(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

There is this kind of time in everyone’s life. That was what I was told. I was also told I was peculiar in a nice way. But I am not going deep down all this time and peculiar thing and all. It is just that sometimes I feel so empty and I was also told that when you try to write something you should try your best to describe all sorts of stuffs so that the readers will get to know the kind of thing you are feeling. Like for now, the kind of empty I am feeling. Kind of funny though, who would want to know what I am feeling and on top of that who would want to know the kind of empty I was feeling. Anyway, I was feeling very empty yesterday and I am writing all this because I just thought it was pretty cool to feel empty, kind of, just like that. I am not being emotional and all but that is how it is, you like to feel sort of lonely, sad, happy or whatever at time, just like that. And when I driving on my bike, I speed it up to the most it can bear or most I can bear and twist and turn and run over other motor bikes and stuffs that are moving in the road in a kind of modest way but I know they are as ******* as I am. But hell with that, I don’t want to know if anyone is ******* or not. I can’t even think about the right word to replace the *******. But, you know what I mean. It’s kind of sad to find that everyone is *******. Then, that makes me madder and I speed up more. I start to rip apart my accelerator, literally. You know what literally mean, don’t you? It’s when you do something in a literal way just like when some lousy guy start acting out too corny while they say they will bring down the stars and moons for the girl they love.  To hell with love, love is the stupidest thing that will ever again happen to me and if that happens then I will crown myself with all kind of stupid crowns and be the king of stupid. But love was kind of good feeling too.  Anyway I just try not to end up breaking my neck when I am in bike. But you know then I just intently look at the something something that is coming towards me and then I feel like speeding up more and just encounter that innocent ***** face to face. Yeah, I mean it. I feel like pointing the direction of my bike right to that something something truck or stuffs that, just like you know when an archer aims. You know then, I also have this shrewd kind of look in my eyes, like I am dead serious about what I am going to do. Its fun when you know you won’t but you act like you will. Yeah, I just feel like heading right towards the something something and hit it right on its grotesque face with some silly stupid art. Then, can you imagine what will happen? I can see every ******* retards gathering around me. I am lying down with blood over everywhere. I can see pieces of my grand motor bike here and there. I can see the driver of that something getting out and trying to explain that I was the one who came directly into him as if I was attempting suicide. To hell with suicide. What kind of person does suicide. I can see traffic cops and medics and all. They are just trying to carry me to hospital. But I know I won’t want to go to hospital because hospitals make me sick. There are lots of sick and depressing people around. If they would want to take me anywhere then I would like them to take me to mountain top from where I could see a bluest lake  all the clear reflection of clouds and the greens and rainbows and butterflies and all those stuffs the poets from nature describe in their poem. But I know they are too busy for that. They are some stupid people who just want me to admit to hospital. Anyway, when they start to lift up, I just get off the stretcher and start laughing out loud. I will tell them that I am okay and its all my ****** series of imagination and show them that I don’t have wounds and all but they will just vanish. I keep laughing and laughing because then I could finally feel or imagine the pain that I will go through. The pain that will fill me up and I don’t feel empty anymore. That is the exact kind of empty I feel. But that is not enough, I am still on my bike. If you have lost me, I want to repeat all that happened was just a part of my imagination. I imagine stuffs a lot and I think they are cool when I imagine stuffs about dying and just waking up as if I am just taking nap and waking up. Is there anything like that rebirth or stuffs? Anyway, I am still on the bike. I speed up thinking all these things and then I make my way through a very narrow alley between two moving something trucks or buses and there… That is the right kind of empty that just got filled. You know it or not, when you speed up and make a narrow escape from between the moving trucks just closely to save your life. Man, I can feel the air move through my veins and I can see my heart flying out of my chest. Man, was that crazy? I ask to myself. To hell with it. I am still alive and breathing and I am not feeling empty anymore. But as I keep thinking, I just get so mad. I don’t know at what or at whom. Everything is so pale and depressing. I try to cheer myself up looking at the clouds and green trees and trying to think about witty lines that’s funny to me and all and all and them , all it just makes me so mad, just more depressing.

That right, I then stop my bike on the side rail and start thinking about writing about all these stuffs. Because I have this group of friends who kind of poem and stuff and they are pretty good too. I also poem and stuff sometime but nothing that I wrote ever became good. Because I can tell by reading them all that, the stuffs that come in paper are not everything I feel. Like if I have to use percentage to say how near they are to the amount I feel, it would be like ten percent or around. That is not much. Even the government value added tax is thirteen percent. I was trying to be funny but hell with that. I was just feeling empty and all and now I am on my bike stopped on the side of the huge highways where everything is moving. Its depressing to find out that everything is moving , everything around you and you are the only one stopping to look at them moving. If only there was someone who was there by your side to hold your hand and look at all these moving vehicles and the traffics and kids holding the hand of their mothers and fathers and uncles to cross the road safely and those dogs and oxen lying over the road.  To hell with it, if there was actually someone who would be by my side, I won’t be feeling empty and imagining crazy stuffs and stop my bike trying to write a poem out of it or something or anything just so I can be more cool showing my rad poem to the group of my circle who poems. Man, do I love that ? I can certainly make a good actor out of me if I play in a move but it just make me feel more sad and I don’t know why. I look around if I can find any teashop or anything. Just so, I could sit there and order a tea and stay sad and pale and then someone would come and ask me. Hey boy whats the matter with you? Then I would just ignore his question. People can be real nosy sometimes. I am just siiting here having tea and something man. Head off to you own way, I will tell that. Why would I tell me why I was sad anyway. I was thinking about a beautiful girl like an angel that we see in movies , beautiful like that when the word beautiful fails to describe the amount of beauty she has,  I was trying to imagine a situation when I am sipping over my tea sadly and then this angel comes over and ask me what is that making me look pale. She would say nice stuffs to me and man, do I fall in love again? Man… love is the silliest thing ever. You can have enough of it. I was just feeling empty because some girl told me that she doesn’t have anything for me. Even I didn’t have anything for her . But you know there are times when you actually fall in love like madly in love. It’s the same person everywhere, all around you. You can’t just stop thinking about her. But the one who said she has nothing for  me, she meant no feelings or loves that she can do to me. We met few times, two or three and she was nice and all. I was funny and all. But even I haven’t felt anything towards her. Now she is really beautiful with this hair and this long slender face that she has. And then you know it when you want to fall in love. I wanted to fall in love with her because she was exactly the type of the girl that people have to fall in love with. She was active and hardworking. She has a good smile and dimples too. Man, those dimples drive me crazy. I just feel like diving into those tiny little cheeks and then right into her heart. And on the top of that wavy curly hair, it can drive anyone mad. Well, it drove me mad and that is why I am trying to fall in love with her. But anyway she told me last night or sometime in past that she doesn’t feel like that. I want to tell her that even I don’t feel like that with her. But I don’t want to because that may just drive her away from me all more. But anyway I was just mad when she told me that. Not mad like psychologically but like emotionally. I was just trying to explain her that we should may be spend some time together and get to know each other and all because you know I was kind of trying to fall in love with her and wanted to know more about her and make a lover like impression on her and all but man, was she crazy or something? She just said she doesn’t want to. It just made me so mad that I started my bike , yeah after paying for tea and all. I speeded up again and I didn’t want to stop but I had to stop because of this stupid traffic signal but my legs were all dancing because I was anxious and all and I just wanted to cry for nothing. But I can’t cry because I don’t feel like and when you feel like crying you cant stop it anyway. Those stupid tears will just fall off. Then The traffic signal goes green and I speed up and want to race with someone and feel good by beating them. But then there are other bikes that goes ahead me and that makes me feel more sad and then I just so over the yellow side line and start driving like slug. Man, I am extreme. I can feel it. I try to think about writing all this when I go home but I know I wont because I have done this many time and I have never written anything. Its just like that.

