozen while his father hollers,
rapping and tapping on the walls
just as I rap and tap on your mother’s chest
with waning form and speed.
I can only imagine who you were to her.
Her only child, her world, her life.
And yet,
I’m sorry, but we did our very best.

To the daughter singing the alphabet
while your father lay still just past that office door.
At not even six years old, you don’t whimper
when we all fall silent as your father’s heart
remains even after the shocks.
Would it be torture or mercy to lie?
I’m sorry, but your daddy is never coming home.

To the father blaming himself
for all those years he cannot take back,
trying to break past the deputies
and cut the rope suspending his son,
white in the face, blue in the toes.
I’m sorry, but the damage done is final.

To the concussed mother gripping onto life
in the trauma room next to your daughter,
broken and bruised courtesy of the drunk
driver who impaled your car,
who impaled your little girl.
We tried when we knew we’d fail.
I’m sorry, but we did everything we could.

To the wife running out of her house to find
her husband shot sixteen too many times
staining the grass she tried so hard to revive
in this never ending drought.
A mix of his brightest and darkest reds
seep down from the backboard
and into the brittle roots.
I’m sorry, but there’s absolutely nothing we can do.

It’s not death that eats away at me,
a quart of blood or a pound of flesh
for an ounce of soul.
I remember death, instead,
by the faces of those left alive.
of those left to live
with nothing
but my last words.

I’m sorry, but it’s over.
From my days working as a paramedic for Los Angeles.
Zywa Apr 2023
Always thresholds
/everywhere
To the world
/to be alive
Surviving people
/everywhere
Chance, above all
/everywhere

Angel of Farewell, get lost in love
/Pass me, pass me by
Angel of Betrayal, get lost in friendship
/Pass me, pass me by
Angel of Conceit, get lost in attention
/Pass me, pass me by
Angel of Pettiness, get lost in freedom
/Pass me, pass me by
Angel of Destructive Jealousy, get lost in generosity
/Pass me, pass me by
Angel of Impatience, get lost in order
/Pass me, pass me by
Angel of Brutality, get lost in harmony
/Pass me, pass me by

But you, won't you pass by?
/You, yes you
please seize the day with me
/come and
take and give and share
/and
eat and drink with me!

Angels of Fatigue, kiss the mighty
/Hear me, see me, help me
Angels of the Tempests, kiss the vicious
/Hear me, see me, help me
Angels of Reluctance, kiss the manipulators and tormentors
/Hear me, see me, help me
Angels of Neglect, kiss the hangers-on and profiteers
/Hear me, see me, help me
Angel of Mistakes, kiss the hypocrites and deputies
/Hear me, see me, help me
Angel of Myopia, kiss the liars and imposters
/Hear me, see me, help me
Angel of Indulgence, kiss the bitter and frustrated people
/Hear me, see me, help me

