the church pew thrasher
I'm stuck somewhere between what they say and what they do
communion cups and inner church affairs
painted faces and sanctified stairs
and though I once was blind I now can never unsee
this place has been a heaven for the rivers of hell that abides in in me
and I crossed all of my fingers
knocked my white knuckles on those pews of holy wood
but I found all was lost that kept me young, kind, and good
I learned quick that things never turn out just like they should
and still I cling to hands raised and a few honest bars
the musing of the man on the microphone and my quiet life on mars
If there were any walls they met my fists
if there were any rough edges they all met my wrists
drunk on the blood of my saviors fallen from grace
unable to understand but still a need to see the savior's face
there is no other explanation
there is no other reason

and you,
you couldn't practice what you preach
you,
you couldn't seek what you couldn't reach
you told me to wait while you went on a head
you didn't die to yourself because you were already dead
I should have known
I should have known I should have known
but still I press on in spite of the hell I was shown
still I reach out for the hem of the throne
still
still.

and I'll never understand how much death I lived through
in a place that boasted life for the pure, holy and true
milk and honey met blood and abomination
innocent eyes and tiny hands lead to the greatest devastation
the betrayal of trust
the bread and the cup tarnished with rust
I'll never understand
but still I reach for the Hand

If there were any walls they met my fists
if there were any rough edges they all met my wrists
drunk on the blood of my saviors fallen from grace
unable to understand but still a want to see the savior's face
there is no other explanation
there is no other reason

and you,
you couldn't practice what you preach
you,
you couldn't seek what you couldn't reach
you told me to wait while you went on a head
you didn't die to yourself because you were already dead
I should have known
I should have known I should have known
but still I press on in spite of the hell I was shown
still I reach out for the hem of the throne
still
still.

So I sing to the kid in me that never grew up
the once who's still tripping under the weight of that cup
be still
be still
be still
it was never his will
be still
be still
be still
it isn't your fault, it isn't your crime
don't let it consume you
don't let it poison your mind
just
be still

and you,
you couldn't practice what you preach
you,
you couldn't seek what you couldn't reach
you told me to wait while you went on a head
you didn't die to yourself because you were already dead
I should have known
I should have known I should have known
but still I press on in spite of the hell I was shown
still I reach out for the hem of the throne
still
still.

Thrasher in the plum tree
Who ya hidin' from
Chirpin' in the canopy
Bold as the sun
A chirp to the Old Crow
A whistle for Bobwhite Quail
A bow and a wink for a Yellow
Swallowtail* ...

There is always at least one song
that stands enshrined.
r   12 Oct 13

This little rill, that from the springs
Of yonder grove its current brings,
Plays on the ***** a while, and then
Goes prattling into groves again,
Oft to its warbling waters drew
My little feet, when life was new,
When woods in early green were dressed,
And from the chambers of the west
The warmer breezes, travelling out,
Breathed the new scent of flowers about,
My truant steps from home would stray,
Upon its grassy side to play,
List the brown thrasher's vernal hymn,
And crop the violet on its brim,
With blooming cheek and open brow,
As young and gay, sweet rill, as thou.

  And when the days of boyhood came,
And I had grown in love with fame,
Duly I sought thy banks, and tried
My first rude numbers by thy side.
Words cannot tell how bright and gay
The scenes of life before me lay.
Then glorious hopes, that now to speak
Would bring the blood into my cheek,
Passed o'er me; and I wrote, on high,
A name I deemed should never die.

  Years change thee not. Upon yon hill
The tall old maples, verdant still,
Yet tell, in grandeur of decay,
How swift the years have passed away,
Since first, a child, and half afraid,
I wandered in the forest shade.
Thou ever joyous rivulet,
Dost dimple, leap, and prattle yet;
And sporting with the sands that pave
The windings of thy silver wave,
And dancing to thy own wild chime,
Thou laughest at the lapse of time.
The same sweet sounds are in my ear
My early childhood loved to hear;
As pure thy limpid waters run,
As bright they sparkle to the sun;
As fresh and thick the bending ranks
Of herbs that line thy oozy banks;
The violet there, in soft May dew,
Comes up, as modest and as blue,
As green amid thy current's stress,
Floats the scarce-rooted watercress:
And the brown ground-bird, in thy glen,
Still chirps as merrily as then.

  Thou changest not--but I am changed,
Since first thy pleasant banks I ranged;
And the grave stranger, come to see
The play-place of his infancy,
Has scarce a single trace of him
Who sported once upon thy brim.
The visions of my youth are past--
Too bright, too beautiful to last.
I've tried the world--it wears no more
The colouring of romance it wore.
Yet well has Nature kept the truth
She promised to my earliest youth.
The radiant beauty shed abroad
On all the glorious works of God,
Shows freshly, to my sobered eye,
Each charm it wore in days gone by.

  A few brief years shall pass away,
And I, all trembling, weak, and gray,
Bowed to the earth, which waits to fold
My ashes in the embracing mould,
(If haply the dark will of fate
Indulge my life so long a date)
May come for the last time to look
Upon my childhood's favourite brook.
Then dimly on my eye shall gleam
The sparkle of thy dancing stream;
And faintly on my ear shall fall
Thy prattling current's merry call;
Yet shalt thou flow as glad and bright
As when thou met'st my infant sight.

  And I shall sleep--and on thy side,
As ages after ages glide,
Children their early sports shall try,
And pass to hoary age and die.
But thou, unchanged from year to year,
Gayly shalt play and glitter here;
Amid young flowers and tender grass
Thy endless infancy shalt pass;
And, singing down thy narrow glen,
Shalt mock the fading race of men.