Its just like that. You have all these stupid to intelligent ideas an stuffs when you are walking or on the bike but I never do anything. When I reach home, I change my dress start it all again. I start to become normal like nothing is wrong with me. It just drives me crazy.. everything is so wrong with me. I have to be somewhere is some other good job that I will enjoy and that also pays me pretty good so that I can enjoy and all. I also have to fall in love with this girl. I have to complete one of my research paper so that I can earn good reputation among these technical circle of mine. I have to pen down some good stuffs so that I can perform it loudly in front of everyone and then everyone would cheer for me and all. I will just act modest and bow down. I also have to meet some of these my school friends and all and have some crazy times with them mocking the professional life and all. I have to be with my family, go to temples and stuffs and pray and ask the god to help me focus in my pursuit, which I am not sure what that is so I also pray and ask the god to show me the  right path. Its easy to pray and all and just stay happy thinking god will do everything but hell with god. I also have to prepare for this test and I have to complete reading this book and man, I have so much to do. I can’t just waste my time just like this.  

**There are always enough stupid things to drain the best outof you and leave you in terrible vacancy.

The smell lingered long after she had called the ambulance, after she had scrubbed the bathroom tiles back to a pristine white, after she had thrown out the ******* mangoes he had hid in the closet. For days afterward, she avoided the bathroom, showering the best she could in the old porcelain sink they had installed in the spring when he was able to keep fresh flowers in the kitchen vase. Those days, she would come home to jasmine and broken plates, marigolds and burnt biryani, pigeon wings and torn paper. Some days he was snake-quiet. Other days, his skin was fever hot, his limbs flailing to an alien language, his head tilting back, ululating.
Every day she would carry his soiled clothes into the laundry room, ignoring the thousands of whispered comments that trailed behind her. “Look how outgrown her eyebrows have become” as she strangled the hardened blood out of his blue longyi. “Look how her fingernails are yellow with grease,” as she beat the sweat out of his white wife beaters. “Look how curved her back is” as she hung his tattered briefs to dry in the small courtyard. The sultry wind picked up the comments as it breezed by her, carrying them down the road to the chai stand where they conversed until the wee hours.
Today, there is no wind. The coarse sun has left the mango tree in the back corner of the courtyard too dry, the leaves coiling inward. She picks up the green watering can filled with gasoline. The rusted mouth leaves spots on the worn parchment ground as she shuffles over. Her chapped sandals leave no impression. The trunk still has their initials, his loping R and V balancing her mechanical S and T. They had done it with a sharp Swiss Army knife, its blade sinking into the soft wooded flesh. “Let’s do it together,” he urged, his large hand dwarfing hers. A cheap glass bangle, pressed too hard against her bony wrist, shattered.  
Now, her arthritic finger traces the letters slowly, falling into grooves and furrows as predictable as they were not. When had they bought it? Was it when he had received the big promotion, the big firing or the big diagnosis? Or was it farther back, when he had received the little diploma, the little child or the little death? There was no in-between for him, everything was either big or little. Was it an apology tree or an appeasement tree? Did it matter? The tree was dying.
Her ring gets stuck in the top part of the T. He had been so careful when he proposed. Timing was sunset. Dinner was hot rice, cold milk and smashed mangos, her favorite. Setting was a lakeside gazebo surrounded by fragrant papaya trees. She had said yes because the blue on her sari matched the blue of the lake. She had said yes because his hands trembled just right. She had said yes because she had always indulged in his self-indulgences. She slips her finger out, leaving the gold as an offering to the small tree that never grew.    
She pours gasoline over the tree, rechristening it. Light the math, throw the match, step back, mechanical steps. She shuffles back through the courtyard as the heat from the tree greets the heat from the sun. She doesn’t look back. Instead, she is going up one step at a time on the red staircase, through the blue hallway, to the daal-yellow door. These were the colors he said would be on the cover of his bestseller as he hunched over the typewriter for days on end. Those were the days he had subsisted only on chai and biscuits, reducing his frame to an emaciated exclamation mark. His words were sharp pieces of broken glass leaving white scars all over her body.  
She remembers his voice, the deep boom narrating fairytales. Once upon a time, she had taken a rickshaw for four hours to a bakery to get a special cake for his birthday. Once upon a time, she had skipped sitting in on her final exams for him. Once upon a time, she had danced in the middle of an empty road at three in the morning for him. Once upon a time, she had been a character in a madman’s tale.
Inside, she takes off the sandals, leaving them in the dark corner under the jackets they had brought for a trip to Europe, never taken. Across the red tiled floor, she tiptoes silently, out of habit. From the empty pantry, she scrounges up the last tea leaf. Put water in the black kettle, put the kettle on the stove, put tea leaf in water, wait. On the opposite wall, her Indian Institute of Technology degree hangs under years of dust and misuse.
Cup of bitter tea in hand, she sits on the woven chair, elbows hanging off the sides, back straight. Moments she had shot now hang around her as trophy heads on cheap plastic frames. A picture of them on their wedding day, her eyes kohl-lined and his arm wrapped around her. A picture of them in Kashmir, her eyes full of bags and his arm limp. A picture of them last year, her eyes bespectacled and his arm wrapped around an IV pole. The last picture at her feet, her eyes closed and his arm is burning in the funeral pyre. No one had wanted to take that picture.      
A half hour later, a phone call from her daughter abroad. Another hour, a shower in the porcelain sink. Another hour, dinner, rice and beans over the stove. Another hour and the sun creeps away for good. It leaves her momentarily off guard, like when she had walked home to find him head cracked on the bathroom tub. The medics had assured her it was just a fall. Finding her bearings, she walks down the dark corridor to their, no, her bedroom.
She sits down now on the hard mattress, low to the ground, as he wanted it to be. She takes off her sari, a yellow pattern he liked. She takes off her necklace, a series of jade stones he thought was sophisticated. She takes off the earrings he had gotten her for her fortieth, still too heavy for her ears. She places her hands over eyes, closing them like she had closed his when she had found him sleeping in the tub, before she had smashed his head against the bathtub.  
In her dreams, she walks in a mango orchard. She picks one, only to find its skin is puckered and bruised. She bites it only to taste bitterness. She pours the gallon of gasoline on the ground. She sets the orchard on fire and smiles.

