"edmond" poems
Sitting 'neath an apple tree
In Edmond, Oklahoma
Thinking of the days gone by
And drinking my Corona
Body beat all black and blue
I've had less ups than I've downs
I guess that's just all that I get
As an old time rodeo clown
Should I say another season?
Is it worth what I will get?
Money, pain and broken bones
Those not broken yet
I've been gored by bulls in Texas
Stomped real hard in Abilene
But, I got my worst **** beating
By my ex, named Bobbie Jean
With a bull you see it coming
You just get out of the way
But Bobbie Jean sideswiped me
And I'll not forget that day
Put on some clown makeup
Some baggy pants, the game is on
But, I came home from one junket
And Bobbie Jean had up and gone
I wasn't set to find this
Fell in a bottle for a week
It wasn't bad she left me
It's that she took my hound dog, Zeke
That hurt more than any beating
I may have taken in the ring
I can take the biggest brahma
And the bruises it may bring
But, Bobbie Jean done hurt me
Blind sided me you'd say
I know I'll not forgive her
For taking my dog Zeke away
Now, I sit and ponder
One more empty by my side
Am I fit enough to stay here?
Can I stay for one last ride?
I know it's a sad story
Of a clown whose heart got broke
But beneath the colored face paint
I'm just an aging, sore cowpoke
So I sit beneath this fruit tree
In Edmond, Oklahoma
Pondering my future
As I drink one more Corona.
Jun 17, 2018
Jun 17, 2018 at 9:26 PM UTC
Four hundred words.
An army equipped for battle.
An arsenal fit for war.
But alas,
That is not what the power of words is for.
Confusion and mayhem are the devil's doing,
The same are the Lord's eschewing.
Yet, for what cause are we using?
As words broil above the bent brow,
An acrid substance is sent down
And spewed from the mouth to destroy.
To destroy.
To destroy.
If words could sprout wings
Would a dove soar from your garden,
Or would a dragon roar from your dark den?
Words could set free, if you hearken;
But would you condemn men, or give pardon?
And if you doubt the depth of this which I write,
Recall the tale of Edmond Dantès' plight.
If you knew words could mold hearts like clay...
What would you say?
Your words can frame a day;
To deplore
Or to enjoy.
To enjoy.
So rare, yet so common.
No other creature on Earth wields words,
While we waste so many so often.
We become hardened,
While our mental fortitude is softened
To the likes of cotton.
Feeding from the bottom,
Surfeiting on forbidden fruit gone rotten.
In a radioactive wasteland
Where toxins blossom.
We harvest poison petals to season food that tastes bland.
With withering, quivering, hand
We feed our neighbor.
We don't sense the flavor,
But still savor.
A cyclical process,
Implementing the secret of conquest:
To desensitize.
Because, all the while, we do not realize
We are blindfolded.
Blindfolded.
Blindfolded.
A spring spouting tainted waters
Sits amidst our town.
We gather around
And guzzle pounds
Till we nearly drown.
You can hear the sound
Of the concoction roiling
In the aching bellies
As people lay sprawled and toiling.
Survive today,
You may.
And thrive nevermore.
Thrive nevermore.
Nevermore.
Begin again,
My friend.
Examine your quiver,
Is your bow for a hero
Or for a killer?
I beseech you,
Enter the palace
And drink of the chalice.
Learn to live in a world
Of goodness and balance.
And forget not,
A word spoken
Set the worlds in motion.
Do you still doubt the power of words?
Whence come your society's norms?
Or know you not how created things gained their forms? ...
If you persist to deny,
If you refuse to be swayed
About the power of words
You will yet believe,
When you've felt its blade.
When you've felt its blade.
Its blade.
Nov 10, 2016
Nov 10, 2016 at 10:02 AM UTC
"My heart always timidly hides itself behind my mind. I set out to bring down stars from the sky, then, for fear of ridicule, I stop and pick little flowers of eloquence." -Edmond Rostand
Mar 15, 2015
Mar 15, 2015 at 4:01 AM UTC
For some it may seem rather brash,
To weave the tale of Edmond Thrashe,
Sans his whippings from the lash,
Or lacking proper pomp and dash
But knowing this,
It seems amiss,
To punish crimes,
With stale remiss,
Of facts all gleaned,
From prior bliss,
For timely fates,
Or demon's kiss
Whispering, they calmly nod,
But digits on the hand of God,
Clutching firmly,
Wield the ****
Of bodies stacked,
And heaped with laud
Weave the strings,
From gilded threats,
Of unpaid dues,
Or ancient debts,
"Steal the night and place your bets,
On Thrashe's bloodied pirouettes,
Of shame!"
Stepping firmly from the plains,
He waltzes stiff as Old Lorraine,
In blackened boots with clamps which strain,
His sickly, dirt-encrusted frame
Bouts of anger curse his throat,
While he staggers towards the boat,
With withered boards, and broken oars,
****** by visions",
They all wrote
Unfurl the sails,
And set for Wales,
'Tis there he'll "thrash" among the gales!
Of tacit seas,
And growing dread,
While wishing bullets,
To his head,
Which never'll rear,
Their crooked lead,
'Round here...
Jul 20, 2017
Jul 20, 2017 at 11:46 AM UTC
Mon ami, vous m'avez, quoiqu'encore si jeune,
Vu déjà bien divers, mais ondoyant jamais !
Direct et bref, oui : tels les Juins suivent les Mais,
Ou comme un affamé de la veille déjeune.
Homme de primesault et d'excès, je le suis,
D'aventure et d'erreur, allons, je le concède,
Soit, bien, mais illogique ou mol ou lâche ou tiède
En quoi que ce soit, le dire, je ne le puis,
Je ne le dois ! Et ce serait le plus impie
Péché contre le Saint-Esprit, que rien n'expie,
Pour ma foi que l'amour éclaire de son feu,
Et pour mon cœur d'or pur le mensonge suprême,
Puisqu'il n'est de justice, après l'église et Dieu,
Que celle qu'on se fait, à confesse, soi-même.
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