"highwaymen" poems
High on the mountain,
I’m all alone,
Sittin’ by the river,
Water splashin’ on the stones;
As mornin’ fills the valley
Where before, the night was hung,
I wake up from the wine
But the pines block-out the sun
And the rain ain’t pleasin’,
And the cold is on the ground,
And strung-out on the byways
All the highwaymen stand round;
And above the crooked timber,
All the whippoorwills fly blue,
And they sing a song so lonesome,
Can’t you hear it comin’ thru?
Or did you decide
That you’ve gone deaf and blind
And I’ve been on the job so long
Who knows if I’ll survive, you just sigh,
As I wonder why I keep on
Tryin’ to get to you;
it’s no use…
There at your window,
Leanin’ on the ledge,
Y’got ‘em tryin’ to beat the blade
With a nine-pound sledge;
Y’got ‘em workin’ on a building,
Ev’ry carpenter in town;
Well if I had it my way
I would tear that building down
But it won’t get done
All I could ever win’s been won;
And I’ve been on the job so long
Who knows if I’ll survive, you won’t cry,
But will you try, if I die
While tryin’ to get to you, to
Bury Me in Georgia
Next to you
After all that I’ve been had
You’d think that I’d go mad,
But my anticipation
Outweighs my lack of patience;
‘Cause I’ve been on the job so long
Who knows if I’ll survive, so
Bury Me in Georgia
Next to you
Aug 10, 2017
Aug 10, 2017 at 10:39 PM UTC
Her Name is Woman
~for Woman~
The body replenishes, even the signs of decay
that come for reparation,
Positive confirmation
her organism survives, alive,
tree circles yet measuring time,
Till a devitalizing time comes, when,
this cellular process concedes degeneration
Then the wondering shifts; new facts sifted;
now the reckoning is not a calculation of
Mortality but of her living immortality;
dive to divine neath her black cloaking, reading
Wounded word revelations, her own Bible stories,
giving nomination to Woman-name
The long shadows that her souls excavations cast,
costs of her stories individual,
Highwaymen robbed her with glass knives
but each remaining black hole lights a story, lost, but
Burning icy inviting, pulling us into book boxes inside,
compost of sheets of composed white clarity
Care not that each riddling reference is obliged to be
oblique, inexplicit,
Woman her name, all encompassing,
her views codified in lines of faith,
Woman, is that not
a mining, and a manifest,
of hidden birthing,
comforting us in warm shades of
Human courage
12/26/18 5:51pm
Dec 26, 2018
Dec 26, 2018 at 5:57 PM UTC
I remember well
The creaking of
One hundred year old
Pine planked floor
And the ticking
Of the 100 year old clock
In my family's old home
Before the highwaymen
Took it with the widening
Of Highway 91
But Mom got her new house
Set back just a little
She loves it and new amenities
At least they didn't steal the barn
Or clock
But I miss the creaking and the ticking
Of my childhood home
On Highway 91
Across from Stoney Creek
My real home
Aug 25, 2013
Aug 25, 2013 at 3:52 PM UTC
There he sat
All dark unsaddled
Brains quite addled
From the blow
Brigands laughing
All about him
There to clout him
Should he run
From his good eye
Squinting sneaky
Peeking out
From swollen brow
Primrose Pete
Considered options
Acquiesce
Or fight or flee
Counting up
The five marauders
Such close quarters
Peter smiled
In a wink
The first two fell
Hellbound from
Pete's shining blade
One was cut
From prow-to-keel
Didn't feel
The lightening slash
Two was dead but
Still a-stagger
From Pete's dagger
Through the throat
Pete then turned
His one good eye
Upon the three
Left standing there
"Knock ME from
My gentle ride!"