At the Bernie Sanders rally on Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Day in Alabama, a middle-aged woman in the crowd fell to the floor from illness. The entire rally silenced. All 7,000 attendees turned their focus to her welfare. When the medics arrived, the crowd erupted into cheers, a heroes’ welcome. The people then applauded the ill woman once she regained the ability to walk out of the event.

Two weeks prior, at a rally for the authoritarian populist Donald Trump, three white men stomped a black man. He’d worn a t-shirt that read 'Black Lives Matter.'

I don’t have faith.  
I just know that I belong to my Savior Jesus.  I met her once when I was 11, at her humble single wide in a cramped trailer park and she made candied walnuts on a hotplate.  I didn’t find out until years later that she paid for my scholarship.  She had passed on by then; I wish I could have thanked her.

He arrived at Juvenile Hall at 7:00 pm looking like Mrs. Santa Claus, to take me into her home for a year.  I made some sarcastic teenage comment about the stupid country music on her car radio, and she tolerated it with a smile; saying ‘its not stupid, its simple.’ She showed me what a caring family looks like and didn’t kick me out for being a smart-***; gave me chores and a curfew to show me I belonged.

When I had no family or boyfriend in my life, I lived in a maternity home until my baby would be adopted.  Jesus was the stranger in the hushed hospital room holding my hand, after the medics couldn’t find the heartbeat in the ambulance, which was confirmed on the maternity floor, and I was taken to another floor so my crying wouldn’t upset the other mothers.  The room was small and dark and alone, and the clock on the wall took an eternity to move two minutes, for the entire night that I was in labor, the longest night in my life.   I didn’t remember someone holding my hand; I was so drugged for pain.  She showed me her arms two days later, so bruised because she didn’t leave me.

Jesus was the woman from Planned Parenthood on the other end of the phone, listening to me when I called the Women’s Clinic asking how I could find a doctor.  ‘ I just moved here, and I work at a minimum wage job, and I lost my baby a month ago, but how do I get a post-partum exam when I don’t have a doctor, or any money, or insurance?’  I was very matter of fact about it, I mean this was my circumstance and what to do?  She arranged a birth control exam because the state would pay for that, by a doctor who would give me the post-partum.  She also referred me to a support group.  I had been alone but she found me people who understood and could sympathize and help me accept grief.   I look back on that now; there were no sign-carrying Christians or Churches arranging the adoption who helped me, she was the only one who cared.

March 26th my beloved and beautiful sister passed away.
Her son found her in her bedroom in the morning;
the medics couldn't revive her and said her heart had collapsed.
My nephew and I are in a daze, the loss seems unbearable. She was a
very talented poet. Please go to her poems on hp and celebrate her
writing. She is listed under: Kathleen Myra Colby. I will always love
and miss her.
Adelaide Caron Dyson. (04/10/12)

Run rotten, for things have gotten out of hand.
Turn coat ducking, torture got him singing and eating outta my hand.
Getting scraped by the beater like youse a percussion instrument;
maybe that’s why a group of people are called a band?
For we all play our part to either be an influence or to be influenced.
Yet we won’t know anything if you never venture into the forest and meet the temptress.
When one experiences all six senses, when in present tenses, which then puts the body through stresses.
That makes the mind flood with guesses that clouds up our lenses.
But that’s just what war is like for one is always in the trenches.
Whilst other’s sit on benches, but each choice brings rewards and consequences.
Which bears questions on what your quest is?
To run free or to be held back by white picket fences?
For being hard pressed brings out either killers or medics.
To choose to be real or synthetic.
To become abstract or symmetric.
However, things aren’t always so metric.
So be wary of being a critique for just like branches of mathematics in arithmetic,
We have many great qualities but when in a group we can become manipulated.

There’s a favorite culinary dish in town;
it’s known as the synapse shish kebab.
It’s high in protein as well as fat, and it comes
with a garlic-infused broccoli rabe,
available with a choice of couscous or rice.
The palate will most likely be enticed, just like
another common John who swears to us that he
again has done absolutely nothing wrong.
It pairs nicely with an eighties chenin blanc,
gray matter that’s grilled to sheer perfection,
smoked all day, and is guaranteed satisfaction,
seemingly like an old, rambling rolling stone.
The lights are on—but nobody’s buying homes.
An opera singer that is deaf to certain tones,
this is definitely not regal crumpets and tea—
“heart-healthy nutrition,” all our medics agree.
There’s a new critically acclaimed dish around;
it’s the slow-roasted synapse shish kebab,
moderately priced, and portions are family style—
passed-down secret recipes from west of the Nile,
and also numbers that won’t make your wallet sob
like a big, bad, dark, overly loaded cloud.
Give it a try, and then shout it out loud:
synapse shish kebab!

