It was always going to be black and white
that's the typeface on my preference of late
defining day and night with your choice of tights
those fine dividing lines on your partnered limbs
wrapped tall in belts daring as a Lara Croft climb
a silky striped raggedy ann gone neat sensuous
tight strapped to a two striking sinuous princess
committed to lodge sins inside my Loveland challenge
hemmed in round towers together to never-never unhinge

at home we horse around and rub along together
boosted by the interplay between cotton twill gathered
pulled low one side then canter balance riding high
as you level up to a line up of outbound thigh
saddled with a lovely leg stirrup over here
and a lean waist wobble to match up there
eyebrow lifts to starch arrowroot attention
over the swings and sway of every action
so swift I play catch-up each morning
delayed by fumbling for ones gone matching
it's a wonder you don't just wander away
in a daze from my one legged hopping display

then I would travel far as a bee
long-legged as stilts could be
to sing to your nails and feet
and be spun free flaunting
our google
a red white and blue
pair of giggles unfurled like flags
in your slim line dancers' legs
dangling ideas like fair weather socks
to goggle one direction behind your back
unique like nobody else contains within
thin licked then rolled back ciggie skins
so I pinch holes in the bacci parts
sinking into slats like leaky wooden boats
your avoiding tiptoes gadfly and curl in return
my feet undoing knits with swats and swirls
toeing tinkling notes like piano keys
undertones pink tinged with tingling knees
and when a jukebox plays
my coins are there always
for I've got your pop socks in motion
your vox populi's united under my skin
with impressive pulled tight bands
embedding imprint elastic rings
inky red slinking down
leaving parallel links


ignore my pins and needles
alone in dead of night
longing for your leggings
luminous stripe tights
today it's all me put on the spot
today it's music you might hate
biographies of people you don't like
subtitled movies too deep to bother
blue jeans dull dyed against your garter belt
a one man team can't DIY a drill majorette
spiralling shafts that come to a threaded point
enthralling with alternating knee bend bit pants
so pretty poly soft I'm pulled up like a fool
fully mixed up by your weaving cotton wool
wave me down in your way of sweet patter feet
a patterned cakewalk for you to catwalk sock it
to me in a stand in posey kind of way
this way to stand outs knitted to fancy
uncross your legs and cross-stitch
my path with gaited kisses
closely

With a steaming mug of coffee in hand I watched:
the sun fall, the wind shiver, the leaves stand and land roll,
the birds swing, yellow beams dance,
and people stride in woollen warmers.
She plucked a flower in fool bloom,
then ambled away with a bamboo basket.
The clink of steel whistled through the air,
rousing sleep in the grouchy ones
saddled with books and a play toy in hand
walking in step with a grown man.
I walked there once, trying to keep pace
clasping a finger as large as my fist.
His snores now fall softly, circling the room
while I stand by the window,
wearing his shoes.

i.


monet's passion written in
whispering tears.
the still lake smoulders
in ripples, all shadows and smoke.

a dragonfly presses the air
into whir, memories in my
pocket saddled to fire.


ii.


the air murmurs with death-shouts.

is this to sink, deep in a dungeon
of opulent blue

or to shimmer, iridescent
like a moon-lamp, empress
of ocean green and river blue
beyond the stilling light.


iii.


this is a bed of decadence
drowned moment of golden fire
in the sipped leaves that trumpet
to the clouds, that this is their day to
die.


iv.


water lily, white light of the pond
following the drowning dark,
flower of drifting quiet,
flower of dream.


v.


root treading past
the stillness of dusk,
utter existence,
daughter of the moon,
daughter of the silence.

The demon is saddled
with reins controlling
a thrashing head
limbs kicking wildly
from their chains
as a helpless babe in water
mouth seething with anger
and eyes ablaze with fury
It's mission to
****
steal
and
destroy

what have they done to you,
dear girl with the rainbow hair?

have they saddled you with their insatiable thirst for perfection,
my sweet girl with the rainbow hair?

have they demonized the ground you dare stand,
fearless girl with the rainbow hair?

have the non-believers tore you piece from piece,
my messed up girl with the rainbow hair?

the world will always tear you down,
tender girl with the rainbow hair.

you were never supposed to use your voice,
my deafening girl with the rainbow hair.

do not let them defeat you,
sweet heartbroken girl with the rainbow hair.

whilst machismo is still alive,
the girls will never be safe.

Though in dexterity my  physically challenged  carpenter father,
Than  the physically fit proves better,as a source to his anger,
With contemporaries a level ground  he enjoyed never!

From late childhood there was one thing that me used to bother,  why my so discriminated father
On his turn true to cultural dictates,ill treats my domestic chores saddled mother
And heeds not her say though by the sweat of their brow
As responsible parents they were happily bringing my sister and I together?