He chided them
And took a step
In a flash
The third man died
His manhood hung
From Peter's blade
Number four
Jumped up in-close
They danced a rosy
Final step
"One last waltz"
Said Primrose Pete
And short and sweet
The blood ran hot
Last of all
The Highwaymen
The fifth of five
The last alive
A tall man
Taller quite than most
With ghostly eyes
And hammer hands
A man who felt
That pain was fun
This one-on-one
Was just a tryst
So they stood there
Eying up
While trying not
To give a tell
Of their planned
Last brave attack
While Pete held back
To catch a breath
All at once
The fight was on
That bloodied lawn
Would find no peace
Both men fought
With all their might
From Noon til Night
On into dark
No Moon sang
The stars shone mute
A suit of cloud
Hung o'er the fray
Blood and dark
With ought a sound
Save the pounding
Steel on steel
Come the Sun
There on that field
Without yield
For Honor's sake
Cut for cut
Both men held true
And on into
A second night
A third then
Into a fourth
A fifth of course
They battled on
It's said that
Both men died that day
T'was slay for slay
Though neither fell
He fights on
Old Primrose Pete
His ghosted feet
Still dancing true
With his blade
Of shadow pure
Against a worried
******* dark
And it's said
On summer nights
When the wind
Is right and odd
One can hear
Old Pete's mare
Out there braying
On the moor
And beneath
The old hag's whinny
If you skinny
Up your ear
You can catch
Old Primrose Pete
Sweetly dancing
With his sword.
Jun 9, 2011
Jun 9, 2011 at 12:30 PM UTC
ol king crab kingo the highwaymen
cumma walking down that hallways street
oll king crab king o the highwaymen
he got swagger boom swagger
he got boom bap pow
pow
pow
-
i seen im runnat comb through his hair
i seen it move back
i seen it glitter-glisten under em bright lights
onna ceeling
-
i seen im touchin
mercury aphrodite
i seen im touchin onna ladies
hera n persephone
he been touchin onna ladies
backadatruck
backadatruck
back seat
pull em uppa cliffside
pull em uppa cliff
bring em inna that backseat
5 minutes in heaven baby
you know it
-
ol king crab dont go to school
he appears
he come-and-go
touch-and-go
in-out
he just visiting
dont need no work
dont need to work
get nuffa that at home
-
ol king crab drop out
not too much trouble
he never drop in
get a job drivin a truck
aint no better way to live
then watching those glitter-glisten lights
on that highway
run that comb through your hair
do it one more time,
do it for us king crab
yeah, just like that
-
down that road he go
b back l8r
b back
b back
down down down
hot stuffy old car
dice onna mirror
just like a movie
luck pair of dice
such a lucky paradise
inna truck
down that road
fulla nuthin
fulla nuthin
fulla NOTHING.
-
Ol' King Crab he *****
he chew
he *****
that how to live
that how to live?
yeah, son.
in back o tha gas station he *****
back inna gas station he chew
tobacco gum tobacco
he take em ladies by the hand
them ladies aint outta worry
king crab outta worry
watch whose hand you take.
-
Listen.
Don't let him take you by the hand.
Don't let him TAKE YOU.
DON'T LET HIM TAKE YOU BY THE HAND
-
ol king crab gettin
****** inna back of the gas
station
pullin outta driveways
and outta women
watch whose hand you take on that open road
you lose yo head
Nov 8, 2011
Nov 8, 2011 at 9:15 PM UTC
As you can see now
We've lost two men to Father Time
They were your friends
As they were mine
They both were outlaws
and they lived life their own way
If we had our choice
They'd still be here today
But, I am not the one
Who took them both away
That's all I've got to say
They were our brothers
And they stood here dressed in black
Close your eyes and they are back
They're in the ether
Waiting there for their return
They'll tell us what they saw
And then we will all learn
That life's a circle
And death is no concern
When they do return....
We are all highwaymen
And we all travel different roads
We all bear witness
Carry loads
We will all pass this way
More than once I'm sure
There will be other times
When we meet at death's door
But as for now, I say
No more than evermore
For we will meet again....
Once there were four of us
And the world was our domain
We've gone away
Come back again
We sailed the seven seas
And rode the highway roads
We flew on starships
And we followed our own code
We met the horsemen
And our souls we did unload
And we'll be back again...
Aug 4, 2015
Aug 4, 2015 at 11:09 AM UTC
Can you hear the wheels of the carriage, as they hasten along the stony tracks of Anglican countryside?
Oh, deviant highwaymen, you are concealed by damp foliage, and I have not yet reduced the heat.
I fully appreciate those discussions where connection to other realms freely occurs without inhibition.
Oh protector of the commonwealth, I long for your parliamentary executions.
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 11:21 PM UTC
The Quiet of a Pickwickian World
By Sy Roth
In the silence of my Pickwickian world,
A transcendent quiet stands vigil.