one person said: "peace is nothing but illusion
all I want is retribution"
[from "Pure Power" by Zardonic]
that's something I can identify with, which is why
I decided to write this heap of rhymes
————————————————————————————————
on a shooting range in a boondock la[ɛ]nd
with gloves pU̲t on; sta[ɛ]nd
in front of an autocratic ruler chained
by his hands to two moola safes'
[greed]
handles looking way
like an old-fangled car directing wheel
[steering wheel]
have this die-hard fool restrained
so that he, more or less, is still
I'm not a scho[ɑ]lar who can wave
around a degree in the medics field
but it's obvi this high-hat dO̲U̲chebag's plagued
with megalomania in a neglected condition
but there's a dreadfully effectual treatment
and he'll get it like villains
quite a gruesome fate
is looming upon this power-befuddled ****
like darkened clouds that, beyo[ɑ]nd a doubt, are soon to rain
["dark end"]
like waveriders, he's go[ʌ]nna serve
["surf"]
as a punchbag for I'm in quite a mood to raze
gonna wI̲nd up as nada short
of a ****** loon today
like Battinson, clepe me Vengeance
but I'm more something like the Zorro-looking caped
anti-autocratic vigila[ɛ]nte
from the Norsefire-ruled UK
[V from "V For Vendetta"]
meets someone whose work field's tormenting
like victimizers who pertain
to LE in one tsar-sized off-putting state
[law enforcement]
you know, the one that's go[ɑ]t a putrid trait
of always posing as a side you shouldn't blame (it's all the West!)
(now, let's go back to the foul autocrat)
like a jerky boss that you disdain
I give this no[ɑ]b a cool g'day
by douching him from a bo[ɑ]ttle full of straight-
-fro[ʌ]m-a-cooler H2O; just a fE̲w secs break
for him, & once it's U̲p, I ****** this base
being fro[ʌ]m a stE̲wpot great
with **[ɑ]t-a## noodles aimed
into this hU̲mbug's stupid face
[the "hang noodles on the ears" expression]
pepper it with some ground 7-po[ɑ]t to boost the taste
feel how I, like a husband who betrayed
his devoted, yet testy, wife, get rudely gazed
at, racked, beda[ɛ]mned (by who?)
by food-lacking men from Africla[ɛ]nd
[Africa]
ask him: "is the provided food okay?"
zero gratitU̲de displayed
all that comes from this sno[ɑ]t's bazoo's complaint
but nO̲[ɑ]t that I'm surprised
a typical pro[ɑ]sperous gobshite
the tack priorly applied
I do the same with a bucket full of maroonish paint
[autocrats have blood on their hands, hence "maroonish paint"]
like that music producer famed for dull future bass
I put on his viscous head a **** bucket
[Marshmello]
whereafter pick a wedge up & drum it
[golf wedge]
and, like a heap, I barely get started
[worn-out car]
like an unprepped passenger on an insane car ride
with no seat restraints applied
he's about to have a way hard time
I'm a cosmetic surgeon that operates part-time
fix his blamed jawline in just twain sharp swipes
with a steel bat, then yield some keen slaps
that meet his kneecaps until the knees snap
like the Baba Yaga hitman detached
from his peaceful life by someone ge[ɪ]tting him mad
[John Wick]
get his nails removed
which is pretty much the same that you do
when you repaper a room
[wall nails]
having perforated his fingertips
I ge[ɪ]t 'em plastered
a few minutes later, I rip them things
off 'kin/sim. to wax strips
he gets his phA̲[eɪ]lanxes smitten with
a freaking ratchet
[rathet wrench]
pro[ɑ]b'ly, he regrets
that his bo[ɑ]dy's still not dead
pick U̲p a pistol, set
a drum-like clip in, get
it cocked, then shoot lead around his silhouette
till the clip has zero ammunition left
seems like this once co[ɑ]cky piece of dreck
has gotten his khaki chinos wet
but if I've go[ɑ]t him in a sweat
like a summer jo[ɑ]gger being dressed
in venthole-deficient threads
for this brash dude, there's bad news
like me when I write some sick bloodshed
sadly for him, I've not finished yet (uh-uh)
like a runner that's go[ɑ]t some distance left
to complete, & it's not as dark as things can get
'cause, like the heroine o[ʌ]f M. Streep in "Death
Becomes Her" after falling fro[ʌ]m that string of steps
I've got a somewhat twisted head
[Madeline Ashton; the staircase fall scene]
so consider this as an insult-to-inju[—]ry sesh
grab a brace of scissors
for garden mainte[—]nance; Richard
Trager comes into play; begin ta
amputate his fingers; operate at leisure
disarticulate 'em I̲nto twenty eight **** pieces
cauterizing the remains with illuminated cI̲gars
fling into his piggish face some tissues
and some pain relievers
tell this nazissistic patient "hE̲A̲l up"
["****" in the sense of being "severely intolerant or dictatorial"]
let him relax for eighteen minutes
over the spa[ɛ]n of whI̲ch I put on play "La Chica
Rockabilly" & some other ro[ɑ]ckabilly
jams to make the whole vibe a mite less grisly
like an NA brown bear that is gravely injured
["mightless grizzly"; North American]
(as, in fact, this tragic-fated bleeder)
whereafter spray him with a
["wither"]
can of gas & make his dicta—
—torial a## go ablaze akin ta
a straw-fabricated figure
during gala days at the late of winter
[Maslenitsa effigy]
telling this piece of trash "in case you wI̲[ɪ]nd up
in somewhat of Hades, give a
warm shalom to the infamous ******"
consider this autocratic ****
a sugar daddy's skirt
'cause he's gotten what he was asking for
————————————————————————————————
oh, & one thing more to say: the
nullified, like ruler's presiding terms, dictator
was known among some as "toilet sprayer"
like a scuttered urinator

Band-aids to prevent the social infections that could eventually
spread to the frontal lobe,
Diseases started on Fox News, spread to the living room,
circulate around the family dinner table
putting victims of ignorance on the coroner’s slab
Alleviate the pain.
Should we let the gapping wounds of intolerance fester, decay and grow maggots?
***** bigotry, vile illiteracy, primitive ideas coat the skins of society like a black goo.

Band-aids: self adhesive bandages
We aren’t teachers. We are medics.
covering the gapping wounds of life
lathering the lesions with Neosporin.
Healing the scars from parenting gone wrong
- scars from wounded self-esteems
-lacerations to the proverbial heart

Scars lasting longer than the body itself.  
No one knows where its impact will end.