I still wonder why ,why ,why my sister who has IQ
On par with me if not better,to help out mother
Suffering a cold shoulder even by her mom was denied the  right to pursue education further
While I was given a chance to prove a man of letter(s)?

I remember, crossing many a pool, barefooted, I used to trek
A long distance to a nearby town's a  school,
Where for my  provincial and shabby clothes I was seen a fool
By the relatively rich  in showing courtesy far from cool.
Though stationery they didn't lack , sad,I had a hand tied behind my back.

Alas,up on joining campus where I yearned for the sagacious a chance
There too  in my class,I was looked down by students
Hailing from families of the top brass.

When I went abroad for a higher education enjoying fellowship and donation
Worse still, I met many, colour has coloured whose vision.
Ironically my dissertation was drawing attention
To why should the broad mass be standers by
And with ill-fate marked die
While the favoured ,racist and the corrupt few gobble over 3/4 of the pie? /

we
ride it
until dawn
when
we
saddled up
the
gray storm

**** brown grass
covers my yard,
saddled
by dead gray skies
that **** rain
on my holiday.

Where is Christmas?
Will it come this year?

I fervently remember
swirls of snow
everywhere, a silent,
peaceful, white world
in which I could think.
There’s less now, each year.

My mother no longer bakes
those delicious peanut butter
cookies with the Hershey kiss
in the middle.

I can’t even remember
their smell,
nor the heat of the oven
to be my blanket
after I walk inside.

Is Christmas coming this year?

I don’t see the smiles
of holiday cheer,
just the grimace
of old men,
tired of buying presents
and putting up decorations.

Maybe it’s my eyes,
but I'm not sure Christmas
will come this year.

bildings in roowins
I rite with brokin-hand


it is the year of the unlord-tyms 2085
and skool hadbin abolishd since fyv decades
evrything in disrepair -
                    no hospitills no parks
                    no creche no greens
all grey and dark

now here I lie amid the rubble
I see they took my legs for under-market
what else did they take?
**** *******!
belly rumbles
the last I'd eaten was 2 days on
a chunk of hard-bread whose colour would turn envy in its boots
with artifishal-milk whose curdled smile greeted the back of my arid existence

**** bastarrrrrrds! they put me under, sawed off my legs
left me hobbling with jagged wounds and smirk-pain like hot-rods searing my brand-new stubs
elementary-bandage of an old sheet torn into strips...

wait, I must use this anger as fuel to get me going
she told me so
many, many times..




(I can remember my mother reading to me
reciting from her memory
they had burnt evry-single-book Man had ever known
                My eyes have never been graced with a book
but
she tort me words with stick in sand
and counting with stones
and there were many stones
               she fed me poetry when there was little else to eat
with fainting-body and starving-belly
my mind took pleasure in her ultimate-care
               she told me of a time when childrin took poor-interest
in the blessings of a book.. wen their minds were swallowed wholemeal by what they called media, I think
when they were not saddled with the worry of their next meal's magical-appearance
                (I can spell 'their' at least, yes.. she made sure I knew the difference)
the only pictures I saw were the ones she drew for me
in the volcanic beach-sand when we ran away from the parasitic-city
                I knew nothing of the world but what I saw around me
                        - decay, decay, decay
until she brought me colour - rite into the hart of me -
                           blooms that hurt at first, so bright and giving
                           that it saturated every molecule in my parched-centre
                           and I became a rainbow-suffused capsule in a otherwise drab-society
such wonder she spoke with open-eyes and loving-tones

and I also remember.. the day they took her..
I remember.. too much)



I crawl forward like a snake in the .. wait, what was that expreshin again?
I'll think later when I find a place to harbour my broken-body
                     thought is a luxury here
thers a horrible smoke in the air
          stings me so
and I miss her so
I have nobody left
but I cannot feel forsaken, as so many do
and succumb to self-pity
she made sure my armour grew
                 from the inside.. first
yet.all.the.while.she.watered.my.hungry.mind
and I took it with disbelief painted on my face
the things she told me about..




