This is for my mother I couldn't ask for no other
Sorry for the hate I threw know your skin like rubber
Look now it only took, wow, I look down, eight years
If only I'd ate fears there wouldn't be so much hate here
You should know I smoke cigs but hate beer
No alcoholic know I'll frolic if it's a great year
I know you hate dad with ingrained fear
He really ain't bad now it's been about 8 years
Off pharmaceuticals with **** free of seizures
I know that won't please ears but ma please hear
He hates the man he was, for that I love him plus
When we met there was no fuss all love and just
A heart of regret mixed with an attitude of gratitude
former for nearly killing you and I when he battered you
The latter because without him I took right after you
A dapper dude with a knack or two for facts and truth

I already have His forgiveness so now I'm asking you

I know you didn't want me but shouldered the burden
See God had some plans if only you had heard Him
But maybe you did that's why My name so glorious
On the straight plain the bearer of Christ is victorious
That's Kyle Kristopher Moffatt translated in reverse
Yiddish-German-Scottish man slated notorious
An old soul of bold gold to the core he is
Forged by Holy fire one of Yah's Warriors

I've been an adult for twice more than four years
Going on 24 16's when I left you in your tears
I didn't mean no harm ma just wanted life without fear
Of you beating me for thinking me mighty queer
Between slit wrists, hanging, and electrocution
God had already stayed about 14 of my executions
Jew stewed in antisemitism so sought retribution
On the peers that used belt sander to give abuse
That's why I wore war paint to make boars faint
Because they misbehaviour ain't kosher or quaint
They thought me a push over so I sought to push over
The pain that they painted me with into bush corner
Suddenly vision swarms and it's burning warmer
Reconciled the paradox that I was born of
******* dealer and Archaeologist student
Who for my good switched to defence law prudent

I know you didn't want me but shouldered the burden
See God had some plans if only you had heard Him
But maybe you did that's why My name so glorious
On the straight plain the bearer of Christ is victorious
That's Kyle Kristopher Moffatt translated in reverse
Yiddish-German-Scottish man slated notorious
An old soul of bold gold to the core he is
Forged by Holy fire one of Yah's Warriors

I know you told me to never contact you again
But I can't help it if you find this and you listen
Not a single diss in this just love and confirmation
That you put work in this kid by higher conversation
Taught me of a universal world unfurled in university
Expanded my mind left behind thought of you hurting me
See I don't mind I just hope you find peace in these
A reminder you always have a heart's piece in me
If I don't stop I might start weeping feel it seeping
But I got a bit more to say before fleet feet leaving
Central Banking has me thinking society's sinking
War, Poverty, Greed and Drugs are all to be thanking
If you want to know who brings'em; government does
It is the oil in the machine and we are the irrelevant cogs
Numbers and debt slaves they get to behave like dogs
Some kind of commodity to be sold like we bathed logs

They call me Kristopher though I prefer Phiwrit or K-Moff
That Phiwrit bit might not catch on it just came off
The dome top, too many talents know I won't stop
I still intend to repay you even though we don't talk
Too many talents Joanna know I can't and won't stop
I still intend to repay even though we don't talk
Just know for you I won't stop until His Kingdom Come
From where I Am from

I don’t like knowing
that there’s a YouTube
channel out there for
gun-nuts called “The Warrior Poets”.

I’ve looked at some the videos.
None of them have anything to do
with poetry.

I guess that’s okay,
but,
I still don’t have to like it,
so I don’t.

It does give me a reason
to write down the fact that
I believe that I,
in fact,
am a warrior-poet.

My friends are too.
John, Hans, Larry, Kristopher,
and Josh…

We’re a gang.

We’re a conclave,
a klatch of bare-knuckle
sophists, street-wise surgeons
of verse drunk on our own power.

Beautiful bruises,
pooled blood,
split-lipped
ripped pages
broken pens
shattered lenses.

We’re the dogs of war.

*
-JBClaywell
© P&Z Publications 2019