Man life know just set eyes way like young world soul day hunger space mouth earth thoughts ignorance blind things mind knew final moment human creation kind creatures souls high forgotten dream love spoke self existence face holy deep bound think home void say surrender ear forever called held ephemeral red state end shall heed hope edge living waking fall sea wake garden need February thought past wanderer got men page colored tepid terrible **** proudly untitled features point painted faceless box forgot render wild spring splendor  handfuls looking half brain lost torn ancestral  unseen vision inner summer honor mister owned banner save today fear groans wasn't smoke  street fable strange year contrast black years  able pain body spoken word known motion  palpitate reeling nature culture disclaimers  cancer beg attentive frames ****** base profound double remember wholly finger death token  cries continue folk oh fishing form broken true  divides spread ah twas away breathe wait warning hallowed wish closer lens turn eye live  constant current author hung theory dangle  bramble chemical new force changes adderall  anymore giving beneath possess pardon commentaries eternity internal walk reason  long change does idea glimpse consciousness  wandering simply wonder physical dreams war  sleep told rest benign prior begging truth little  2012 born tale crow bowels allegory animal rule  exasperate making horse curse hands ones read  rearrange capture doing command fail awake  aperture seedlings shift steely sir nap spead ****** demons slits clever telling loud spits la-la-di-dah killing slip game reflected nameless ask  lovers rabid bear salivate plunder shameless  famously savior mint rides menthol bully fate traded melodies play misunderstand mammals gentle witless fine utterly savage silt tongue-less  dirt dilutes pure non-sensory taste briefly ravage dismember it''ll shedding ruined curtain  knots offers plot fulfills munificent two-act  relegates boxz bug altruistic wintergreen tossing  callously guise grovels one's singers treachery ashes mid-life mutter fashion parading  ambiguity separatist liars staple steeping neath  guidelines scoffing stitch moans civil wrote  Fictitious undoing fables table effigies serve  sonnets staged remark psalm swoll praise harken  beggar verse bread lines heavily electricity detection snow sack-happy preaching credit  spotted wicked best gravity gun campaign owe  barge choir revelry celebratory satiated sinking  headline pack hound persistently propaganda  gentlemen excluding diminished ******* run idles  occupied levies wolfishly honestly misinformation cuba vehemently dumb grace spectator erasing  toned sage crowded secrets inter-connectivity  loaned prayer hymns grave mistaken magnified  vandals selective jump leak escapes says minister  buckle mass honesty shut tar children's hats  monument doping long-lived electrical ladle  exaggerated cartoons address seconds cool cradle bleak yang's mind-framed 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persist scrap slipping individual talk wonders  leaving questions fold actor fancy parchment  fates engenders flown jaws stripped longer music  sacrifice fakers book boldly frown sigh atop patient hang trade occupation blows spectacular  whispers worthy backward waving certainty danced suppose needn't ‘drawkcab’ second-guessing  boys forget marched motto heads tightly lies two-tone earthbound harp twice turns goodnight  lying ***** internally indiscriminate nickname  drunk convictions myth steep  in-consumption  fitting artist **** universal sick expressions bad  du spell melody big siphon proud learn sprawls song spastic something temperaments utter check  fissures stomp totality blend definitely thrall sing rug voice shade pestilence ties commiserate round devil steady brains emotional certain gate  suckling gates dearth decay weight bounce pound  carrier pangs glass startle contest earthen web  tug pressed air patience flush amassed guest gone apprehension staring empathize captain 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promise gift union swallowing endless floor supposed ecstasy sensory intent  psychotropic cradling placement interned  jagged connectivity exchange congenial begun  summons singular spiral assumes ambient reciprocates re-entry fruition reached aggregate lifetime limbs birthed instinct  frightening tarry proper entire light  boundaries innocence pursuit ago discover left  youth's unknowing sacred time place meager  simple fact cast ceaseless wide-eyed literal  apparent coincidence create boldness morphed  crooked kempt mere stumble buried shutter fairy  pivotal definitive months worth shear ambition sound required journeyed self-reflections title  facets vague restless intimation gut wanderer's  leap motivate path account boy soon bears faith  question tripped reasons uproot awaited confronted days step heal provocations wisps crushing transcend chronicles instance  directness raw drove occurrence objective-less  real enters slightest confident nondescript  typify  foreshortened interment paradox bitter heart  devoid jeopardy angry sensation confidential guilty arrogance mercy compliance reprieve  vincent deadening factual sign emotion awe  inhibition shackled butterflies absence actual sciences acknowledgement violent stagnant  spiritual American doors roots lack matted fore  gestures society cause streams intensity hair impossible discord lonely hearts resounding  jest  what's flavored pains closed toxic contented  happenstance scientific knowledge yeah  wizardry shaking stifled withdrawn bloom  jitter dreads settle asocial hulton make  predisposed figurative reflections demeanors  wondered affect hulton's projected sense  morning industry arrays ghosts feeling  certainly endomorphic where's partially wrath  passer mornings jovial unease advertized asking  trash onward wished tempers media mentality connect pasts sharp-toothed scramble great colours trial test salvation continually lent  degree secretly subjection social waned  disconnected colors grimly intellectual civilization cash trading baffling particular  digest myths monumental ending seasons winter  repetition introducing agent everlasting  shoulders delivered honestly-- possession funny  continence history unsightly function suffering propulsion profession divulge familiar tugs era  importance capability perpetuation spite inventory words entirety leveling fray insight  date record continues writer getting evermore fellow tongue possessions identical proof accuracy education similar sack admittance  favor unravel conveyance guilt gives beginnings  predicting audacity definition bobby heady eaters frameless learned release stone grandeur sang  speak molds sleeps split built seats people folded  sheer pour evoked playhouse liquid boring  tellers frayed stark walked reality pleas doth  preformed shows beak pride squawks opinions  greatest bold stunning sightings he'd loudly slain  sunk watch legend precipice theater deeper compound commentator civility justly silly sin  reverent seen prophetic moral confounds notion  lacking explain attempt prolific viral estrange proclivity scorn hide blur pious strung eden's  horror cut skin arch cruel twig mother vile  pass lend woods peach shrunken trail man's canopy worn 434 eat warm limb familiar father delete.

You are what your reading lady. Now would you hold this gun?

Under the sheets of emotional armor,
A shy little girl masquerades as a martyr.
She’s the Queen of Deceit with her lies getting smarter,
While every tale told draws her self even farther
From finding out why she’s emotionally bothered
By all of the men in her life: like her father
Who only was trying the best for his daughter
And striving to be something more than a pauper
But coming up short. Who knows how much harder
He’d try if she wasn’t an argument starter?
The guilt and the shame from the family slaughter
Has made her insane and continues to bar her
From finding out just what the world has to offer.

Luckily she won’t have to be here much longer;
In fairy-tale land, there's nothing can harm her.

She suddenly finds herself all alone
With nobody’s thoughts to address but her own.
This is the time when she’d pick up the phone,
Demanding a savior to hear her bemoan
About all the problems that she’s ever known,
But what she doesn’t know is a friend can’t atone
For the lack of a man with his patience to loan
To a lost little girl whose bad temper is known.
All she needs is a strong one that doesn’t condone
All the treacherous lies and the hatred she’s shown.
It’s hard to deny all the reaping she’s sewn.
She’ll have to tread soft lest her cover is blown
And everyone finds out she still hasn’t grown
Through the hundreds of tempers and tantrums she’s thrown.
Hopefully soon she can bury the bone
And calm herself into a nostalgic zone
Where smiles and candles were filling her home
And love and affection were all that was loaned.

Enlightenment comes when you realize you’re prone
To the wrath of the heartache that comes with the throne.