                I cannot believe there once were -
green fields and trees with chirping birds
a blue sky
blue? not possible
I've never seen a blue sky
I think she was being kind to paint me portraits of psychedelia
   to entertain and distract me
   from the horror of our lives
I heard tales of things called flowers - daisies and things
like vegetables and fruit
it seemed funny to me - little beings in the ground,
                                       growing
                                       standing rooted, awaiting harvest-hands
               just for people??
uncredibill
waaaat???
no..  such depth of kindness I can hardly imagine
for we have had only *hard-earth.. most concreted
and drank only brack-water from collapsing pipes
no, an unforgiving-scene is all I know
yet
     she is so kind to feed me such fantasy-tales of deep-imaginashin
     pity she could not tell any others
     for any tenth-of-a-whisper of this to any wrong-ear
and her head would roll
in the gutter.. where we lived in contest with rats
she could only rally my mind and relay things which would die with her
things that she bequeaths
to me

what will I do with it? this legacy of forgotten-paradise..
what can I do?   this wonder-clad heresy..
                I now know thers a way out these city walls
                ther is a life beyond
with valleys and rivers and salty-seas
I must try to find a river
she told of oceans which live - which heave and swell and move!
she said these things too .. they exist
what quaint-things, indeed
oh, for dreems..

but now, I must off the streets
for a double-darkness has begun to fall
when red-eyes will scour the streets for scraps of flesh
        anything is worth a barter
        even a dead-man in a lane whose eyeballs are gone
        harshly-hacked out living - by a previous-visitor
becomes a piece of currency for seekers of the dark

I don't know what they've done to her.. or where she is now..
yet, she always said - keep moving
                                   keep searching
for blue-sky and flowing-rivers and yellow-flowers..
(I wonder if it's real
I do believ her - I must)*




now I scrape on in haste into a darkening-alley
towards a derelict-bilding
whose sinister-interior is the only welcome it can afford me
             I have little choice
             no time for sentiment
plus, I feel a fever coming (perhaps this is all the dreem.. and she is the only-flower I know)
the night-Rats will come out soon
and I hate their stink
it doesn't help I leave a trail of blood..




now
only hoap lives
on
in hobbled-soul

as I rite on with brokin-hand
onto the back-pages.. of my mind




S T -  5 octoblah

There's a horse who is primed for battle. She's been broken and saddled, muscles hard and keen, her frame is lean, she's got all the necessary means to carry destruction into the heart of the fray.

But. She's afraid. She dreads the day.

There's a child who is primed in playground. She's been beaten and shoved down, she's been left to bleed, the teachers are too late to intervene. And she waits for the day for them all to pay.

But she's afraid. How couldn't she be?

There's a leader who is primed in sovereignty. She's been brought up high society with a sharpened gleam, smart and mean, quietly she gathers steam. With the tools to rule, she waits for the day to carry the horse to heart of the fray, to make them pay, to make them all pay.

But she knows the game, knows how to wait.

And still the world will twirl in its hate.
Until it needs a leader who's great.

She'll rise like the cream to the top of the pack, and pick up the slack, and possess what they lack.

And finally grasp the ultimate power!

To rule. To instruct. To provide the anchor for the ones who were broken and beaten, afraid.

And she'll heal their wounds, for she knows their pain.

Somewhere between a bicycle
and a seat at a daydream...

I had to make money
so I mortgaged
my woods, my sea, my music
Words--
left
Regaled only with rust
my 1938 Columbia
bike
(sold for a crib)
to an antique dealer

Fat-tires, red-faded fenders
Baskets saddled on wheel
for towel and lunch
Key chain dangling
jingling against jar
of cool ginger ale

Look back at the baskets-filled
afternoons at the park
I was a poet
The road
laid itself bare
For my bike
and I
scrolling through leaves
like words that fell
like hair across shoulders
that I sang to no one

the audience--  
air
I know that now
I was not really…
nor ready

I once was a poet
_

This poem was based on a black and white photo of Harry Bertschmann as a young artist,
posed proudly by his magnificent work.  First two lines of my poem were my immediate reaction to his painting.

https://www.nytimes.com/2018/01/05/nyregion/the-struggling-artist-at-86.html

How to describe that moment when we wake at last?
Tentatively emerging from the comfortable cocoon of that early, endless summer
****** into a cold, vibrant land, full of beauty and pain
Equipped with a newfound vigor but fueled by our disillusionment

Here, in the infancy of our societal influence
Fresh off a restful bout of childhood ignorance
We take aim to preserve that magic, for as long as we can
We dance in the summer rain, so it might not fade away…

But when do we lose focus?
When do we become,
The target of long lost laughter,
relenting to the forces of absurdity?