Band-aids
temporary fix
heal the wound fast, heal the hurt faster
A Johnson and Johnson remedy for damaged organisms
Well-meaning ones hurling scriptures scald hands with tainted words
Healing is a matter of time.

Arm teachers to protect children from the crazies who loom?
What will protect them from their own inherited ignorance?
The damage is already done when they get here.
Equip us with Band-Aids, boxes and boxes.

Hello Kitty over their ears to block the infection from coming in
Spiderman for their mouths. Stop the seepage of any contamination from spreading to others.

The remaining scars will fade, but not disappear.
even with a band-aid.

“Doc, over here.” I heard them cry.
I raced on black volcanic sand,
I know snipers target medics with
a corpsman's pouch in hand.

“It’s Mike Strank, they got him bad.”
Mike was down, writhing in pain.
He was losing blood
and awfully pale.

Shielding his body with my own,
in a depression in the ground
I cut away his Khaki shirt.
Until the entry wound was found.

A ******* wound, an evil sign-
red frothing bubbles from his chest.
A styrette of Morphine- all I had
to ease the pain of every breathe.

Suribachi loomed above us.
Barely had a week gone by
since this man had helped to raise
the Forty eight Stars on high.

Now he was dying, fading fast.
A grave awaited, far from home.
There was nothing I could do
except not let him die alone.

This was written and posted on a friend of mine's web site 2008.
-----------------------------------------------------------­--------------
I had a defining moment in my life when I was a teenager. It involved a dark night, a coyote, and a barbed wire fence. (Don’t they all?)

I grew up on a farm in Western Nebraska. I drove cars, tractors and trucks from the time I could navigate the pedals. When I was 12 or 13, our neighbor (who was out of town on ‘farm business’) asked me if I would come down to his house when it was midnight and drive his pickup to the local canal and turn off his irrigation system. I went to the farm in the early evening and settled in to watch TV (my family didn’t have one at the time). Midnight came and there was just enough moonlight to make out the path through the tree strip and to show me where to cross a five wire barbed wire fence. Just as I was about to push down the gate to close off the water flow, a coyote let out a blood chilling howl just across the canal. My hair stood up (I had hair then) and I took off running full bore. I hit the barbed wire fence, immediately creating a few extra holes in my skin. I bounced back and landed on my posterior. This very rude awaking to reality caused me to think, “that was stupid.”

I calmly walked back up to the gate, closed it, crossed the fence the proper way and went on home.

I think about that time often. That was the last time I ever reacted like that in my life. It was a lesson on what could happen if I let fear take control of a situation. I never wanted to go there again.

About 12 years ago, I was sitting in the VW garage at 8am getting the oil changed in my van. I heard a ruckus and subsequent running coming from the showroom and soon a big guy came my way and ask me if I knew CPR. Well, I thought my “card” is expired, but I said yes anyway. We ran back to the shop and there lay a friend of mine, flat on the deck. He apparently fell over backwards while cleaning my van's windshield.

There were more than 6 people standing around. No one else was doing anything so I checked him out and started compression and breathing. A couple minutes later I was joined by someone who did the compression part.

I remember having a strange thought, “if he throws up while I am breathing for him I will just throw up in the floor drain, by his head.” I was as calm as could be through the whole thing. It seemed like hours until the medics got there but it was 15 minutes. They “jump started” him three times while I kept on doing the breathing. He restarted and miraculously I walked with him to the ambulance where upon I turned and collapsed in the arms of a big guy standing there. The job was done, I could ‘let go’.  He lived two more years, gave his daughter (14) two more years, set down by a tree by the walking trail and died.  No one to help him.  I missed him.

People have commented how calm I appear in a time of crises. But what they don’t know is, I am like a little duck on the water. On the surface things look calm. Under the water I am ‘paddling like crazy’. I always feel God knows what I can and can’t handle and carries me through even the toughest situations.

I am John Stevens, that is my story and I'm sticking to it.

Current Stats:
I currently play music in a group called Magic Valley Jubilee.  I retired in 2007 from Agricultural Research Service with 39+ years at the same location. From 1967 to 1980 he worked on micro-climate studies assisting in developing irrigation scheduling equations. From 1980 to 2007, I was an IT specialist working with a group of scientists and engineers.  I received a degree in physics from Bethany Nazarene College 1967.

I have been married (43 years) and have two children and two grands. I am a published author of several scientific papers. I served on the church board for 23 years and did lots of work with teens.  10-12-10

Standing naked on the porch
New gold rings on my fingers
Morning mist in the valley
I couldn’t stop myself.
I couldn’t even try.
Call the healers and call the medics.
Send for a witchdoctor.
Someone needs to wake her up
Morning sun in the valley
It’s gonna be a hot one.

The internal battle..eternal....(one from the vault)


Lucifer and Jehovah dancing some mad bossa nova

While angels on horse backs fought devils with black jacks

The white dove of peace had surrendered his lease

So God ripped off his wings.. he no longer sings

Then the Devil ripped out his heart so it could end at the start.

Wagner and Chopin got frightened..

..and off they ran.

But Beethoven and Bach were sat in the park

Composing arias to fight Hells hot fires.

While Chekhov and Handel burned coramandel

But the smoke from that pyre stank like a byre.

Socrates was sat dispensing the ethics

Hippocrates swore while dishing out medics

The Muses were musing one or two were enthusing

Oooh look.. the good against sinner

Let's go down the bookies and have a bet on the winner.

Cometh the day cometh the morn

Cometh the hour cometh the dawn.

Here is Joshua blowing his horn

And here comes Gabriel but all that he meets

Are the countless dead lining up on the streets

And the wounded and deathbound far far below

I feel sorry for Gabriel I wish he could go.

But Picasso arrives and cries

My God it's my Guernica I'll do a pastiche

Oh F*ck it he says and has a pastis (or two)

Then Pollack turns up totally ******

Picks up a paint and says what I have missed?

What a fantastic sight.. angels flashing demons crashing

The hounds of Hell with teeth a gnashing

Then Neptune arrives astride his watery chariot

Scything through Demons and sat beside Judas Iscariot

Mermen and mermaids mercilessly slayed

By Beelzebubs prototypes

Those that live in the black nights.