(Sorry Friends, for posting educational type of poems, I know Haiku are easier to read & comment! But if you happen to like this true story, kindly recommend it to your other friends! Thanks, -Raj)

STORY OF EUROPEAN RENAISSANCE: PART TWO

THE CITY-STATE OF FLORENCE :
The city of Florence lies in the historic valley of Tuscany ,
Along the banks of the Arno river, surrounded by hills
of scenic beauty !
Here during the first century BC , the conquering Romans
established their ‘Colonia Florentina’,
To settle the war veterans of Caesar’s army in Northern
Italia !
But later after the fall of Rome , it became a battleground
for the Holy Roman Empire and the Pope ;
But the independent nature of its people refused foreign
yolk !
They preferred commune rule led by a powerful leader –
called the Signore ,
Just like the city-states of ancient Greece, in those days of
yore !
But unlike Greece , Florence saw no Democracy ,
Since the Medici family finally usurped power in this
city of Northern Italy !
Unlike Venice , Florence is landlocked and not a port
city ;
Relying on banking and trade to prosper economically .
Their gold coin florin became the standard coinage
throughout Europe ;
While through the export of its quality textile and woolen
goods, great wealth got secured !
But to become patrons of art and letters mere wealth is
not enough ,
One must have a refined taste to become a true lover of
letters and art !
And here the Medici carved out a niche for themselves
under the Florentine sun !
Writers like Francesco Petrarca , Dante, and Boccaccio ;
And artists such as Giotto , Lippi, Dontello, Leonardo ,
and Michelangelo , were all born Florentines !
Even classical Athens couldn’t boast of such a vast
galaxy ,
Of artistic talents within such a limited time frame of
History !
These artists embellished their city with their literary
works, sculptures, architectures and paintings ;
Made Florence to reawaken, dazzle, and shine ;
Carving out a proud moment in history for the
Florentines !

CONTRIBUTION OF MEDICI FAMILY OF
FLORENCE :
Giovanni de Medici (1360-1429) :
This Medici family became the Godfather for the Italian
Renaissance ,
And I feel obliged to narrate their story tracing their
historical source !
In those early days Art was considered a lowly craft ,
There were no art galleries, and one couldn’t make a
living out of Art !
Without patronage the artist and his art couldn’t survive ,
So I speak of the Medics, who had originated from the
Tuscan countryside !
Gaining power through wealth and political astuteness,
And not through military force for dominance !
The founder of family’s fortunes was Giovanni de
Medici ,
An educated man with a simple life style , who
traveled on a donkey !
A humble man who had never aroused any enmity .
He established the Medici Bank with innovations
in ledger accounting system ;
And became a pioneers in tracking credits and debits
through a double entry system !
He opened branches of the Bank in Rome and Northern
Italy ,
Facilitated bills of exchange and credit bills, to multiply
his money !
After the return of the Papacy from Avignon to Rome ,
The Medici Bank was made the official bankers of the
Pope ;
And Giovanni became the wealthiest man in Italy , if
not in entire Europe !
In 1421 Giovanni was made the Chief Executive of his
city ,
And he commissioned its leading architect Brunelleschi , -
to glorify Florence city .
The challenging task for Brunelleschi was to build the dome
of the Cathedral of his city .
This was the first octagonal dome in history , a breakaway
from the earlier Gothic structures ,
And even surpassing the Roman Pantheon as a marvel of
Florentine architecture !
It took sixteen long years to complete this huge dome ,
And stands today as an icon of Renaissance Europe !
Giovanni had taught his son Cosimo to follow a simple
life style ,
To patronize art and letters, and to his people be kind !

COSIMO De MEDICI (1389-1464) :
After Giovanni’s death , Cosimo the Elder built upon
his father’s inherited wealth ;
Absorbed most of the 39 Florentine Banks, operating its
branches in London and Bruges as well !
The greatest rival of the Medici fortunes were the Albizzi ,
They plotted against Cosimo and the Medics ;
And in 1433, exiled Cosimo and his family out of jealousy !
But after a year the Medics were recalled back as heroes ,
Since the Florentine coffers without the Medici Bank , -
had become almost zero !
But both peace and prosperity are needed for flourishing
of art and culture ,
So Cosimo engineered the Peace of Lodi (1454) with Milan
and Venice , -
To prevent future wars and misadventure !
Scholars were made to collect precious manuscripts from
the East, and the churches and vaults of Europe ;
And an ensured period of stability , contributed to Early
Renaissance’s growth !
Sculptor Donatello’s bronze **** David stood up as an
unique art form ,
And with paintings of Fra Angelico, and Filippo Lippi , -
the style of art itself began to reform !
Architect Michalozzo built the famous Medici Palace ,
And Cosimo opened the Medici Library for the spread of
classical knowledge !
After the fall of Constantinople in 1453 , the Greek scholars
with their classical manuscripts fled to Italy .
They flocked to Florence where Cosimo established a
Platonic Academy !
Renowned Humanist Marsilio Ficino became its President ,
And complete works of Plato got translated from Greek
to Latin !
Thus the growth of Early Renaissance owed much to
Cosimo’s patronage ,
And the Florentines inscribed “Pater Patriae” on his tomb , –
(‘Father of His Country’) after his death !

LORENZO THE MAGNIFICENT (1449-1492) :
Cosimo’s son Piero the Gouty died within five years ,
Never achieved anything spectacular worthy of tears !
The Medici Bank had loaned large sums of money to
King Edward IV of England and Charles the Bold of
Burgandy,
Failed to recover getting into bad debts and insolvency !
So when Cosimo’s grandson Lorenzo succeeded at
the age of twenty one ,
He focused on other areas of creativity, and the period
of High Renaissance begun !
Lorenzo , a genuine lover of arts, also wrote poetry in the
dialect of his native Tuscany ;
Following the footsteps of Tuscan born poets Donzella ,
Davanzati , and Dante the author of ‘Divine Comedy’ !
On 26th April 1478 , the Pazzi family in connivance with
the Archbishop of Pisa and backing of Pope Sixtus IV ,
Tried to assassinate the Medics during the High Mass, -
in the Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore !
Younger brother Giuliano was fatally stabbed , but they
failed to **** Lorenzo .
All the conspirators were hanged including Pisa’s
Archbishop !
Ecclesiastic censure was issued against Florence ,
And Lorenzo was excommunicated by the Pope !
But Lorenzo worked out a treaty of peace with the King
of Naples ,
And became the undisputed ruler of the Republic of
Florence !
Unfortunately , Lorenzo died young at the age of forty-
three ,
At the dawn of the great Age of Exploration and
adventures by sea !
During his rule Renaissance reached its Golden Age ,
And literature, art, and architecture blossomed with
Lorenzo’s patronage !
It earned him the title of ‘Magnifico’, now know to
us as Lorenzo the Magnificent !
Leonardo da Vinci , Michelangelo , Raphel , Giovanni
Bellini ,Titan, Veronese, Correggio , Tintoretto ;
All became superstars of the Renaissance era ;
Their works are cherished, valued and treasured to
this day of our Modern era !
In the year 1492 with Lorenzo’s death , Italy entered
a period of turmoil and instability,
And the Renaissance saw a period of decline in Italy !
But the flames of the Renaissance spread to other
parts of Northern Europe ,
And in the 16th century reached England’s shores !
The Medici Family had also provided three Popes to
Italy, and three Queens to France ;
Besides patronizing the growth of the famous Italian
Renaissance !
Now dear readers, to do justice to Renaissance art ,
architecture, and literature briefly ,
I propose to narrate its story in Part Three !
-- By Raj Nandy of New Delhi .
*ALL COPY RIGHTS ARE WITH THE AUTHOR

A bright light annoys my eyes.    I can’t get away from it- I don’t like it.  
Tired and overwhelmed with obligations and requirements,
I’d rather not complete or even think of-
I’d rather they did not exist.  

What do they prove?  

I am comfortable and lazy.  
I would like to sleep, but the smallest agitations are an unbearable annoyance.  
Obnoxious voices speaking a tongue I don’t know, laughing at my condition-
I’d rather be asleep-
quiet and asleep.  

I want a cigarette.  I hate cigarettes.  
I don’t hate cigarettes; I rather like them, especially with coffee,
but I hate how they manipulate me.  
I want one, but I’d rather sleep.  
I wish I could smoke in bed.  
I should have showered before bed.

Self-confidence comes and goes.  
Sometimes I don’t care what people think; other times it’s all I think about.  
It’s judgmental; it’s worry of acceptance, worry of not belonging, worry of standing out.  
People- including me- want to be individuals, but are not brave enough.  
Society does not accept true individuals, it kills them.  
How can I be unique or allow true self to be and true identity to exist when there is fear?