Perhaps when our world comes crashing down
With the weight of a thousand suns
When purity falls prey to the stalking darkness
That lives in the darkened mire

We’re all lost souls in this garden world
As our sanity stumbles with each passing season
From a fleeting glimpse at beauty in the warmth of the spring
to our frozen heart from winter’s endless pain

What is it we really want then?
As we wake up dreaming of a peaceful life,
of blue skies, and free-flowing thoughts
in the warm embrace of a sun-kissed day

But out of darkness, fear does grow
Those memories seem so far away.
Saddled with willing acts of complacency
We trudge on, immune to our nagging decency

For as we stand on the edge of the abyss
Faced by the power of the absurd
We can’t help but look down
Into the unrelenting grimace of finality

Can we recapture, moments lost, memories fallen
from the hardened heart of our war-torn soul?
For deep inside, perhaps we’ll find
A glimpse at a forgotten past

Might we gather one last breath,
A passing whiff of that summer day
So long ago, when we dreamt of a greater purpose and when magic
Enveloped our reality with the warm embrace of mystery and intrigue

Might we realize then that pain makes beauty?
And as we stand on the edge of the abyss
Trading a summer daydream
For a midnight reverie

We take a step back…

if he is not made of them wholly, branches, he will be soon. they are everywhere, and he steps on them, and they are arms from hell. he wears a child’s football jersey, torn at his size and his sorrow. he reaches into it and pulls out his heart, a red balloon given the what for, inside of which he blows his nose. he returns the heart.

a yellow adherent hangs from both nostrils, as two ropes being cut at and then loosed from his brain. the first keeps an arm from heaven; the second he catches and loops twice to put on his neck. one is never out of the woods here, and he knows it, knows here is Baltimore, Ohio. he has watched the people, some of them, leave; their happiness would be better called remission.

he is giddy when he comes upon a man wearing only a barrel and he tips it with joy and makes better his headway home. the rolled over branches shriek and wake the man who nakedly bails. the branches up their shrieking.

his mother he has no dementia of his time in her womb. why for **** the despondent are given captions like ‘blank look’ he can’t say for in his mama naught but canvassing eyes. she’s what he calls ‘at grocery’, shaking a coffee can she’ll buy because a done melon can’t hold pennies. she often at the neck is saddled with two toddlers but in his projection now there is just one making miracle of not kicking the coffee can into another’s back.

any girl that occurs lets him take her with his tongue only as she seems to know he was circumcised and after that much paddled.

he starts thinking on dad and dad’s laughing when mother’d say boys be home before dog because that’s how it sounded from seizures and of course rock candy in the summer. the barrel splinters beneath him to be forgotten and his legs go to bleeding stilts.

his last things by his face are insufficient; rock candy, barrel, and twin. I talk on the barrel, I don’t need it, not anymore.

Indian summer has now arrived,
riding high on its blue-saddled sky,
of mixed coloured clouds of bold tie-dye,
bright, ripe days and crispy-clear nights,
reaching the ****** of the season's delight.

September soon will enter the room,
leaves will tremble at their impending doom,
lovers shall stroll down lanes two-by-two,
sharing softly whispers of "I love you."

No tribal scarring marks your face
no cinder walk or thorn-pierced tongue
to prove you are no longer young
but fit to take your rightful place

Your generation never fought
And you have wished that you could see
the selfless, brave camaraderie
of which you were so often taught

Alas for you to fetch ashore
when we had lost our appetite
for making children go and fight
and briefly grieved, and said "No more!"

Condemning you, unreconciled,
to shed no blood, as real men should;
to feel that life is mostly good
Oh foolish knave!  Oh hopeless child!

And saddled with this gross mistake
your quiet kindness gently spread
and harmless fascinations fed
and left no corpses in their wake

To think we looked to one unmanned
as children, hungry for a clue
of what it's right for men to do,
led, blind,  by your unbloodied hand

Sought thoughts from one who could not brag
of marching forth to suicide
for waxed moustaches' sense of pride
Nor bleeding dry beneath a flag

But you had naught to tell us, save
that life is hopeful and sublime
and we should use this precious time
And I'll be grateful to the grave.

The Equestrian

When we met
We could and would
Have a sunday brunch
We ate **** word appetizers
Before eruptions of love for our main course
We conversed about ecstasy
And drank tall glasses of progeny
And picked morsels of fantasy
Passed on the dessert
Enough sweetness in wetness
Salivate like rabid wolves
Over the thought that
your body brings me deepness
I guess I'm in depth
She straddles my imagination
I saddled her provocation
Learn the speed at which her mind gallops
While
We share our addictions
Compare our afflictions
Only to conclude we're of the same breed
An option I could of
If only I would of
But knowing I should of
Cause the timing is never right