But as the dawn breaks God knows what it takes

So he sends for his legions calls out to all regions

Take arms and do battle

Till we hears Satans death rattle.

And the heavens rip asunder to the sound of the thunder.

Satan rings on Hells bell.. tells them all is not well

Then disappears from our sight as if he's turned off the light.

Then I awake with a start knowing that I've been a part

Of something vast something grand

A spiritual war being fought in this land

I am alive and I shall survive.

PRAISE BE.

Jack Cornwell was a Boy, First Class
On the Chester’s forward gun,
There to relay the settings with
A pair of headphones on,
He’d turned sixteen just months before
Was trained for his chosen task,
And hoped for a life of adventure as
He sailed, before the mast.

The Chester sailed to join the Fleet
That had left from Scapa Flow,
The Grand Fleet with its battleships
Sailed under Jellicoe,
They’d intercepted the German codes
And knew that they’d put to sea,
Hoping to split the British Fleet
And gain a victory.

The Chester turned to meet the flash
Of gunfire, far away,
The light was poor before the dawn
And the mist was thick that day,
Three funnels of a German ship
Came gliding through the mist,
And the Chester turned to starboard
Ready to show the British fist.

But the German ship was not alone
And the shells began to rain,
From the following battle cruisers
Shattering decks, in blood and pain,
Jack Cornwell stood at his post while all
His gun crew lay there dead,
Ready to take his orders, though
The Chester turned, and fled.

The medics found him with shrapnel wounds
Steel splinters in his chest,
He wouldn’t desert his post, he was
As brave as all the rest,
The Chester sailed for Immingham
Disembarked the wounded crew,
Put Jack in Grimsby Hospital,
There was nothing they could do.

He died just two days afterwards
Before his mother came,
She’d hurried on up from London
Where she’d caught the fastest train,
They buried Jack in a communal grave
So many men had died,
Fighting for King and country
Steeped in duty, worth and pride.

His name was honoured from lip to lip
How he’d stood beside his gun,
Determined to fight the German ships
‘Til the Chester turned to run,
Such courage born of England
Where it was tempered at the forge,
Was so inspiring in one so young
Said the Navy, to King George.

‘For shame,’ then cried the ‘Daily Sketch’
When they heard of the communal grave,
‘Is this how we treat our heroes,
Jack deserves the nation’s praise!’
The coffin was shortly disinterred
And draped with the Union Jack,
Drawn on an open gun carriage
With the Navy at its back.

His name went down in the history books
As the boy who stuck to his post,
In the midst of dead and dying men
As they made their way to the coast,
King George conferred the highest award
That there was, for bravery,
Awarded him the Victoria Cross,
Jack Cornwell, Boy, V.C.

David Lewis Paget

Another day seems to pass by in the desert as it has for hundreds if not thousand of years,
Except the crunch of gravel and sand as a 2 ton frag 4 tuned up humvee races down another street in Iraq,
no surprise to see this in Iraq since the US led invasion in 2003,
same **** different day, otherwise known to soldiers as SSDD syndrome,
only this day would forever change lives,
the flash was white hot and the melting metal was proof enough of the sheer explosivness of the improvised explosive device,
the blast enough to let Iraqis living miles away look up to see the smoke,
they never heard the screaming though,
but the soldiers did as they raced to what was left of the humvee,
three dead upon impact,
a fourth lay screaming on the ground with what was left of the rest of his legs still in the passenger seat,
medics on  the ground did good and saved the poor soul,
his screams would fill the Iraqi night for for hours,
a short chopper ride to Baghdad Hospital,
they docs put his feet on ice, quite literally,
more than ten hours of surgery and the legs were sewn back on, but this soldiers fight was over,
a flight on the first plane to Ramstein Air Base Germany,
but the doctors cant do anything for this man,
he needs propers medical care,
send him home to Fort Bragg,
Womack Army Hospital,
doctors are optimistic as they tell this hero he will live but his days in the Army are over,
the tears are unexplainable as he pleads with the doctors to **** him
he doesnt want to live,
he may never walk again, he is a freak, his fiancee wants nothing to do with a *******,
over a week the soldier tries everything he can,
pulling out IVs,
injecting his blood stream with air filled needles,
his screams keep the other patients awake during the cold nights,
his crying during the day a constant reminder of the hell that only those who have lived it can ever know,
a week passes by, at least one suicide attempt a day,
then the soldiers fiancee arrives,
the crying becomes unstoppable as he pleads for her to leave him, not to look at his crippled body, that he wishes to die,'
why? she asks,
the question stops his tears,
why? she repeats,
because I am a ******* I may never walk again,
so? she asks, calling in the doctor,
the doctor arrives to find the soldier in tears and the meanest scowl ever seen on a woman,
doctor she asks, so he may never walk correct?
thats correct the doctor replies,
can he still have ***? she asks,
the doctor is stumped by the question and stumbles as he replies, well....yea its only his legs not his *****,
the fiancee looks at her soldier,
well then why the hell are you crying? as long as we can still have *** I am not leaving you!
the soldier sobs uncontrolably as his future wife holds him dearly,
the smiles on the other patients outwardly happy for the both of them,
then dinner arrives, the fiancee freaks out,
throwing the food across the room and storming from the hospital,
the soldier believing she had finally realized he was a *******, sobs once more,
the patients, doctors and nurses stumped,
another suicide attempt made,
thrity minutes pass,
the fiancee arrives, carrying a Dominos pizaa,
she holds him closely as she says he cant eat hospital food anymore,
he needs to eat right so that he can walk again,
and so comes a miracle through pain.