When I see her, I wonder what might have been.  
There was a connection, or maybe just an attraction.  
We lead different lives.  
She is pure and good in the church sense; I am pure and good in my own way.  
But, these two lifestyles could never intertwine.  
I must admire what she is from a far.  
I should not dwell on it too much because it is unfair to the present.  
We always want to know.  
We want to know the future, but I will get there at my own pace.

Lying in bed, I don’t remember most days.  
I only remember lying in bed the prior night, trying to remember the previous day.  
Sometimes I hate my body- not enough muscle, skinny legs, blah hair.  
Against society's standards I am mediocre.  
They know what a man should look like; I am not him.  
We are all not the portrayed he or she.  
Those people only exist on screens.  

This is the last place I want to be.  
Stuck in a class I couldn’t give a **** about,
listening to a Professor I can’t understand drone on and on in his sing-song,
marbled-mouth accent.  
Occasionally trying my patience with a drawn out, “You noh wah I main?”  
No.
I don’t know what you mean.  
I can’t understand what’s coming out of your mouth.

Apparently, the only way to be a good teacher is to jump through hoops and
dance for the cloudy heads of a department.  
If I play their games, I will have blisters on my lips from having to kiss too much ***.  
I do not need to be validated, approved, passed, accepted, or liked by them to be a good teacher.  
I know I will be a good teacher- they have no influence on that.  
They only have the ability to stall me and help steal my money.

The worst is when the pain sinks into your eyes, dull and deep.  
The pressure tunnels around your temples and tries to bore a whole through your forehead.  
Six Advil cover up the pain- only for an hour.  
Everything within your skull pushes out like a balloon on the brink of bursting.

The worst is the restless anxiety experienced lying in bed right before sleep.  
It is the empty churning of stomach, half shots of adrenaline that tickle your veins,
while the mind races like prey trying to evade predatory jaws.  
Your heart flits, skips, and stops,
as your mind obsesses about the seemingly infinite list of things you have to get done.  
That only adds to the stress- since you’re not sleeping, something could be accomplished.  
The worry heightens, the obsession increases until- sleep.

An instant of eye contact can be rare and intriguing.  
Instants too small to have time, can convey so much.  
Eye line meets eyes, eyes lock- message of vast information conveyed.  
A minute moment, an insignificant second, so monumental.  
This blip exchange ignites an internal fire of emotion or ruins your day.  
The messages that can be exchanged in the smallest,
feasible time frame are vastly unique to each experience.  
Polar and extreme: Love me - I nothing you.  
Eye contact conveys an incredible amount of information, but perhaps to be keen to it-
is to be vulnerable.  

What if it were acceptable to give into every desire or want?  
What would the world be?  
Would it be that much different or would the internal, human morale still enforce invisible boundaries?  
What would we do?  
Would the private become public?  
Would others see our lowest animal drive?  
Humans are the only being capable of acting above or below their nature.  
Rough.
Raw.  
Human animals.

It is ironic when something is built up to high expectations, but turns out anticlimactic.  
Was that it?  
That is what we waited for?  
When something does not meet expectations, it creates hollowness, an emptiness, or unfilled hole.
  
What do you do?  
What can you do?  
You can learn from it or you can let it bring you down.  
It is better to look for the positives
than dwell on and become disheartened by the negatives.  
Learn and Grow.

I am a poor student.  
I have been loaned money I will never be able to pay back.  
I am paying for a degree, to get a job that will never return the favor.  
I am strangling myself financially for a “higher education”, but am I getting it?  
Perhaps it is not the institution’s fault; perhaps, it’s my own?  

so much depends
upon

a green dollar
bill

glazed with American
greed

beside the fabricated
dream

I am poor and will be poor, but I will be happy.  
Everything costs.  Everything has a price.  Life is expensive.  
How can I save?  What can I afford to put away?  
When forty dollars in your bank account is a pleasant surprise-
surprises are cheap.

"I Need It"

[Intro:]
Turn it up, let me hear it
Turn it up, let me hear it, Oh DUMB

[Hook:]
I need it up in my life
Every night I get on my knees ask but
Heaven ain't been speaking back (speaking back) I need it up in my life
This goes out to every ghetto every project who know losing's not an option
I need it up in my life (yeah)
All this money cars and clothes
You know I'm balling out control, on you hoes

[Verse 1:]
They attempt to label me inhumane
I believe in God but not your God
Last ***** got outta pocket on the wrong decor got broke off What the **** is up with these A&Rs; "I Need It"

[Intro:]
Turn it up, let me hear it
Turn it up, let me hear it, Oh DUMB

[Hook:]
I need it up in my life
Every night I get on my knees ask but
Heaven ain't been speaking back (speaking back)
I need it up in my life
This goes out to every ghetto every project who know losing's not an option
I need it up in my life (yeah)
All this money cars and clothes
You know I'm balling out control, on you hoes

[Verse 1:]
They attempt to label me inhumane
I believe in God but not your God
Last ***** got outta pocket on the wrong decor got broke off
What the **** is up with these A&Rs;
Criticizing music they can't make
Poking fun at my struggles I don't find **** funny
I live in places that ain't safe
2008 I got my leg blown off
Any given day could get my head blown off
Rest in peace to Tyree Edwards
Bullet in his head got his head blown off
Tried school was a great kid
Academically I excelled in it
Grew up poor got teased a lot
Cause my school clothes had a smell in 'em
Same shirt four weeks straight
On the block grinding, got sales in 'em
Juvenile detention my case worker said I might be headed for a crash course
No father figure role models up in prison all my jump shots hit the back board
Head-on collision, not watching while I'm steering
No air bag, head hit the dash board

[Hook]

[Verse 2:]
Approaching me and wanna shoot the ****
But pretend as if they're here to help Gates
Behind my back in front of label heads
Saying "Kevin just won't cooperate"
Missed flights, showing up late
I live life didn't rap about it
No time to live, my time for them
How the **** I'm gon' rap about it
Speak the truth or rap around it
And in a wrap around I rapped about it
Tragic ending for some family members
In heaven sitting wishing I was with them
Instead I'm stuck in this hell on earth
With pretend friends who think of ways to get me
Couple ****** I loaned money
Said they got me and never get me
Tell a ***** no I'm never guilty
Still ain't got no guilty feeling
Always telling me what I should do different
But can't explain why they ain't winning
My own blood just turned against me
In disbelief I'm like "not true"
Devastated, got caught off guard
When I seen the switch I'm like "not you"Criticizing music they can't make
Poking fun at my struggles I don't find **** funny I live in places that ain't safe
2008 I got my leg blown off
Any given day could get my head blown off
Rest in peace to Tyree Edwards
Bullet in his head got his head blown off
Tried school was a great kid
Academically I excelled in it
Grew up poor got teased a lot
Cause my school clothes had a smell in 'em
Same shirt four weeks straight
On the block grinding, got sales in 'em
Juvenile detention my case worker said I might be headed for a crash course
No father figure role models up in prison all my jump shots hit the back board
Head-on collision, not watching while I'm Steering no air bag, head hit the dash board

[Hook]

[Verse 2:]
Approaching me and wanna shoot the ****
But pretend as if they're here to help Gates
Behind my back in front of label heads
Saying "Kevin just won't cooperate"
Missed flights, showing up late
I live life didn't rap about it
No time to live, my time for them
How the **** I'm gon' rap about it
Speak the truth or rap around it
And in a wrap around I rapped about it
Tragic ending for some family members
In heaven sitting wishing I was with them
Instead I'm stuck in this hell on earth
With pretend friends who think of ways to Get me couple ****** I loaned money
Said they got me and never get me
Tell a ***** no I'm never guilty
Still ain't got no guilty feeling
Always telling me what I should do different
But can't explain why they ain't winning
My own blood just turned against me
In disbelief I'm like "not true"
Devastated, got caught off guard
When I seen the switch I'm like "not you"

I thought I might be a musician
Mom couldn’t afford my lessons
My eyesight wasn’t great
I couldn’t read notes fast enough
Practicing annoyed the family
I only managed last chair, 2nd violins
              But still
I got to play in High School concerts
In shiny dresses with glitter in my hair
              However
I haven’t held a violin in years
I loaned mine to a Bluegrass band
The leader died - and it was gone

≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈

I thought I might become a dancer
But my fingers can not touch the floor
I couldn’t kick much higher than my waist
Choreography was hard for me to learn
I had the stamina if not the skill
My partner wanted someone else
                But still
I danced on stage in a college play
And Morris Danced at the Old Globe Theatre
                However
I’ve forgotten how to keep the beat
And all the dance floor moves I made
I’m too self conscious now to try

≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈

I fancied I could be a singer
I knew the words to all the songs
And I could keep the melody in tune
But I had a voice with no vibrato
And the quality was thin
My range was very limited
              But still
I sang Blueberry Hill at a talent show
In a black lame’ dress and surprised a few
              However
I couldn’t get the hang of harmony
And found I fit best in a choir
My family wouldn’t hear my solos

≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈

I thought that I was born an actress
I practically got that one right
I had a lead in an Ibsen play
And toured the state with Macbeth
But Hollywood was one big casting couch
And I could see no way around it
          But still
I got to be on TV  shows
Winning games and merchandise
          However
I sold the Firebird Convertible I won
I needed rent money more than a car
And rules allow you only three shows in a lifetime

≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈

I always thought I was a poet
I started young and never stopped
But family ignored and scoffed
Then I got trapped inside my mirror
And only wrote when all was beak
Somebody said my stuff was dreary
          But still
I stumbled on the HP website
And found a group who like the words I write
          However
When I read the others’ writes
I realize how limited my skills
And fight the need to run away and hide.
    ∞
It seems I dabbled in all the arts

Looking for the one that fit me
And finding they all needed alteration
And I never had the proper needle
  ∞  
Still, a moment in the sun
Is better than a lifetime in the shade
I had a taste of everything
Though the banquet was not mine.
ljm

A girl with arms and legs
A brain
A liver
A heart
 
A broken one
The liver I mean,
Not the heart!
Lost, but never in-pieces
 
She doesn't personally own one,
Or she does, it was stolen you see
The one she has now, she loaned
Just until she finds her own!
 
Though the time she uses to pay back her loan
Is time away from finding the stolen core
She pays through her liver
And her innocence
 
Speculating where her heart actually went
She gradually rewinds her life
To see when it disappeared
 
Maybe it was beaten out of her by her father,
Or flushed out when she put her finger in her throat.
Maybe she left it with her virginity,
Or she threw it away with her dignity?

I loaned a friend $3000 for plastic surgery,
I am still looking for her.

I was outside a bar one night, smoking a loaned cigarette and looking at the stars. Next to me was an old man on a stoop, smoking too. He asked me what was one my mind, and I said love.

"It's stupid, the way we think sometimes" I said.

He got up from his stair, and joined me by the street side, looking up at the stars while he took a deep drag, paused for a moment, then exhaled and walked towards the night.

"It's stupid to think."

You have always been unpredictably cool and golden retriever status loyal. You hid in closets with me when Mom and Dad were yelling and you held my hand through each silent treatment and each “let’s sit down, we need to have a talk” moments. You came to me when you needed help reading and to pick out clothes for school dances.

You were the first person to laugh at all my jokes and the first to tell me that that dress did make my *** look big—you were also the first to remind me that I was beautiful, especially when I didn’t believe it myself. You didn’t stop crying when I hugged you, but we’d both just end up in a teary, sobbing mess because when one hurt, so did the other. You put up with my obnoxious free-spirited ways that collided with each of your organized, to-the-point methods all these years and never once questioned me. You had my back even when I was in the wrong. You believed in me when no one else did.

You grew up to be amazing. Whatever you wanted to do, you did it. You studied and you learned and you just grew into this person that I knew you could be. You’ve had a number of set backs but your ability to keep moving forward is what makes me admire you. The world is at your disposal—you are now in control. The dreams you’ve had for a while now are finally coming true, and it’s because of you that they are. I couldn’t be prouder.

Your attention to detail always fascinated me. You never forgot a single appointment, a birthday, a dollar loaned, where Dad left his car keys—whenever I was lost, you help me find my way again. Although you’re the “little” sister, you’ve always been the one I looked up to.

When people walk all over your heart and took you for granted, I was proud of you for standing up for yourself and removing those who aimed to bring you down. Although you lost a number of friends, you never lost yourself. You found solace in those who truly deserve to be in your life, learning a lesson that took years for me to learn.

To this day, there’s no one who can get under my skin more than you do. There’s no one who knows better than you what buttons to push with me, but there’s also no one who knows better how to cheer me up after a long, exhausting day. Fighting with you is more aggravating than with anyone else—the world is only correctly in place when we’re in sync, so kudos to us for not being able to be mad at each other for more than a few hours.

We used to say that if we weren’t sisters, we probably wouldn’t even be friends so I’m glad that the universe blessed me with someone like you. I can’t imagine sharing parents with anyone else, because who else could do what you do? I thank my lucky stars that I have you around, because with parents like ours, I’ll need someone to talk about whatever embarrassing or nurturing or cute or terrible or weird or unfair thing they’re up to next.

What else can I say? Even though you’re 3,000 miles away and we’re about to begin the rest of our lives, I know that one day we’re going to be the weird old ladies on the block still listening to the Backstreet Boys and making bad impersonations of our relatives.

There's a story in my head, of a guy I'd like to call Joey. I don't know Joey that much, he's always been like a stranger. A stranger who happened to ask me to loan him a dollar. And somehow that meant we were now best friends,—and like all best friends, they start to invite you into every part of their life.

He invited me to his rehab sessions, those talks about his drug abuse. He invited me to his birthday party, a party of so few people. He invited me to get his haircut, which he desperately needed. He invited me to his first job interview, seeking moral support and encouragement.

As I reflected on everything that had transpired, I couldn't help but think, "all of this because I loaned him a dollar."

He invited me to his celebration of working for a full year, knowing that he had struggled to maintain employment in the past. He invited me on his church searching journey, never pausing to inquire about my own beliefs or religious inclinations. He invited me to accompany him on his first date, although all I did was drop him off at the restaurant.

And still, I couldn't help but ponder, "all of this because I loaned him a dollar."

He extended an invitation for me to join him in celebrating his first promotion after two years of hard work. He invited me to accompany him on his first business trip, assuming I would readily accept the idea of traveling with someone I barely knew. He even invited me to the hospital to bid farewell to his dying mother, whose battle with cancer had taken its toll. And of course, I was invited to attend her funeral, where I silently promised myself to remain strong and composed.

Amidst it all, I found myself repeating, "all of this because I loaned him a dollar."

He invited me over to share in his sorrow following the devastating break-up with the woman he loved, even though I couldn't fully empathize with his pain. He invited me back to his rehab sessions, sadly revealing that he had relapsed. He invited me to the hospital when a doctor called to inform me that he had attempted to take his own life. Upon his discharge, he invited me to his home, where I watched and supported him throughout his journey of recovery. And when he lost his job, he invited me out for drinks, though I wound up footing the bill.

Inevitably, I couldn't help but contemplate, "all of this because I loaned him a dollar."

Ultimately, he invited me to what would be his final event—his funeral. The demons that haunted him had ultimately taken hold, or so I was told. And there I stood, delivering his eulogy, my words resonating with genuine emotion and heartfelt sentiment.

I spoke of how I had unexpectedly become intertwined in this man's life—a relationship that began with two strangers. I recounted how I had been there for him in virtually every significant moment and milestone. And as a single tear escaped my eye, the overarching sentiment was clear: "I became a part of this stranger's life, all because I loaned him a dollar."

The lighthouse keeper and his son, one day
Were out on the rocks, by a blue-water bay

As the sea, their bare feet was laving,
They saw a mermaid, they first thought was bathing;

With long dark hair and eyes of green;
Like the mist of a loch, that sings.

She was struggling and sick, in the foamy sea
So they took her to the lighthouse, above the lea.

She begged and pleaded, to die in the sea;
But there in the lighthouse, she seemed fated to be.

A clawfoot bathtub  became her home,
And there she stayed, never to roam.

Some children taught her some words and rhymes.
To help her to pass all the weary time.

The lighthouse keeper thought she was his own,
Though from the sea, she was merely loaned.

Sometimes a midnight, would find him there
Combing her damp and tangled hair.

In her long confinement, he was the one
Kept her sane, since she could not run.