Not all heros ride into the sunset
Not all villains would meet there demise

Xin

I am sick and ******* tired of screaming so loud and having no one hear me, so if this is the first and last time I get this out there then so be it.
We're living in a world that is rampant with hatred towards others who deserve nothing but love and devotion.  And we find ourselves on our knees worshiping  those who warrant disgust and shame. We exist in a system that is so ******* corrupt that I fail to see any solution that we may have for correcting this.
Everyone's talking about killing people and ******* the corpses and those criminals are still out there roaming the streets without a care in the world because someone else is serving THEIR time. If you don't get caught that means you've succeeded right? Their breathe reeks like the skeletons in their closet, and still we refuse to open the ******* door to expose the truth.
There's sexism in the courts; a chick can say you looked at her the wrong way and she can get your *** sent to jail. One word about a threat, and someone's in handcuffs. A man steps away from a law man to gain some time to defend himself against heinous accusations and gets saddled with resisting arrest. Criminals with permission.
We shouldn't have to ******* worry about whether someone will be here one day and be locked up the next. Live and let live has turned into search and destroy everything you once held dear to yourself.
I have the right to remain silent and even if I don't say anything, they will use it against me... just like my past significant other used his weight of over 300+ pounds to own me however he saw fit.
While you're up there taking an oath to tell the truth, the whole truth so help you God, your right hand extended to some supposedly glorious being and lying through your ugly ******* teeth, I'll be over here solemnly swearing I am up to no good, conniving to set things back on track.
Call it Karma or call it anarchy, call it whatever the ******* like, but things need to ******* change. It's time.
I have the right to remain silent, but it sure as hell doesn't mean I'm going to.

A script for birth - an new revival,
libelled breaks, swollen structure,
a cupboard full of accidentals,
daubs this paragon with stucco:

Glowsticks prance on leveled stair,
canvas origami pads Negeb:
Counterculture's been declared!
'Metropolis' left in riverbed.

A crypt where all is fairly loose;
—deepened, glottal, breathened, size—
Saddled with this torment, you!
—ugly glamour pangyrized—

There's a lot more to fashion,
and a lot more, to forge;
Nothing keeps me in *******,
that would be too awkward.

I want to be the one
Left behind without my kind

I want to be the one
That weathers the storm

The one with the umbrella
Raining above and raining under

I want to be the one
In black upon the hill

I want to be the one
Laying flowers

I want to be the one
Saddled with that burden

I can handle grief
But causing those to grieve
That I cannot handle
I want to be the last to go

The festival was bustling
With sights and scents
When I caught yours
It just seemed to all make sense
You walked over and said hi
I just smiled as awkward as I could
But just before you could wave goodbye
I picked up the rifle and asked you if I should

You nodded and told me to try
So I gave the man a dollar
Asked myself "How could this be? And why?"
I looked to you and down the sight
I prayed for that prize, closed one eye
Saddled up and pulled the trigger with all my might
The tin can hit the floor and you clasped your hands
Together in time, I've never felt so up in my life
I asked you what you wanted
You said your favorite team
And you got it

But you walked away
You said "I'll see you later"
When I expected you to stay
I guess I was just selfish
I guess it was just a stupid wish

So I'm saddled
With tomorrow
Ridden by forever

Following
General angst
Nervously

we wring
our hands
our meaning

present
is
everything


Copyright@2019 Dennis Willis

i would compromise
--i compromise. i appear to i mean,
with peace-demeanor customized for show
paraded there and there, obeisant nonsense
in a confidence of meek to render compliments
crowding infancies of all

for the sake of art
i bend my frame about cliche
to have a human dragon claim
"the real persists unknown"
and gather at a sacred dolmen
fascinating morals sung beneath the stars and sun--
you said there was a butterfly
tasting at my skull, shaking with uncommon music too..
its skinny, immigrant feet abuzz
within the world they called a One, wings on pause, my eyebrows in flight.

a blanket iris cries warmth
in clusters hung ripe, filming over all
a native ceremonial, falsepolitik
i pluck at them atop a fence
obscure for comforts masking truth
discarded, found, fashioned
into furniture for candled houses
built with children's sons
where families try to see
a clearing in the warping
mirrors saddled with a dripping time no illustration comprehends
. wooden beams help it rise and dim,
the sunny lie, genuinely fake,
authentic trick of aeons hidden in the true
-- growing young, stemming back
to foil brighter undiscoveries for otherwisely
patient basements full of heirlooms,
sheik dining areas all
nodding over cheap wine we still manage to squint up at nothing at
in apple layers
symbolizing tidy crimes invented ceaselessly,
serving existential voids--
grace, fall, stumble catch
acquired tones of oak or berry--
other fruits would do, or none,
as i still feel
praised by your rejections --
when indifference gains a sweetness
like a novel vengeance won
i am indulging villainy
workshopping staling norms,
garden dark as cultivated loam.
where i am words
mooding intellect to torment,
faun complexity awry

O broken and battered beatnik!
My tormented kindred spirit!
  I offer you a hundred lifetimes of my self-condemnation
  How can I deny finding portals to your spirit and soul with such ease any
longer?
  Only now how to reach you out on the physical plane...

Kick down my door painted black so I may crumble in your ****** arms like a poorly constructed sand fortress, sobbing salty tears of regret, wiping snot-nosed drivel onto your cotton-wool blended Ceredigion suit

I'm sorry!
I'm sorry!