Left to its own devices it rattles around, a
lonely brown-suited courier,
Hefting weighty cargo from one sooty corner to the next.
Seeks tranquility in a world where,
Fettered by golden reins
Hobbled by unceremonial chain mail
Lanced by coronets of thorns,
Astride, a long-in-the-tooth steed
Spurred on to wrestle shredded windmills,
A cavil of unrepentant correctors rest.
And they still come--
Tidal waves of disturbances,
Tsunamis that rip ashore and sweep all away
Into a loathsome pile,
Bilious flotsam of a generation bereft of empathy.
A forced silence clings to the dusty rafters
Where sages once stood
Hanging like KKK castoffs
In a closeted Jim Crow attic of rules and regulations gone mad.
A quiescent quiet demands quiet.
Nestles behind muffled screams
Of ages of piles of rotting flesh.
Dolorous vision of a peaceful world
Where peace packed for a long vacation
To Edens that exist only in fairy tales.
Bring with them untruths of understanding
Swaddled in ****** soiled bedclothes.
Leave me to my silence,
Lave me of the Ash Wednesday smudge
Where realities come home to roost in the dim corners
Where the highwaymen have no access.
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 8:03 AM UTC
Step into the cobbled courtyard where highwaymen roar with drunken debauchery, and rotten vegetables pelt the bare buttocks of ancient harlots who are shackled to the stocks of occult accusation.
Forbidden encounters are a certain mischief in the rafters of aristocracy, where disgust and desire mingle in unspoken dialogues and roll within the stench of damp hay.
I am captivated by the vanity of those carnal gratifications where Black Death casts her treacherous shadow across European boundaries.
Our markets are organised by macabre executioners in the finest of linen, who shout joyous proclamations, whilst the wise are aggressively coerced by vile salesmanship.
Please, open the gates to the city wall.
My desire is to listen to the wind, as she whispers reassurance amidst the haunted woodlands where those who are superstitious and faint-hearted fear to tread.
There is no taxation in the wilderness.
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 11:36 PM UTC
TO HELL AND BACK FOR CAPTAIN JACK
her sails are set all hands on deck she's off by early light
her hull it dances on the waves like lovers in the night
she's on her way to nowhere it's a place she's been before
no latitude or longitude no charts to show the course
her cargo is a mystery her destination is unknown
she's sailed by men who long ago in some way lost their souls
her wooden hull will creek and bend till her sails they find a breeze
with grit and spit she rides the sea with a crew of broken dreams
Cause- to hell and back for Captain Jack be it devil or the deep
no man or sea shall take their ship they'll fight and die to keep
For captain jack old captain jack and the schooner Albatross -
they'll brave the storms of unknown worlds no matter what the cost
Cause- to hell and back for Captain Jack be it devil or the deep
no man or sea shall take their ship they'll fight and die to keep
they're beggars thieves and highwaymen no place to call their own
they wear barnacles for britches with skin leathered to the bone
summer heat or winter cold still they sing their sailors songs
as they climb the ropes take down the sails through the worst of storms
they tell their tales on bar room stools of maps and chests of gold
or sing their songs and drink their *** until they pass out cold
some nights they'll pay an ugly ***** so they won't sleep alone
but better men be hard to find who call this ship their home
Cause- to hell and back for Captain Jack be it devil or the deep
no man or sea shall take their ship they'll fight and die to keep
For captain jack old captain jack and the schooner albatross -
they'll brave the storms of unknown worlds no matter what the cost
Cause- to hell and back for Captain Jack be it devil or the deep
no man or sea shall take their ship they'll fight and die to keep
by vjkelly (c)2015 (1-1400253851) FROM my song 'TO HELL AND BACK FOR CAPTAIN JACK'
Aug 23, 2015
Aug 23, 2015 at 11:59 PM UTC
The simple leaf displays her complexity with utmost transparency, whilst beautiful chords convey a rhythm which is beyond the parameters of articulation.
A droplet of dew can generate a deep sense of perspective in the South Eastern gardens of Saxony, where uncertainty droops her head with daily lamentations and the quest for connectedness.
Is it possible for us to be at one now?
Let us give credence to ancient runes, as we are wanting in our understanding of pagan orchards.
Every picture tells a story under a forest canopy, where stagecoaches compete against highwaymen of contemporary political propaganda.
Numerology is depicted in your iris.