They had long discussions until daybreak,
Entirely by looks and gestures they'd make;

She taught him secrets no man had ever heard;
How she could still the sea, with inaudible word

And how she could tell by the look of the moon
If spring would come early, or winter too soon.

And how the waves, did murmur below
If the weather be rough, or the hard winds blow.

How she'd loved and lost one merman that
Had gotten too close, to a fisherman's net.

They'd had a child, by the madman's reef;
Was eaten by sharks, and how they'd grieved.

He fancied that someday, he'd like a kiss,
For kissing a mermaid, seemed like rare bliss

But something forebade him, to come that near;
So he was content, just stroking her hair.

One day he found her, dead in her tub;
Her heart had broken, all for his love.

No mermaid can tell human men of her heart,
Or else they'll spend their lives far apart,

It's a law of the sea, older than time;
So this be the end, of the mermaid rhyme.

The only way to cross eternity
  is in a poem

Distance not measured in miles or years,
—epic ballads to intone

The light speed meteor will chase forever
  the wake of verses flown

Where words fly silent and words fly deep,
  —beyond a future heaven loaned

(Villanova Pennsylvania: January, 2016)

Another dark day in this dismal old place
Snow clouds were moving in fast
The sky was so dark, and the wind had a chill
This was a storm that was sure gonna last

At Cy's, The Old Pawn Shop was empty except
For Cy and the stores old dog Gruff
The storm was en route and Cy figured that this
Was a good time to go through the stuff

Years of memories, years of tall tales
They were all on the shelves in this store
There was all sorts of jewellery, tvs and clothes
And in the back was at least 40 years more

The door opened sharp and the bell startled Cy
He was checking the watches and clocks
A young man came in, dressed all in black
Cy said "push hard or the **** thing don't lock"

The young man was tall, about six two I'd say
Cy had never seen him before in his life
He'd said "Sir, I've an offer, you can take or can leave"
"And it's the best one you've had all your life"

Cy looked at the man, intrigued though he was
He said "Sit, and I'll put on some tea"
He went to the door, checked the oncoming storm
And then he put the sign up..."BE BACK AT 3"

They sat and they talked, and they laughed as the wind
Blew the snow up against the front door
Cy pulled out some books, went and made some more tea
Then the man left and left Cy in the store.

Later that night, under cover of darkness
The man came on back with a truck
Cy opened up, and with Gruff by his side
They watched as the man quickly loaded the truck

Two days had passed, and the whole town was white
The storm closed the town for a day
The streets were a mess and the schools were all closed
And the kids had the day off to play

On the third day, the town, woke up almost as one
With people phoning up Cy's by the score
For as they all left for work, there all wrapped up in brown
Was a box, sitting by their front doors

Jim, was the first, opened his box outside
Saw the watch that he pawned with Old Cy
Gianni, and Mike, and others as well
Received items they'd pawned by  and by

In total you see, almost 200 folks
Opened boxes paid off that dark night
Christmas was early for folks in the town
Given by a young man, who'd done right

Cy gave the names of the people he knew
Even though it was against the Pawn shop man's creed
He'd loaned out the money in interest free loans
To these folks that he knew were in need

About  five thirty that day, the young man returned
Cy and old Gruff were waiting inside
They spoke how his stunt was a universal success
And at this, they both laughed till they cried

The man rose from his seat, shook Cy by the hand
Cy asked "Why did you come here?"
The man answered "I'm here after my Mum"
"Her names Mary, and I heard she serves beer"

Why I walk the street in a cobbler’s shoe?
What’s new, you may ask, that we all do!
But nay, this one, I had to borrow from him
Still one furlong my shoes ran out of steam!

The cobbler was visibly aghast
Doubtful looks on me he cast
Then he said in a garbled groan
I sell shoes not give on loan!

I cursed myself and the shoes I wore
Brought months back from a big shoe store
Price was high for the branded trust
A mere few months and the pair went bust!

So here I’m at the cobbler’s door
Walk I must a furlong more
Begging for an old worn shoe
My humble feet with that can do!

The guy though felt ill at ease
Seeing the misery bowed to my wish
Brought out for me a dirt stained one
Going barefoot could not be fun!

I tell you friends a story that’s true
The cobbler loaned me a pair of shoe
I could only give him good wish
Before I hurried on my way to office!

If you ever beg love of her
This small story you must remember
She hasn’t a way but make you her own
Can either sale love or give it on loan!

Kindred spirit, the privilege is mine, it's just that I,
I never finish because there is nothing going on, nothing to go on.

All right, all right, all right,
you're right,
I don't write as much as I used to,
but in all fairness (to myself)
I feel a bit more loose.

Never mean to,
but I guess I argue
a lot in order to hide
how much I really don't care;
Celina said it's not okay
but
that at least I know
it's insulting.


I only want to be in my body
when your feathery fingers graze my spine.
That tone an angel loaned
to you can ripple through
the void, make a soft,
translucent puddle out of reality,
can you see me
on the other side?

Don't say I'm angry,
it's just that
no one has ever really tried
to impress me, so I'm scared
I guess.

Remember you are here,
don't be weird about the types of things
sentimentality will bring,
will string along to the
forefront of an open sore;
no one pours the sink a whiskey
drink until the girls are crying out above the stars,
better yet, stirring them from afar
for their own faults, for being
fickle with love
and their own hearts.

You know I don't sleep much,
You know I don't dream of such
pretty things but I could imagine
how you, in a different life,
were gifted eternal wings.

Those that brought you to me.

I would weep

if I wasn't made of stone.

I am a mild man, you'll agree,
But red my rage is,
When folks who borrow books from me
Turn down their pages.

Or when a chap a book I lend,
And find he's loaned it
Without permission to a friend -
As if he owned it.

But worst of all I hate those crooks
(May hell-fires burn them!)
Who beg the loan of cherished books
And don't return them.

My books are tendrils of myself
No shears can sever . . .
May he who rapes one from its shelf
Be ****** forever.

I know that you are always with me. I follow that scent, the calm folded crisp smell of cigars lit on the rainy morning in the streets of Calais. I pass through the art galleries, boat docks, pubs, markets and old churchyard buildings. That scent again? It draws me in and embraces me close into secluded streets. I see friendly faces wearing the same weepy eyes and bright smiles every day. They were buskers, street tramps, just in my eyes fellow lost rebels who I admire. They haven’t yet given up even now their naked without luxury, starved of food and clothing they wander around building up a new home every day.  

Every time the buskers see me they each greet me in turn shake and kiss my hands. I drop a penny down; they play out their beautiful music and sing their songs into the early hours of the evening. The air of the night is surrounded with the distinctive smell of cider and cigars. Outside the docks of boats the pub is festered with local communities drinking and talking about previous nostalgia. People laugh and cheer at the buskers who come into the pubs and applaud even louder when each of them comes on stage. They play, they dance, they rant in their own unique way in time to the guitar and banjo. When the evening is finally over music and laughter without question just stops, I can hear those... heavy awkward whispers, muffled voices and coughs of things left unsaid. At that point each of the smiles of the lost rebels fades out into the night, they know they must face and enter that filthy alley alone forced into the solitude of old cardboard boxes. I thought they did a splendid show and award them money and praise in return some of them come up to compliment and kiss me again.

The next morning I visit the library to indulge in my long lost passion of French poetry but I keep on getting distracted. I pick up on that very dangerous scent of cigars, wine and … aftershave. It was just so intoxicating, the fuel I craved. The aroma got stronger outside, something was around me. I was feeling that someone had just touched my breast, pinched my ******* then started to bite, caress and kiss my back but that feeling had quickly faded out.I sat down, unable to detect anything. I open up an loaned book of poems by Christina Rossetti. Before I could read her first poem, a written letter had fell to the floor. It was encrypted in my name with a place and time. I begun to read it out aloud as if it was some fairy tale enchantment.