Let me explain the truths of my hesitant trust, battered and bruised -- like affectionate kisses on the cheek with open and closed fists
and childhood neglect turned adult isolation -- like visitations in dank bars with hitchhiking mothers

Let me tell you how I closed my eyes as they saddled up to the roulette table,
Licking their wintery chapped lizard lips, and
  rubbing together their sticky hands
Placing their lucky chip
(free with the price of admission!)
On bets
Red.
    Black.
        Odd.
             Even.
I tried to rig the loaded ivory ball to fall on odds Green, Double Zero
house's edge
                                                              ..­.but...
Momentum lost,
Screams muffled as I saw them
  parade in celebration
Blowing trumpets and twirling batons,
  taming dancing bears in crinoline tutus

What have I done!?
What have I done!?

Punish me no more as I cower in my remorse!
Remove this needle from my tongue!
So I may provide the unheard voice in your narrative gap
When I found you alone, in an empty theatre, heaved there by a
  force so Divine
Never could I have conjured up a Love so true!
  Ohhhh! The tears!

Let us construct resolutions of brick and mortar placed
  hand-over-hand
Become co-conspirators and together
  build parallel neural pathways in our
       Meta-Mind
Our synaptic impulses firing in unison as
One
  neurotransmitter
We'll scribe the words spoken in real time
  pulling inspirations from our restful dreamlands
    coiled together in fetal spoons

I am here!
I am here!

Please grant unto me my only request,
allow me to hermit here awhile in this new warm home where I feel safe       and happy and fearlessly blissful
A quiet refuge
   most needed to rest my Self
Away from siren squawks that
   deafen feather-tufted ears
I may venture out for the news or for weekend browsing in local record         shops, but
      here
is where I reside and come home to you each night
Keep my literal words as a gift only to you
(But please paint dazzling murals with abracadabra brushstrokes, with every colour!)
Do not pass around my sacred scripts of our lore (we've been warned)
My trust is the most honourable endowment you could recieve, please cherish it as you so deserve
Give this unto me and I will give you
           an
        infinite
        well of
       musings
         and a
         legend
            for
            the
           ages!

I love you!
I love you!

O broken and battered beatnik!
Tortured kindred spirit!
  I offer you a hundred lifetimes of my devotion
  Your spirit and soul my course of navigation!
  Using compass and stars, meet me
  Wandering cautiously out on physical plains

I love you!

Out in the West Texas town of El Paso I fell in love with a Mexican girl. Night-time would find me in Rosa's cantina Music would play and Felina would whirl.

Blacker than night were the eyes of Felina Wicked and evil while casting a spell. My love was deep for this Mexican maiden I was in love but in vain, I could tell.

One night a wild young cowboy came in Wild as the West Texas wind. Dashing and daring A drink he was sharing with wicked Felina The girl that I loved.

So in anger I Challenged his right for the love of this maiden down went his hand for the gun that he wore. My challenge was answered in less than a heart-beat, the handsome young stranger lay dead on the floor.

Just for a moment I stood there in silence, shocked by the foul evil deed I had done. Many thoughts raced through my mind as I stood there I had but one chance and that was to run.

Out through the back door of Rosa's I ran Out where the horses were tied. I caught a good one It looked like it could run Up on its back And away I did ride just as fast as I Could from the West Texas town of El Paso Out to the bad-lands of New Mexico.

Back in El Paso my life would be worthless Everything's gone in life, nothing is left. It's been so long since I've seen the young maiden My love is stronger than my fear of death.

I saddled up and away I did go Riding alone in the dark. Maybe tomorrow A bullet may find me Tonight nothing's worse than this Pain in my heart. And at last here I Am on the hill overlooking El Paso I can see Rosa's cantina below My love is strong and it pushes me onward Down off the hill to Felina I go.

Off to my right I see five mounted cowboys, off to my left ride a dozen or more. Shouting and shooting I can't let them catch me, I have to make it to Rosa's back door.

Something is dreadfully wrong for I feel A deep burning pain in my side. Though I am trying To stay in the saddle I'm getting weary Unable to ride

But my love for Felina is strong and I rise where I've fallen Though I am weary I can't stop to rest I see the white puff of smoke from the rifle I feel the bullet go deep in my chest

From out of nowhere Felina has found me Kissing my cheek as she kneels by my side Cradled by two loving arms that I'll die for One little kiss and Felina, good-bye