And you, won't you pass by?
/You, yes you
please seize the day with me
/come and
take and give and share
/and
eat and drink with me!
Collection "On living on [2]"
Wk kortas May 2021
The truck was crushed and dented
Almost beyond recognition
When the county boys reached the scene
(Though, as one of the deputies remarked,
Having seen the vehicle tottering around town
For virtually all his born days
Still ain’t much worse than when it started)
Apparently having slid off the Stamford Road
Then down the embankment
Where it had made an unhappy embrace
Of a utility pole near the old Ulster and Delaware tracks,
A rather unhappy ending to what had been
An arguably equally unhappy existence,
Though old Doc Benner had surmised
The junkman had probably been dead
Before the truck had made the shoulder,
Or so he had said at the graveside service
(He being one of the three or four in attendance
Feeling that one who’d been a common thread
In the existence of so many for so long
Should not go without some commemoration
In this already frayed-at-the-edged little town)
And he remarked that the old man had once told him,
When the doc noted the old saw
That one man’s trash was another’s treasure,
The main diff’rnce ‘tween trash and treasure
Is just a matter of expectation
,
And it would have been most poetic if,
After the reverend’s perfunctory hand-off to the Almighty,
The clouds had broken and a thin shaft of light
Had fallen upon the junkman’s stone,
Or perhaps a gentle rain commenced
To heal the disturbed sod,
But the skies remained a slate-gray truculence
As the sexton’s ancient pickup tottered away,
The ropes and shovels tossed higgledy-piggledy
Under an ancient and somewhat watertight old tarpaulin.
alaric7 Jan 2018
Pine embellished by Cassiopeia arched over prone morning.  Meadowlark laughed, cougars stalked shadows, crow deputies.  Bent creek carried silt of spring, sigh of cedar.  Cold mist, feathered cloak marked him of eagle and raven.  He took part night, river’s depth in bent cedar boxes along grease trails over walls called cordillera.  Distantly ships put into several bays.  Raven gave up tricking salmon people, at Rose Spit called out first, men.  Who had invented dance now demanded war.  What speech there was was lament. Undone morning weeps bloodied.   Anger-melted gold fills insatiable mouths, shames what night cannot hide.  No more hand set to house front, no more ashlar of jasper. Night casts her spears, we have not even time to die.  Flee hands which reach from river, children ghost small starving birds.  Rejoice in crow’s carrion cruelty, Owl devour those we cannot smother in our desperate escape.
                               Look up beaten, complaining, supreme.  Reconstruction begins in this torpor, a boredom purring heart cannot abolish.  Inebriated with the impossible, go past mission outpost’s Gide and a Kempis to the lineage house of men.  Hegel whispers I never did believe.  Attar extend gender-inflected zero.  In the wrong season glisten with sugary neoprene. Belong to at least two countries, Land of Goshen sours.  Break into Quechua, haunt cruel Saturdays, look for amigo.  Wheat field marries into lion’s eye.  Ayacucho fanfares enclose the wind.  White-breasted, black-winged, displace requiem.  Recover lost chives, cottonwood’s inerrant perfume, shooting stars on the other side of the river. When mountain burns, Eyes-Are-In-Festival yields turquoise.  Let him palmer drink iris dry.  Sky falls, camas blooms, then this morning white tail flicker in low aspen, chickadee dee dee dee, chickadee dee dee dee.
JP Jan 2017
We hate our boss
Why?!
an understanding
he play the role of
a extension of
....................Father
he uses words with
harsh and heat
and insult at will
we hate him coz
he deputies our father...
JP Mar 2017
Fairytale
always interesting
Coz
Princess are very beautiful
Heart throbs for such alliance
at least,
wanted to live in
such dream period..
When Princess Diana
was alive..... She deputies
the  shadow of fairytale princess.
To me....
Princess of mine try to sync
with her personality and
Often believed...
Seeing her appearance whether
GOD was a woman
Whether god made Diana image by seeing herself  or
Whether GOD was Diana..
Universal Thrum Mar 2020
Rained all day and night. Wind blew the window in, had to hold the ol' girl real tight and coo, Coo Coo Kachoo. Everything topsy turvy, wooden benches blown over. Fields flooded and streams form in the valleys and glades. Water on the road. The day before the radio took a break reporting about the virus to speak about the latest genetic editing break through. Restoring sight to the blind they say. In the basement below the Courthouse steps a deputy takes my temperature, pressing a device against my temple, I imagine how many other heads its met in its tour of duty touching Tom, **** and Sally. 98.6 straight down the middle. Turn to the deputy, ask him if he's got an MD, call em Doc. Its all so sudden isn't it? how quickly your local Court visit to file some paperwork becomes more of an ordeal. It used to be you could walk into any door without being scanned, poked and ****, but here we are, the sum total of something invasive, the other deputies guarding the other court jokes about ****** exams. I'm not waiting for the snakes.

Brave the flood to drive into the slow muddy river lands. Tell the Judge's assistant I'll make it so long as its passable. She contacts the Sheriffs and suggests a C-curve, I drive it straight through, meet a man with tattoos on his face, stars around the eyes, jump man on the cheek. We say our goodbyes and I drive amongst the cows and flooded roads. Twisting and turning, high water, so fragile, the mud that holds my tire.
Lawrence Hall Feb 18
Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

                                Scary Men in the Streets at Night

They swagger into the convenience store
Sullen in their grotesque tats and shabby tees
Shaven heads, unshaven faces, gas-station shades
Old roach-stompers, unwashed jeans, bad-/ss bling

A big ol’ Glock .45 on every man’s hip
Manly-man Velcro tactical gear
Beer-guts rolling over their leather belts
More than a hint of menace in their eyes

These are our local deputies, of course -
Our criminals usually show a little more class


(There is no one I admire more than a proper copper, but until local governments provide better training, better pay, better backup, and meaningful benefits to our police we’re going to have to suffer the leather-boy Barneys.)
Bob B Aug 2023
In Cedar Glen, California,
A woman owned a clothing store.
The woman, Lauri Carleton, flew
A rainbow flag outside the door.

Someone took exception to that--
A hate-filled man, a dunderhead--
Who after making disparaging
Remarks, shot the woman dead.

Always valuing justice and love,
She welcomed the opportunity
To share that love with all and was
A pillar of the community.

She wanted a place that was safe for folks.
That was her dream; that was her plan.
Sadly, her hopes were cut short by
A vile, loathsome excuse for a man.

In an encounter with deputies,
The suspect was shot and killed. But why
Did such a lovely person as Lauri--
A mom with nine children--have to die?

Her husband and children now are grieving.
My heart goes out to each of them.
Certainly, they'll remember her as
A loving soul, a precious gem.

-by Bob B (8-20-23)
Lawrence Hall Jun 2022
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

              When the Last Catholic Church is Seized and Sold

When at the Last Supper Jesus lifted Himself
Someone at table criticized the servers
For not getting some detail right (“Kids these days…”)

When the last Catholic church is seized and sold
When the bailiffs and deputies are given the keys
(The judges and lawyers will be laughing over single-malt at the country club)
When the vessels of the Altar are sold for scrap
When the windows are stacked at a re-sale shop
When the last Mass is ended and the people dispersed

When the processional cross is taken from the last altar server
Grumpy old Catholics will fault the poor child
For not holding it right (“Kids these days…”)
Grumpy old Catholics

— The End —