The cigar smoke started to rise, embrace and surround me it filled my eyes again. A young man appears at my feet. He is *****, long black hair; smile cheeky but eyes concrete and dreamy when magnified they melt into a fire. I gaze into his piercing green eyes; I can already feel my body heating up and chest feel tenser. We start to greet each with a handshake, he grabs my hand and begins to put each of my fingers into his mouth. Straight away I could feel this urge to share everything with him to plant that warm kiss onto his lips. We start with talking for hours about our previous past, poetry and art. I read out some of the poems in French and he was translating them for me. He asks whether I would want to go Paris with him; he knew the best historic sites to take pictures and then without any hesitation he flashes out two train tickets. A charmer no less, but I feel drawn to follow him hoping he would lead me to more adventure. We both catch a train together from Calais to Paris. He takes me into the French café near his apartment we end up drinking coffee together out in the balcony. He drove me around in his car; we end the day with having a great picnic of red wine, sandwiches, cakes and croissants out in the jardin. We end the first evening having a smoke or two out in the beautiful countryside air. He drops me back to my villa and kisses me slowly on the ears then begins to whisper softly the words k.i.m.m.y into my ear. I could feel the last of his words really start to linger, the final words before leaving me and promising to meet up the next evening outside his own apartment.

I came out the next evening wearing a tight red frock and bright red lipstick on the ****** cobbled streets. We both embrace each other with small kisses on the cheek, walking down with our tongues tied in knots and arms locked together to the local tavern drinking more wine. When it finally got late I was allured to follow him into his apartment a classy one bedroom with a double bed, rose flowers on each window ledge. There is another classy rose wine bottle on the table and a room of old books. We sit on the sofa watching movies, eating chocolate and sipping on wine. My head begins to spin, lose some focus. Could this really be love or was this just another drunken lusting daze? I droop to his shoulders; He recites bits of his own poem, I can’t help but stare into his deep eyes when he reads them, I look up again at his moist lips when he reads out aloud the final words. I yearn to snog him or for at least him to make that first move. I feel dizzy and high on red blooded wine and cigars. I could then feel him starting to kiss the temples of my neck and feel his soft teeth mingle and bite leaving small indented marks on my neck. I draw even closer towards his mouth; I can feel his beard tickle me. I love to taste him, love that aroma! He tastes of dimly lit cigars which mingle with my fruity perfume. At this point I feel that the ember inside surround and heat up my whole body. I want him to really light me up so I can explode into them blue flames. I begin to clench up my body as he bites my neck, we both kiss frantically. He whispers into my ears and begins to nibble on them. We end up huddled up together in bed! The window reflects that the sun is approaching, he sits on top of me staring at me blankly in silence. He takes time to admire my calm sleepy concrete clay features.

He knows that when the sun comes up that everlasting rainbow of color we created together will begin to melt and transform back into monochrome. It just comes to the end. we know we can not argue, we must leave each other. I know I must say the two forbidden words. The very two words that turn me back into this empty corpse. I hate them; I greet him with a long lost embrace, the in-completed hug and the final words to end everything! Bon- Voyage At the same time trying to hold myself together, I leave on that last train, feeling tired and drained but only for a second. The whispers of his voice fill up the station crying out… KIMMY, kimmy... kimmy! . They echo out and embrace me again, they always make me smile.

I catch the last train back to Calais then head off home to stormy England. I never feel sad to leave him or the place behind because I will always remember him. Just as any dying whisper, music of buskers, words of a poem. The bond you share is never really gone it ignites again to finally burn on eternally.

Fight or flight
That was my plight
Distracted driver
Temporarily took my power
Praying for sleep
Counting the sheep
It’s like treading water in the deep
Can I keep pushing through?
Not sure quite what to do

Visions of chrome grills
Drenched with chills
Flashback night
Nightmare day
Will this ever go away?

EMDR
Got back to driving the car
Taking buspar
Have I come that far?

One foot in front of the other
A daily mantra loaned by my brother
It’s important to only focus on today
It’s all we have, wise people say

Life is an ongoing journey
So very grateful for His mercy
I continue to battle and refuse to cower
After all, I’ve learned I’m no fragile flower

When they say 'I got your back',
make sure they don't have
a knife in their hand.

It feels like I'm
just a dog and
I've only dug up
one more
bone of contention.

When I say
I'd like to
give you
a knuckle
sandwich,
I know it's
not for the best
even though
it's true,
in the end,
I'm like the robot
flying the drone
unmaned,
I've got ******
behind
these sunglasses,
so I  end up
throwing up
my arms
and settle with
pounding sand.

You ask; "What's your problem?"
While I stand among
the stars,
And I shout out,
"too many to mention."
I have bought
and sold
the Farm.


When I grew ill
and had to
leave my job,
you treated it like,
I was a lazy *******.

You had me
by the  *****,
yea,
that *** got stirred.

I was so
'on fire'
with anger.

You stood there
with a bellows
fanning
the flames.

I got your number,
I know your game.

After knowing you
more than a decade,
being there
to look after your kids
while you
went out and drank away
the money
I loaned you,
all the while trying
to get yourself laid.
Man I played the fool.

I miss the kids,
and the 'should of dids',
as for you, you can go to hell.

Like the carcus
of a rotting animal
you give off
such a strong sickening smell.

**** the "Glade",
**** the
keeping all the
doors and windows open.

I'm going out
to have a drink,
What a weight
off of my shoulders.

Get lost
because
just got paid,
I'll be dammed
if once again
I'll let myself
get made.

© 2013

Life is a library, but
Too many of our pages are blank,
Our words transparent
Forced into dogeared corners.
Not spineless per se,
But visiting a chiropractor regularly.  
Covering our selves in judgments
Worn with both shame and pride.
We tire of the climb and the thinning air
We bookmark the times we falter
And when we shield our eyes from the glare.
Our minds are marked by the epithets
Gifted unto us by others.  
Some arrows fly true to the bone
Others are way off the mark.
And when our final pages have been read,
The book loaned out or discarded
All that remains of us is said
In a line on granite epitaph
The truth of the dead forever guarded.

You were my everything
now i'm your nothing
you loved me once
you never will again
not only were you my lover
you were my best friend
whether or not
you're in the arms of another
it doesn't matter
i'll never hold you in mine
i'll never forget our days together
not until the end of time
because that's when you said
that you would stop loving me
now i have to live in this reality
a hell you said would never be

We went to the woods for a picnic
That girl was such a nitwit
She promised a lot
But all I got
Was a peck on the cheek and a biscuit

Her parents went to Rhyll
To me that sounded brill
I went to her place
All prepared (just in case)
And fed the budgie some trill

I said I've fallen for ya
Let's cuddle in the corner
She said that's nice
But tonight I might
Practise my recorder

She said it's good to share
I said I'm with you there
Then I was led
To a single bed
And loaned a teddy bear

I did my best to please her
But she was just a teaser
My money spent
My patience went
So it was time to leave her

Tangley Wangling

Fruit Jews in Tutus at youth group, maybe just a few with their screws loose. One self-rolling righteous group, their brothers grinning
Within the depths of their white-heads at the brim of a wet blanket suckling the needles catering new drug use. Two by two, elefants and woozels, hippopotamü's confusals, spongey-butts outfitting the rye n' wines refusals.

The luxury of a coccyx felt from the fingers turn to sunrise, where the water's weigh the bricks of suicides, concrete block tourniquets from the migraines of English turnabouts. So there's some surplus of surprise in them, in an integers shock-appraisal face-lift on Catholicism's lobotomy to cuckhold housewives seeking collagen, or the thick dark-skinned forearm-******* insider's swinging in the houses of the denizens, or repurposing their malign from their unused vaginas, to **** the dust off such scab-covered stitches, which is like vacuuming between the loose inner-leg space of a succubus.

Bring out the gimp! Any fetishized leather-wearing hungry miner for the oral tongue-slapping mouth-dance might do, as long as the dom can subdue that sub tied to the stocks voted on for the public to use, there might be screaming, squirming, and scoffs, but there's nothing left for him that Marina Abramowicz hasn't already proven she's willing to lose. Plus, in this small town not far enough from Laramie, there's still too much fat to chew through, too much flab to tuck the **** into, where even the F.U.P.A. so deep that a *******-day or deity might need the leverage of a boot to get even Ron Jeremy's **** unglued.

Lucky loos by the brothel befit these new arrivals, though some tyrannosaurs despise 'em, smoke as much as you can if you've got 'em.

But don't let your antiques get you down, an ornithologist lends herself to your bookends, and even that nighthawk roosting makes your car alarm sound second rate, it's seconds late as the aves rave to the ravens, and they pontificate. Owls hoo-hoo and hooting, branch off with the others and start colluding. They just wanna get you home, to get back those prosthetics you've loaned.