IF I could have stopped you.
I would have jumped in my car, raced to Hohenwald,  and slung gravel as I sped down your driveway, braked fiercely to stop inches from that guest house,  and fly out  from the inside of my car,  screaming, "Don't do it!  I'm here,   Uncle Brandon!  I love you! We all love you! "
I would have ran up the cedar steps, kicked the door in with my foot,  and yelled as loud as I could until you answered me.
No matter how many times I yell at your headstone, you never answer me.
You were a cowboy, traveling all over the country,  and seeing sights that many would never witness in their lifetime.
You had broken every bone in your body twice
you had a sense of humor
intelligent (two degrees), both in English and Teaching.
You had dreams of being a lawyer and
a college professor.
Only you were a cowboy first.
You loved to ride,  and you loved with a heart bigger than Montana sky.
I wish you had not left.
I miss seeing your dark brown matted hair, peeking from beneath your torn,  curved cowboy hat as you tipped it at me, with a wink,  adding, "See you when the wind changes"
You were a poet.
I think of you when I write,  and part of me still blames myself for not telling anyone about seeing you at my work that night.  You looked awful and I knew something was wrong,  but I didn't say anything--I have no clue why.  
You loved life,  why did you leave?
You had love,  why did you look?
We were your family,  why did you leave?  
I shouldn't be typing this
You are dead.
The world lost a true cowboy.
A man that lived by the sweat of his brow,  and the dirt on his clothes.
I would have stopped you.  I would have grabbed that gun,  and hugged you for the longest time,  and then I would have saddled up your horse and one for me.
Then the four of us would trot along to the highest hill we could find,  and I would watch the sun move across the sky, and tell you that every sunset of every day is always different, so you don't need to miss a single one.

Uncle Brandons last poem
   Im riding. Riding this way is like playing a finely tuned instrument, at times delicate, at other times powerful... The true artist can play with equal dexterity a soft ballad or a crashing march.

The farm at Little Rottingdeane
Lay fallow for a year,
Since Cromwell’s Ironsides had spent
The winter, quartered there,
They’d emptied out the pantry, killed
The cattle, stripped the barn,
And ***** the little milking maid
Before they left the farm.

The farmer, Rodger Micklewaite
Lay in his bed all day,
Too sick to raise his farmer’s head,
Too ill to bale the hay,
His wife took on the milking of
The milker they had left,
And comforted the milking maid
Who cried, as one bereft.

‘The master should be well again,
By early May or June,’
The wife had muttered tearfully
While gazing at the Moon,
But soon a pair of pigeons took
Their places in the loft,
‘Lord help us, it’s a sign of doom
To curse our little croft.’

The pigeons had been there before
When folk had fallen ill,
And when they came, it fell the same
For death would spread its chill,
And Rodger died, when they appeared
There was no time for grief,
A man called Palm soon bought the farm
To give them some relief.

The milking maid, her belly swelled
Betook her to her bed,
A tiny room that lay in gloom
Beside the milking shed,
She cried and cursed the Ironside
That set her on this course,
‘May Satan put a thorn beneath
The saddle of his horse.’

The babe was born by All Saints morn
She’d screamed to see its face,
The head shaped like a helmet or
Some bony carapace,
She only could discern its mouth
With teeth sharp, and ill-formed,
‘I cannot nurse this ugly waif,
I’ve bred the Devil’s spawn!’

Then Palm screeched at the sight of it,
Was sick unto his soul,
‘I never should have bought this croft
Or housed this Satan’s troll!’
The widow made his sickness bed
And counted him as lost,
For pigeons two came into view
And settled in the loft.

Then Palm began to waste away,
She fed him beer and broth,
He died upon the seventh day,
Was buried in the croft,
But then a troop of Ironsides
Rode through there from the moors,
And one of them remained behind
To tend his fevered horse.

‘What ails your horse,’ the widow said,
The trooper growled with scorn,
‘Some fool that saddled up my horse
Slid under it, a thorn.’
The milking maid, recovered then
And ****** into his face,
The baby, wrapped in lace and shawl
To hide its carapace.

‘You left a trace of you behind
When last you passed through here,’
The trooper blanched to see its face
Then shook in mortal fear,
The hungry babe went for his throat
And bit with all its might,
As blood streamed from the Ironside
To drown the Devil’s mite.

Two pigeons flew into the loft
Just as the trooper fell,
It only took a minute for
His soul to wake in hell,
The widow and the milking maid
Packed up and left that night,
‘This time, we’re like two pigeons,’
Said the widow, ‘taking flight!’

David Lewis Paget

A ravaged beauty -
long threatened tired life,
riding appreciated  


Friday’s  off-road cycle ride started late with a heart-choking chill head-wind blown rain - blurring my glassed vision, so I trusted into the triple lanes of colours slicing through the Vale of Neath.   Here a builder’s ladder jumped boomeranging off it's white van - attempting to decapitate me - behind me it’s miss was announced by squealing brakes and crunching impacts,  scaring alive splattered visions of a flat-end and being posted within a near drain.     Surviving today's devilled ribbon of the dangerous windscreen imprisoned - sitting with pub bound murderous cohorts - I found off-road safe solitude’s mountain bike path East to Coelbren - joining new, a fine yet unsigned cycle route curling around Mynydd y Drum, to open views of Cwm Tawe as I pass hunting twisting through woods a single Red Kite.   Then  gravities speed, circles barriers into Ystradgynlais top - a narrow ribboned descent, hemmed by cars and paved children to the rugby fields.