Grow your plants, and we will engage at an opportune time, with wise insights.
Semantics are inadequate to define familial bonds.
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 12:33 AM UTC
On the highway
They’re sitting down and rolling joints
Contemplating
If it was freedom
When she pierced the muscles
Struggling beneath her frail bones.
They all draw wings on the wall behind the road and
Some say about her rings,
That in a corner in Thamel
Scientific instruments in a white room replicate force
(And it doesn’t hurt so much anymore)
On the highway
The times before rolling joints
She rubbed elbows.
***** in the mud like a pig.
But the tourists still took pictures of her snout, and called it
“Cute.”
When that mother came into her room
She was sleeping with a pout on her face.
Until the highway men drawing wings on the high wall
“Woke” her up.
(The first day, she thought she was still rubbing elbows)
Until the marks came on hers and bled
But not on the other side as well.
Almost simultaneously with the gypsy’s work Aureliano had been reading
On wires metamorphosis-ed into the air
(Brought the world to her feet, or the other way round)
And she knew it must have been a high because
The ground was cold.
And all above she saw the skies cheat
Right before they pressed in on your lungs
Leaking smoke
(When you thought you were made of blood)
Yet before, in your head you’ve smashed the universe
And eaten its brains for lunch – they are green.
Before it gulped her down
In a go.
So you know
How drawing wings on the wall
Has gotten no one nowhere except
Talking about that girl
Who pierced the skin under her bones
In Thamel.
Storm
5.14.014
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 4:01 AM UTC
you know, after collecting an obscure library of music,
i feel nothing for the MP3 highwaymen
of Napster et al.,
being the forager on the internet from time to time
for the diamond berries,
then from time to time turning the radio on
and relaxing with these high brow moral airs
on the backseat with a d.j. surprising me -
like any man respecting the arts, i'd tell these
MP3 thieves to turn on the radio from time to time,
but, oh wait... they haven't invested in music,
so i guess listening to the radio would be
like running stark naked on a football pitch.
**** no pause, and i'm about to refill -
absolute, or ageing with 40 year old's nostalgia
concerning Brit-Pop and their older brother's or uncles
tastes; match-made-in-heaven.
Aug 2, 2016
Aug 2, 2016 at 10:08 PM UTC
No more tears allowed.
There is a Palace at the end of this road,
Which turned out to be long and stony,
Pieces washed out by floods of tears
And avalanches of regrets,
Highwaymen around each corner.
No more sobbing in the night.
The castle walls are within sight
And the drawbridge is slowly coming down.
There is a light in the tower window
And the smell of dinner in the air.
Only one last mile to conquer
And at last I will be safely home.
ljm
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 7:59 PM UTC
I have, from time to time, heard this simple phrase:
“The road to hell is paved with good intentions.”
It’s always puzzled me. It seems illogical.
No, the road to hell isn’t paved at all.
It’s an old road, constructed when the first stars lit up the sky. It’s been here longer than us.
And we’ve used it. Many of us, over and over.
The road, once pristine, has seen the footprints of a billion souls.
And so, it’s cracked, withered, decayed. The dust, which was once cobbles, blown into the wind,
never seen again.
In fact, it’s not a road anymore.
Roads are strict, they instruct where to go.
But the road to hell is so distraught that it guides no more.
Loose stones are all about, and any semblance of a path is gone.
The empire has forgotten the road.
There is no surveyor coming. No highwaymen traveling horseback.
We’re on our own.
We’ll have to find our own way to hell.
Oct 21, 2024
Oct 21, 2024 at 11:28 AM UTC
Grinding along its age-old axis which knows of approaching death,
The world pivots on a baby’s breath.
The Rock beholds his baby as a plinth,
Its lungs lamenting the loss of a leisurely labyrinth.
Highwaymen hit the open road in rattling carriages,
Bibbed and drooling with mouths welcoming meat wedges.
In the mind’s meandering pathway
And the incubator cot’s cold corridors,
I sought to take away
Routine’s rasp and all of its bores.
No toy to be found. The whirling wheels left vapors
On highway tracks, chafing the skin of tarmac like sandpaper.
Only as the Old Bull lifted me from my minute home
And took me for a restful roam
Did I see the tempting toy in Guy’s den.
Now ground to a refueling halt, I skated to the highwaymen.
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 2:45 AM UTC