"schoolhouses" poems
You yell beneath the floorboards.
Pounding fists, cracked promises lie in
Casual bricks dropping like tears that
Never mattered.
You cry beneath the floorboards
Of little red schoolhouses, tired tire marks that show
They’re not coming back and
You’re not going home.
You riot beneath the floorboards!
You shout and scream and rant but they
Cannot hear you anymore.
The stores are closing like a trap door.
You die beneath the floorboards
A death that was not peaceful but panicked
Like an elevator that has stopped moving
Briefly and indefinitely, you are gone.
Now we crawl beneath the floorboards
Searching for pieces of you like receipts
Stashed away in a pocket of an old coat.
You remind us of whispers and walruses and things.
And someday when we find ourselves, fierce
And fleeting, underneath the floorboards,
You will remind us of our fading voices forever
Silenced, but never ignored.
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 2:54 PM UTC
stabbing pain fills my abdomen
the sensation of a heavy rock dropping quickly
hits my bowel
sweat forms down the center of my back
and on my upper lip
the Christians have arrived
and I am sickened by the sight –
cross wearing hypocrites line the streets
holding signs of hate
in the name of Jesus
trying to pleasantly force a false belief system
on little children leaving schoolhouses
throwing rocks at **** victims
whose only crime is not wanting to carry a ******* to term
and bashing the lifestyle of homosexuals
like God gives a **** where people put their ***** –
blindly following aged stories written by drunkards
the sheep-like nature is an affront to me
I stand both horrified and in awe
watching people speak of doing unto others
and expressing that only the Lord judges
do they know how full of **** they seem? –
backing slowly away from the scene
I slip quietly back into the shadows
as long as my country holds true to the adage
that church and state are separated
these lunatics cannot control me
well….except the run the country –
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 4:35 PM UTC
*Do you see the caricatures neath the full moon pines
The ghost of General McIntosh , spirits of Creek hunters along
the river brush
Old Timers whittling song flutes from bottom cane
Farrier's shoeing mules , work horses straining at the
crack of the whip , ferryboats treading shoals across the
foggy Flint
The voices of children in one room schoolhouses
The rousing , morning bell of little towns , the clap
of field wagons
A fiddler sawing a piedmont 'Rag'
The rustle of picking field peas with Croaker bags*
Dec 21, 2016
Dec 21, 2016 at 7:31 PM UTC