Senses travelogue -
previously un-experienced,
time spins slower

Here the trails old section points to Swansea - winding lost betwixt fields, paths, trees and roads to Cwmtawe Cycleway proper, there to pedal beside and across Afon Tawe with repeated special offers of  child saddled exhaust roaring  kamikazes, bicycle maiming broken glass, proudly owned attack dogs, branch hung ball-sacks of excrement, visions of the lost ripped-away steel gated stops, hacked-off wooden fences and never-there deceitful dreams of red doggy bins all disguised what passed for hidden beauty, which he called lovely ugly.    Backing-into Pontardawe to crawl away below the dark bridge, past a single inviting  pub - I accompany the Tawe and it's twin a decrepit polished canal through ***** alleys - until our hero stutters, gapes then tunnels under great noisious noxious ribbons of hurtling tired....

Pressured paced life -
impossible  commitments,
Living organic**

.

*****.

Twirling like the devil's baton
a cyclic cul de sac
'round the positronic menagerie,
speared from stem to stern, floor to ceiling,
arched bowed bent backs saddled ridden tools
adolescent ne'er-do-wells and prepubescent fools
all desiring to sit nowhere but by me,
by me, by me-

My friend of cosmic dawn, take my hand and
traipse like a runner in a blind alley.
Lead me to my quiet stead, walk and stamp about,
my cloven-hoofed associate, sarcastically devout,
and show me that everything in this whole world
is presented via legerdemain, deceitful cleverness,
but it cannot cure my lightheadedness, felt by me,
by me, by me...

The news came rustling through the trees
As I tethered the horse’s head,
It came with a gentle sigh on the breeze,
‘The Lady Mulcrave is dead!
She waits for you to attend her now,’
I shook in a craven fear,
‘Her arms are crossed in eternal rest
As she lies on her oak wood bier.’

I stared in horror about me then
For the voice I heard in the glade,
Though nothing moved in the gloom out there
But the shadows the fire made.
‘You lie,’ I cried, as I saddled the horse,
Buckled and fastened the bit,
Then spun around by the river’s course,
‘I’ll not hear a word of it!’

We galloped over the rickety bridge
And the hoofbeats rang in the air,
They seemed to echo the one refrain
That desperate word, ‘Despair!’
The moon hung over the distant hill
With the Motte and Bailey Hall,
Where I’d left Milady an hour before
At Sir John FitzAlan’s Ball.

She’d said, ‘Be certain to call for me
When it strikes the midnight hour,
I wouldn’t like to be left in there
Bereft, in FitzAlan’s power,
I’ve fended off the proposals that
He’s made, in the times before,
Be sure to wait at the Bailey’s gate
With my father’s coach and four.’

I’d left her there with a merry throng
In their masques and gowns and lace,
The gentlemen with their tricorn hats
And coats, cut high at the waist,
I’d ridden off to the distant wood
To sit out the time before
I’d ride alone to her father’s home
And collect the coach and four.

But now, I hurried on back in fear
That Milady was taken ill,
I prayed to God on my foam fleck’d ride
As we crested, over the hill.
The Motte and Bailey was dark outside,
Not a lantern at the door,
And not a guest to be seen out there
Where they’d thronged, an hour before.

I rode on into the courtyard where
The coaches had wedged in tight,
There wasn’t a single coach or horse
To be seen in the pale moonlight,
I called, ‘Is anyone left in there
I’ve come for Lady Mulcrave!’
There wasn’t a sound in the silence there,
A silence, deep as the grave.

I beat on the heavy oaken door
It echoed on through the hall,
I thought that I heard some breathing, breathing
Whispering through the wall,
‘Open the door and let me in,
I know you were here before,’
The hinges creaked and the door gave way,
Into an empty hall.

The air was rank and the walls were damp
And a moss grew on the floor,
There hadn’t been anyone living there
For fifty years or more,
And standing near the ancient hearth
Was a shape that brought a tear,
For stood in the gloom of that ancient room
The remains of an oak wood bier.

I sit in my cabin, deep in the woods
And avoid the world outside,
Something that happened late that night
Disturbed my time and tide,
The Lady Mulcrave died that day
In that Motte and Bailey Hall,
On the same day I was born, they say
As Sir John FitzAlan’s Ball.

David Lewis Paget