Canoodling barbarians on their way back from the aquarium, demand  their fires come from oblivion, which sends sparks of arguments from the sharks and the bathylkopian oblivions, where we found that this water's warm these citizens, demand recompense for such grandiose living expense, three pence to use the phone, twelve rupees towards the sofa, and even a deutsch mark for every sit or every look at sit, it's just a chair, a doubly set of wooden legs, idling under a table plank. Pirated by the buttocks, such bullocks it is, and that's just it!

An archaeologist on assignment discovered that the future of the rhinoceros exists upon the olfactory exaggerated proboscis, the result of flushing unused anti-biotics, and is currently working for dimes out of college to deluge this quite deprived yet interesting biopic.  

The films of the *****, grab at the ***** thrown about by The Monkees, and the musicians wearing those stickers on their *******, are victim to XXS cotton denim vests, unzipped and barely covering themselves, added to by the accessories and rings, jewelry if anything, a pearl necklace and nubile sacrifis.

And the trollops frolic, diurnally dispose of logic, doing the hoopty-hoop, the alley-oops, with mom's high school flute in nothing but cowboy boots!

These are, the new discoveries of our species, carved into the marble and wet frescos, in the street reliefs, spray-painted and air-brushed motif, this creates such gatherings for throngs of people who've unachieved their needs, who've displaced their parents and display their racist grieving beliefs to trash indigenous language pleas for francophonian linguistic greed that have splayed their hellacious treaty in what's considered to be modern circumscribed and ill-painted cuneiform visually conceived, vocal graffiti.

So that the neu-faux derogatory delegates stress to sudatorium, it has regressed to moratoriums, we've now cancelled this sport consortium of awful and flagrant art performances.

Considering me a talented, aspiring shill
My muse loaned me a feathery quill
Brokering her wisdom, leasing her skill
With embroidered frills each barb with beauty did distill
Lithographer's vision, a graceful dividend to reveal 
Depreciating vane my artistic license to  bill
Hollow shaft gilded so her availing light could the vacuum fill
Inky reservoir with inspiration did instill
A deep well with literary devices did rill
Ideas streaming from strained cavity to the mind's tip with zeal  
Burnished hues, sharp tones aesthetic notions to congeal
A precision valve appended vagaries to swill
An automated inkblot defibrillating patterns to spill

Horton’s Bend
Dave Davis-2013
Treat the earth well,
It was not given to you by your parents.
It was loaned to you by your children.”
Native American Proverb

Chapter 1
During the early part of the 16th century, the Spanish began their expeditions into the New World in their quest for riches in the form of gold and silver. It was a time of great competition between explorers attempting to be the first to expand the Spanish Empire. Famously Ponce de Leon discovered La Florida in 1533 which allowed geographers and map makers to better outline the coast which de Leon hugged during his travels. His perception that it was an island misled geographers for a number of years. Historic documents do describe a quest for a body of water which was known for a restoration of vigor but the Fountain of Youth was not a focus of de Leon’s. Upon learning of La Florida, further expeditions were made ready. Hernando de Soto’s exploration, which began in the vicinity of present day Tampa Florida in 1539, was a four year journey which provided more information about the strange new continent.
Other expeditions filtered their way into the southeastern United States. Expeditions such Tristan de Luna de Arellano traveled into the interior southeast from 1559 to 1561 including the chiefdom of Coosa in Northwest Georgia and Juan Pardo who led two expeditions into the present day Carolinas are also chronicled.

What a strange world it must have been having stepping into what they must have considered an undeveloped and tangled landscape having been at sea for months prior to their arrival. These new comers were warriors riding into a land of what they considered savages ruled by mighty chiefs. The chiefdoms were purposely distanced apart in order to ensure a semi peaceful relationship with nearby chiefdoms. Each principal chief or cacique lived in areas surrounded by earthen mounds and fortified walls with hand dug moats. These rulers were presented with gifts of corn, exotic materials from foreign lands, and other tributes by their subjects. During the past seventy five years, archaeologists have reconstructed the past life ways of these people through their excavations of village sites and burials. Coupled with the work of dedicated historians, we now have a better understanding of how these native peoples lived and died. We will never fully understand their world.
Theirs was a hermetic world which was provided all that was needed. Respectful of the land and its gift of life giving resources, the native peoples were dependant on the land which figured prominently into their spiritual being. Their needs were meager as they did not desire wealth or the need to satisfy a gluttonous royalty. The principal chief’s rulings were simple and they obeyed without question. He and the other leaders asked only what the earth would provide. Their only loyalty was to the ethereal gods and to the cacique who communicated the will of the Creator. In times of famine or strife, theirs was a community that continued to be self sustained as it had always been from birth to death. They must have considered that dark times had arrived with the new strangers. These interlopers were not here to commune but rather to bring greed and lust to their land.

Native American groups surely were frightened by the sight of an entourage of the bearded new comers. Dressed in quilted shirts with bright colored sashes with tall hip boots, their appearance had to be most curious to the natives. The presence of never before seen animals such as the horses bearing the soldiers were cause enough for the Indians to scatter from their villages. The horsemen wore the heaviest armor consisting of chain mail or if preferred a breastplate of sorts. Their weapons were a long lance in conjunction with a small shield. The foot soldiers wore peaked steel helmets along with quilted shirts armored with small steel plates and were equipped with sharpened steel weapons such as short double edged swords, halberds, and crossbows. Matchlock guns were also a weapon employed by the Spanish explorers. They were close combat weapons which would have to suffice since heavy artillery could not be used in the thick and tangled environment.
The Spanish found the New World to be a land of hardships when they depleted their supplies of foodstuffs between chiefdoms. This land proved not to be a place of abundant riches but rather difficult terrain for pedestrian journey. In order to supplement the Spanish took the stored food supplies that Indians had readied for winter. As Old World warriors, they had no hesitancy to threaten or harm when supplies were needed. Word of their arrival brought both fear and awe to native groups who were duped by the rich lies and gifts of the metal objects that was so foreign to them.
While the devastation of Spanish contact impacted native lives, it should not over shadow the rich history of these people. Prior to contact, they were thought to be involved in the construction of a society emerging from the chiefdom level. Their capability to understand astronomical constants, their ability to sustain an agricultural culture, and the art produced attest to a vibrant society that was merely unfortunate to be caught up in a dynamic European expansion that was inevitable.  
Their story is more than that of European contact as they dealt with pestilence, political instability, drought, and dwindling resources in large communal sites. It comprises a much larger picture from a story long forgotten in a language that will forever remain unknown. History is filled with the tragedies of conquest but this story does not end with the Spanish invasion of peaceful natives. It does not end at all because their spirit was stronger than any intrusion by the strangers. While much suffering has occurred from this contact, there was one group who managed to avoid conflict and quietly retain their heritage. Unfortunately time has left a ragged history with gaps that are not fully understood by those who seek wisdom from the past. No matter. Their intentions regarding history were never as strong as their passion for the land.

On an unknown date during the 16th Century in Northwest Georgia, a group of Spanish invaders made contact with a group of Native Americans who believe in the sacred ground they call home.



Chapter 2
Ronnie King sat on the tailgate of his 4x4 pickup and drained the last of an ice cold Budweiser that had been waiting on him all day. Ronnie kept a cooler full of cold ones for quitting time although he usually just drank the one beer before leaving for home. Working as a foreman on a timber crew, he was soaked in sweat and enjoyed just taking a moment to reflect on a day’s work. He always felt like a man who could tote a chainsaw for eight hours and deal with the elements was a man by God. The sun would be setting soon and he would talk to a few of the boys before they headed to the house. It also gave him time to unwind a little bit and to pick off the ticks that seemed to always be attracted to him. He sure hadn’t forgotten that bout of Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever that had contracted a few years back. He remembered well how dizzy he was that hot afternoon. Some of the boys had chuckled but nobody scoffed at his 107 degree temperature when he was checked into the hospital. Anyways this was the best part of the day and he always got to thinking about his life.