NO **** people this is a true story i witnessed myself in the Womack Army Hosptial roughly early 2006. It was a beautiful sight to see, and any man would consider himself blessed to be with what I can only describe as a miracle and the truest woman alive. That soldier deserved nothing less, oh, and he did walk again.

wednesday 6/10/15 when going to my summer school post and made a right hand turn at the change of the light ( also in fl. you can make a right hand turn on the red ) i was slammed by a flatbed truck and forced me onto the sidewalk and hitting a concrete pole. the car was totaled and the driver sped off leaving a tire on the sidewalk up ahead , but we wasn't sure if it was from the cement mixer that he had or from his truck. any ways GOD and the ANGELS were watching over me and i walked away from that crash to the amazement of the police and the firemen medics who came because of a call from a passerby. i was taken to the hospital after they had gotten the info from me and then they called my wife and i called my daughter on the medics phone. ( mine locked from the impact and to my surprise not one airbag went off ) they did a MRI and just found some arthrithis in my neck , but i was allright. geico paid off the balance on my car and with the difference i put a down payment on a new car. ( KIA SPORTAGE 2014 ) new payments all over again but what the hell - i walked away from it. GOD IS GOOD i will continue writing my poetic stories and lyrics as long as GOD allows. BLESSINGS TO ALL MY READERS

Over a month, or a little more,
Maybe two, or just before;
At mine last métier,
Working at the
Dollar store.
I kept on seeing
The vatic harbinger's
In tax form; thirty-one
And thirteen. The register
Wouldst with none other
Sign to me read. For one day
After earning mine wages, I told
Mine mother of these prognostic gazes.
In fret, and distress, I kneweth these symbol's
Hadst to do with mother and father, twas mine guess.
In mine soul, God gaveth me sigil's, in the appearance of extra-change; O' how mighty God is, powerful, unchanged. Just a few twenty-four hour's ago, on the thirty-first of  March, mine father went to the restroom in anguish; Lip's parched. Panic hit ourn abode, mother ran to father's side, I was in the living room as mine father walked out-tears in eye's. He was holding his chest, as if a stone rolled on his beating heart, his face crimson red, he was stumbling toward's death's spark. Mother grabbed the phone, I went into dismay, I ran to grab the aspirin's, and started praying in mine mind silently. Popping the bottles top, fortunately knowing what to do, Sat father down on the couch, mother talking to medics to. I told him in force, " chew these pills right now, making him drink water, to get those orange thing's down. I couldst seeith quietus coming from his heavied breath, I held his hand as If that day was the last dance, with mine father's paining chest. The two emergency medical technician's, crossed into ourn door, there bag's in hand's with oxygen tank's; machines and much more. As the emt's were keeping mine father conscious, I took mine mother by the arm, I took her into the bedroom-closed the door in silent charm. I whispered to mother quickly, " Come on were praying NOW", we bowed ourn head's on the side of the bed, asking God though faith in Christ, " Lord please hath mercy and saveth Ron now. After a few questions from the emt's, I went down to the ambulance with father, as whilst mine dad was dying, he to the ambulance men preached. I laughed and smiled, as dad was telling those fine men how to be saved; Mine father spoke of Yeshua, even whilst his heart beat in rage. Mother followed behind the ambulance, I was sitting inside with dad, knowing all wouldst be alright, for the Lord and Savior was on ourn side that day, and for all coming night's. We got to the hospital, doctor's gaveth dad some tests, A miracle happened; no damage to his beater, no issues with his chest. As after dad was taken for x-rays to a darkly picture room, I looked at mother left alone with me, and it hit me with prophetic swoon. I thought about the number's thirty-one and thirteen, as I kept on seeing them in tax form, I kneweth it was about mine father or mother both, as crazy as it mayest seem. Though Yahweh giveth signs; vision's, or by death, symbols and dream's. As water started flowing in that room, left alone with mother, I cried out to her, as we stared upon another. I told mine mother "GOD SHOWED ME ALL ALONG", mine father's day of birth, was the thirteenth back way long. His heart attack was the thirty-first thus both signs matching the story, thirteen God showed me his birth, and thirty first was when this happened, a harbinger in timely warning. Though the story doth not end there, verily more to it, father hadst a dream a month ago, that I did not tell. Mine father sawest mine grandfather Nagley, who died when I was only five, from tumors throughout his body, cancer the way he died. Grandpa Nagley warned mine father a month in advance, of mine father's coming soon shaking, mine father didst not remember the word's from grandpa's mouth in the dream, though now we knoweth it was truth on string's. And one day before mine dad's happening as well, mine dad dreamt three dream's in a row, three; the number of the father son and holy spirit, the Trinity in God's mode. Dad hadst dreamt three dream's right before what took place, dad saidst he saweth me whispering " there's two men at the door, wake up. He sawest the two men come in, the end of his dream. The two men that first walked in to help saveth his life, were those two emt's. ...........


©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©dedication to father Ron Nagley..... Thank God your alive dad love you.... As angels were once again protecting you, as God answered me and mothers prayer... And God's giving mine father a warning sign to come back to him.... As if we turn away from God he gives signs for us to come back to him....and it's truth and reality!!! Though what a loving merciful God you are!!! This even isn't the end of the story. Found out 31 had to do with my mother .. Kept seeing 31 and 13 at work. On cash register... Lol. Well mine mother just got into a car accident Jane knows about now I told her. Mother made it home safe. Totaled her vehicle. So this happened all literally two days apart from each other... Both numbers God kept showing me and I kept telling Jane, Jane these numbers are bothering me because I know they have to do with parents!! And yes!!! They did! God warned me!!! 31 July 31st mothers b day. August 13. Dads b day both matching signs God gave me!!! God wants mother and father to come back to him. I'm his vessel he's using to reach parents. And for me to come back fully!!! An amen to God alot!!!

Christmas 1968

the whole hospital hurt.
my bed hugged a corner
and the ward ached
away from me.
endlessly away.

I remember Nurse Merz,
who saved my leg,
and Fender,
who lost his.
mine was a small world.

we had clean sheets.
no one wanted to **** us
at night.
it was Christmas.

after rounds,
the medics
brought us shots of whiskey
in dosage cups.

far away to the south,
the hills
were swallowing people up.

I almost slept
without dreaming.

                              
                             (106th. Army Evacuation Hospital
                              Kishine Barracks
                              Yokohama, Japan)

Moving at the speed of sound.
We took that turn just a little too fast.
We were livin’ on the wild side,
No seat belts,
Just watching the night go past.

Thought we were in total control,
Didn’t realize how much we had to lose,
Not a care in the world,
It wasn’t suppose to happen like that,
Didn’t know we were just a burning fuse.

But it wasn’t even our fault.
Just the wrong place and the wrong time.
If the drunk driver had never left the bar,
We’d still be cruising around town,
Instead of being victims of that crime.

The lights grew brighter the closer they came,
Didn’t take in the fact the car was actually in the same lane.
But coming at us instead of moving away.
Getting closer at high speeds,
Pause the moment, say a prayer, then proceed.