Ronnie loved his job and wondered how others could ever work inside all day. Hell, even if he was paid more he couldn’t really see the benefits of extra cash compared to working out in the woods. More than once he had paid attention to deer signs and had bagged some bucks that were the envy of his fellow workers. It was just a great deal to be outside. Sure he ached pretty good by the end of the week and knew arthritis was in his future but it gave him a great opportunity to do what he really loved: look for Indian sites. Ronnie had been just a boy when he found his first arrowhead down on the floodplain of the Coosa River which ran through his grandfather’s farm. That thrill was one that never got old for the young man. Those who are observant and willing to risk the mud never knew what they would find after a good thunderstorm on a freshly plowed field. As Ronnie grew to be a teenager he already had a collection of artifacts that the local museum drooled over. Other kids that were Ronnie’s age were busy playing football or were involved in some school activity. Ronnie was different and had little interest in neither scholastic nor collegiate pastimes. Once he finished his chores at home,  he headed for the river.

When Ronnie graduated from high school he got a full time job working at Patterson’s Logging. At 18, Ronnie was a tall man with a full beard and was often mistaken for someone much older. He never was a big talker or one to boast. Many at school thought him slow but that was where he fooled them and the teachers too. No reason to give your all since they would expect more anyway. Besides what would he do with trigonometry? He loved the outdoors and spent quiet evenings along the river banks staring at the ground in search of the history that he loved. Teachers didn’t spend much time on how Indians lived during the time that the mounds were being built. He enjoyed books at the library much better than any of the school books. In particular, he loved the book Sun Circles and Human Hands which had wonderful pictures of burials dug up during the WPA days. He did take the time to learn how the Works Progress Administration had been created in the 40’s and created jobs to work on the large dam projects that brought on some of the earliest organized archaeological projects in the United States. At night he would look at Sun Circles and gaze at the pictures of the excavated burials and all the exotic grave goods that had been buried with the interred over 500 years before. The well made pottery vessels had always been one of his favorite artifacts but he had never found a whole ***. Having spent time with different books loaned from the library, Ronnie know the difference between pottery sherds dating to the earlier Woodland Period and those that dated to the later Mound builders or what the archaeologists called the Mississippian Period. He also enjoyed the ornaments and jewelry found in the burials. The designs in the shape of woodpeckers, rattlesnakes, and strange squatting men with eagle claws were carved into shell gorgets that were found around the necks of the nobles of the village. He realized that not all graves contained abundant artifacts as some simply were just a prone or flexed body that must have been a common person. Ronnie knew that there had to be some schools here in the south where you could learn to be a paid archaeologist but who had money to go to college? Besides, they might want him to give up what he found. What right did a museum have to something he had found? No, that didn’t seem right at all.
Patterson’s Logging worked all over a tri-county area and allowed Ronnie access to private property that he could never get permission to walk over. There were a dozen men who worked for Patterson not including Patterson’s boy, Ricky, who had helped Ronnie get hired. Ricky and Ronnie used to do a little cat fishing on weekends. Kicked back with a six pack on a boat ramp, the boys used to fight off the bugs attracted to the lantern glowing bright in the middle of the night. They talked about girls they’d like to get a hold of and wishing they had money for a nice pickup. Ricky’s daddy made pretty good money but most of it was ******* in chainsaws and equipment for keeping the logs steadily flowing to the saw mill. Ronnie never told Ricky but he was **** grateful to be working on a crew at Patterson’s.

A couple of the men who worked for logging outfit were from Cedartown which was located south of Rome. They didn’t speak to anybody very often and pretty much kept to themselves. Ronnie didn’t know them but had heard them called Jarvis and Ladge. The crews had finished logging a section near Armuchee Creek where some county workers had been using bulldozers to prep the area for a bridge project. It was time for lunch so everybody got out their lunchboxes and sack lunches. Jarvis and Ladge ate quickly and headed out to the disturbed area to walk it over. Ronnie had already figured on going out there too but they had beat him to it. He just went ahead and watched them looking for a few minutes. Finally Ronnie headed out and walked around a little distance from them. They glared at him at first but didn’t make a ******* contest out of this patch of dirt. Having walked around staring at the fresh soil for a good ten minutes the three were somewhat close to each other so they stopped and everybody wanted to inspect what the others had found.
Ladge had found a few good sized flint chips and a broken tip of a point. Jarvis looked at him and said “Buddy you ain’t found **** look at this piece of pottery!” He held up a large thick rim sherd which had pinched marks all around the curved rim. “Nice one Jarvis” whistled Ladge. “That’s a Mississippian sherd, Jarvis” offered Ronnie. The others stared at him until Ladge said “Boy this ain’t Mississippi! You in Georgia.” Ronnie didn’t want to be a smart *** to the older men so he said “I been reading in some books on ancient Indians and the pictures showed pottery that looked just like that one that was near 500 years old.” “Huh” Jarvis mumbled “Well what do you think about this bird point?” It was a small triangular point no bigger than a thumbnail made of black flint. Ronnie hesitated a moment and told them “That’s a nice one but you know they didn’t hunt birds with those don’t you?” The men just shrugged and Jarvis said “That’s what I always heard them called……that the Indians used a blow gun and blew them through it”. Ronnie was a little more confident but with a little caution said “That point was used on a bow and arrow…..you know how most points you find have a stem on the bottom end?” Both men nodded with interest. “Well those were used on spears but this type was used on a bow….bout the same time as that sherd you found”

Ronnie thought he might be scoffed at but both men just shrugged and one mumbled “Well I’ll be ******”. Ronnie then realized that Jarvis and Ladge’s interest was just in one upping each other and it was something to do besides talking to the other loggers. “I’d like to look at one of them books you been reading…..I got something I found and want to know more about it.” Ronnie’s interest was peaked and asked “What does it look like?” Jarvis tilted his head a little while looking over at Ladge and said “Just bring that book of yourn’s when you can.” Ronnie took the hint and all three realized it was time to start on the next parcel of the project.
As the work week continued, the three usually sat together and formed a group of their own talking about artifacts away from the others. Ronnie brought one book in but it was from some work over in Alabama and didn’t have what Jarvis was looking for. One Friday after work, Ronnie was about to head home when Jarvis and Ladge asked him to take a ride down to Cedartown and look at their collection. The two had a little cabin out off of Chubb Road with a rusted 49 Ford sitting out front. A metal trash barrel smoldered in the front yard. Ronnie walked in the cabin and had to choke back holding his nose as it reeked of sourness. These two ol’ boys were true bachelors who were not ones to throw out clothes until they fell apart. It was just sometimes they didn’t feel like picking up anything from a pile that had lain in a corner for a couple of weeks. Jarvis walked to a chest of drawers and opened it and asked Ronnie to come take a look. Ronnie looked in the drawer and saw a collection of artifacts typically found in the area. The material ranged from large Savannah River points dating back some 5,000 years to more of what the boys had termed “bird points”. Ronnie picked up a partial *** with check marked stamping and smiled. “This is a nice one….I’ve seen fragments like this on the Oostanaula.” He added “It’s from what is they call the Woodland Period”. Ladge smiled a big toothless smile and proudly proclaimed he had f

The morning I found the box
of photo albums in the attic
I learned that
the sun would have risen
even if I hadn't

Daylight is not necessarily
a good metaphor
for life

There you were
ten years earlier
having a picnic on the kitchen floor
despite the rain storm
visible through the foggy window behind you

You can make sandwiches
in any type of weather
but seeing the photos
loaned me understanding of why
you don't eat rye bread anymore

When I went back down stairs
I took our bread box outside to the birds
and made you soup
in silence.

Considering me a talented, aspiring shill
My muse loaned me a feathery quill
Brokering her wisdom, leasing her skill
With embroidered frills each barb with beauty did distill
Lithographer's vision, a graceful dividend to reveal 
Depreciating vane my artistic license to  bill
Hollow shaft gilded so her availing light can the vacuum fill
Inky reservoir with inspiration did instill
A deep well with literary devices did rill
Ideas streaming from strained cavity to the mind's tip with zeal  
Burnished hues, sharp tones aesthetic notions to congeal
A precision valve appended vagaries to swill
An automated inkblot defibrillating patterns to spill

This day was fused with difficulty and a newer sun
The only note this night can end on, is a bad one
In the rush I fell further from life, poor fortune seemed impaled
The crude white's new and improved hypocrisy had been scaled
A restless heart burns beneath these bones with a trembling sigh
As I'm identified, it hits like vesta when these loaned emblems tie