Feel the jolt,
Feel the pain,
Feel my legs break,
Feel the blood start to pour,
Feel nothing.

Unconsciousness was welcoming,
Put me out of my misery, for the time being,
Floating up, higher and higher,
Becoming the bystander,
Looking from above, realizing what my eyes were seeing.

His head was laid upon the wheel,
Arm across my chest, tried to hold me back,
Eyes shut, feeling as I was, nothing.
Not even the rise and fall of his chest,
Which alarmed me and sent my mind under attack.

Screaming down to him,
But seeming like my voice was on mute.
Like a loaded gun,
Bullets and all,
But unable to shoot.

He stayed unmoving,
No signs that he might be improving.
I felt helpless looking on from above,
Like there was nothing I could do,
Then came the sirens, flashing red and blue.

See the paramedics stop at the scene.
See the men run out of the bus.
See them take our pulses,
See them begin to move faster,
See that there was still a chance.

As I watched the scene from above,
The drunk driver stepped out of his car,
And was able to walk just fine,
No limp, no scratch,
Not even the smallest bit of a scar.

The medics took out the long straight boards,
And brought them to the car we’d been victimized in,
Cutting both of us out of the vehicle,
Placing him and I on two separate stretchers,
We were apart, the first time since I couldn’t remember when.

Speeding to the hospital,
I kept my eyes on his ambulance,
Instead of my own,
His chest didn’t rise and fall,
His eyes didn’t give me the slightest glance.

Feeling anger all at once,
Feeling more alone than ever before,
Feeling stupid for being so crazy,
Feeling ugly because of the big cut across my face,
Feeling dead.

*******
for everything you said to me
all the dreams you told me
all the lies you fed me
disguised as caring
i knew from the beginning who you were
but i refused to see it
i refused to see the flashing red lights and the blaring sirens
now the only lights i see are the ones on the ambulance
the sires pulsing in my ears
the medics screaming for me to hold on
i am slipping in and out of consciousness
and you don't even care
*******

She turns around in her seat
To see him sitting quietly,
A low hum rests in the class
As students pretend to do their work,

She takes a breath to say something
And he glances up,
Shyness overwhelms her
And she turns back to her work

The boy says nothing
And goes back to his
The girl bites her lip
Nervous, unable to focus,

She turns abruptly and speaks
The boy looks up in shock
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth
A new friendship has started,

She soon learns
The boy is bullied
For his worn cloths
Yet she does not mind this,

In the halls after school
The boy sits against his locker,
The girl approaches him
Noticing his black eye,

An outstretched hand
Was all he needed from her
To smile again
And she did just that,

Their friendship grew
And blossomed into love
But he had another detail
One she did not know yet,

At his mother's grave
He speaks to her
Explaining the subtle scars  
Her eyes water in sadness,

How could a father
Be so cure to his own son?
To hit him repeatedly
Until his skin broke,

This had to stop
He had to be freed
From the horrors of home
But he won't let her,

He said his dad would **** him
If he saw any legal authorities
She bows her head
Wishing, praying for his safety  

On a cold night a siren awakes her,
Sitting up in bed she watches
To see the way
The emergency response vehicle goes,

Her heart stops,
She knows the path it took all too well,
Climbing out her window
And grabbing her bike

She starts after it
Her eyes stinging from the night air
She arrives to see
It was his father's new girlfriend

Who had made the call
To put an end to things
But it was too late
She hadn't reached the phone in time

The girl runs inside,
Past the medics,
To see his body at rest
On the floor still bleeding

She falls beside him
And cries out his name,
If only he would answer
Everything would be alright,

Holding his hand tight
She whispers her apology to him,
Sorry she never did anything
Sorry she didn't save him,

The father thrown in jail
The boy buried six feet down,
The girl stands at his stone
Vowing her heart will never love another

She places a single rose
On the cool gray stone
And turns to walk back to the road
Her head hangs low, eyes fixed on the ground

She never saw the car that hit her
She never heard it
All she knew was it was over and done
And she was in his arms once again.

Simpson had been a mechanic by trade
back home
& out here on the arid range,
he dismantled homemade bombs.
On that one particular sunny day,
one dismantled him.
We saw him disappear
in a pink cloud,
hear a loud boom &
once the smoke cleared,
the medics
picked him up
in several pieces.
It took them three body bags.

Rumours were flying all around
Someone was moving in
They question at the table was
Just how long has it truly been?

Windows boarded, papered over
Not a good sign most times
But, there in the shop window
Coming soon "Broken Spines"

The street folks all were questioned
By other street folks who
knew nothing of the tenant
On the whole, nobody knew

The Bluesman worked the alleys
finding out just what he could
But, in the end, he came up empty
And here, empty was not good

The building had been vacant now
For at least ten years plus four
It was at least the old millenium
Since someone used that door

The building was a shoe store
Selling discount boots and shoes
A new tenant or an owner
Gave the street some cherished news

The bartender told the others
She tried to see in on her way
But, the window was well covered
That was all she had to say

No one knew the agent who
Brokered the deal at all
They were surprised someone was coming
Most new stores went to the mall

Cy, the Pawnbroker ventured
It must be a medics shop
No one understood the name
And the questions wouldn't stop

A young woman in the corner
ordered her breakfast and sat back
she listened closely to the council
and followed them on their mind track

She had coffee from Gianni
He served it up himself
Joe had cooked her breakfast
"Two eggs, bacon, and a shelf"

The Bluesman coughed and ventured
We'll know all we need to know in time
I'm off to have some med-cin
and rest my weary spine

The others laughed at his words
Saw him off and watched him go
He went back out to his alley
Away from where the wind did blow

The Captain followed closely
He was heading to the bar
The others closed the meeting
before he ever got too far

The woman in the corner
Paid her bill, and left a tip
She left ten dollars on the table
With a yellow paper slip

She also left beside it
A small card of olive green
She was gone and on her way
Before the little card was seen

Gianni, read it , looked around
There was now nobody there
So he read it to himself and smiled
No use, just reading to the air

It said "Catherine A. "
Seller of used books
Owner of Broken Spines
Books in need of second looks

Gianni didn't know the name
But the store just fit the street
Everyone here was damaged, flawed
Second hand....to be discreet

There has to be a story
To go with our young Catherine A
I guess we'll find out more
On the street....another day