Powerful Oaks nurture glistening orbs , curtain call of the Muses ,  prequel of effervescent , diurnal joy amongst their brethren with abundant ****** melodies ! The Angels of Harmony , melodist of Zion , proclaim from the East ! The woodland duet , song of Brown Thrasher and Chickadee , the acoustical miracles of the Heavenly host , brilliant a cappella voices with thunderous volume , first chair instrumentalist within the symphony of Dawn

So I guess the world is screaming that we need to end Racism and Offensive words and Labels, but what happens when a piece of writing from someone who is seeing the whole world screaming about one thing, but yet acting normal just after a few weeks of it hitting the social media and media outlets.

So I decided to write this including all the Racial and offensive terms that I could research and put them in a list, If we are to discuss and try and make things better, then why should we be scared to be called racist or evil for pin pointing stupidity out because everyone else whether upset, angry or hateful towards someone or a community, even a group and let see how many people lie about not using any offensive or racist term online or in person, even if you thought it and not even said it.

Cause thinking the offensive or racist term/word also makes you just as bad of a person that speaks the words.

"

A Fair amount of Research when into this, and it a good way of explaining,
How we all see each other and every single person on this planet.
This was written to prove that everything is offensive,
that no one is every in a situation that is similar, but in a situation where histories are different,
But yet, if you are offended by this, trust me, I bet you even use some offensive, racial terms and labels to describe someone you hate or don't like,
So what makes you different from me or the next person who is classed as offensive.

Labels, Stop,
Labels, Go ahead,
Labels, all the others,
Go ahead and write them,
Fabric, paper and on skin,
Just let the labels sink in.


All Races and Enthics Racial Terms that are Labels, Not only Blacks and White's.
You're Racist,
You're a Ngger,
You're a ******,
You're 8 Mile.
You're a Albino,
You're a Bean Dipper,
You're a Beach Ngger,
You're a Baijo.
You're a *****,
You're a Guati,
You're a Beanbag,
You're a Border N*gger,
Border Hopper,
You're a FOB,
You're an Curry Muncher,
You're a Desi,
You're a Dot/Dot Head,
Here Dotti,
We are at war with the Crunchies,
The Whacky jinglies,
You're an Irish Cat Licker,
Are you actually an F.B.I,
You're religious, you ***** Mackerel Snapper,
Look at all these Irish Indian Narrow Backs,

All Other Labels,
You're a puff,
You're a *****,
You're a ***,
You're a *****,
You're so Ratchet,
You're an illegal Alien,
Hey we both gay, but that no ****,
*****, **, ****,
You're Bisexual - that just straight privilege,
You're a ******,
He, She, Never mind you just look like cousin IT,
You're a ****, ****, Never mind I can see you're a *****,
You're stupid, thick, dumb,
Just a fat *** that just chubby and overweight,
******* hell, you're crazy, lost the plot,
You are ******* disturbed, bat **** crazy, Psychotic *******,
You're a bible thumper, that explains the homophobic ****,
You're a Fundie, God botherer,
Bible Basher, you know God is a child thrasher,
You're a *****,
You're small are you a ******,
You look like you're apart of DC/Marvel a ******* Mutant,
Eww what is wrong with your face are you a Mongol,
That just hysterical so you must be *******,
everyone is a ******* Imbecile.

Walking the surrealistic byways of creative bliss
Through Cat hair grass within the fingerling forest ...
Good morning to Uncle White Pine , to my Cousin Brown Thrasher reading my mind ! To red rosy clay and chipper Mr. Soapstone , to Mayflies granting wishes and Chattahoochee crawfishes ...
The Gulf breeze telegraphing the wonderment of forest song with love
for all .. To the playful King Sun hiding behind the cloud bank to the
old gray Opossum hanging upside down , bluffing sleep on a lonesome Cherry branch .. Warm wishes fill my dreams while picking tea cups from a 'Story Tree' , each with a serving dish , hot refreshments and lively conversation with a well read ****** , a witty Fox , a Woodpecker poet and a guitar picking Catfish ..

Hello ****, some water?
You're looking well for
Such an old stone.
Wish I could say the same
For Keith, but then, he's
Aging real, isn't he? :)
He ain't fading away too soon.
Well, I'd like to say that time is on my side
But I'm all out of time and I have
Yesterday's papers to read before
Dinner at Ruby Tuesdays. Let's spend
The night together and paint it black next time.


Ah, John John. There you are.
Why, you don't look any older
Than the day you metamorphosed.
Pardon me while I flick that lady bug
Off your back. Always were popular with the gals, weren't you. Speaking of, Eleanor Rigby stopped by yesterday to help me with some chores and offered to take you to her strawberry fields forever if I would give you up. I told her that she was in line behind Abbey up the road and Penny down the lane. You hound dog, you.

Eric, you old derrick. Seen a domino
'Round here. I seem to have misplaced one.
Watch it, I see some snake eyes in those
Weeds. Need to get that old *** Layla out.
What, lazy?  Your faith in me is blind, old son.
You are in the presence of the lord of the stones.

Mr Fogerty, how ya been?  Nice day today, eh?  
Have you ever seen the rain like last week?  Coming down like water out of Niagara. I was beginning to wonder who'll stop the rain. We were fortunate, son. Coulda flooded.

There you are, big as a dirigible and heavy as lead. Large enough to be a cornerstone to that stairway to heaven.  Ought to have named
You Zeppelin.  We could use you to build a dam for when the levee breaks. By the way, seen a black dog around here lately?  Neighbor Bill's been going through some good times and bad times. He's feeling dazed and confused since his old lady said babe, I'm leavin' you and now his dog has run off. Man sure could use a whole lotta love. Well, best be movin' on.

There he is!  My main man, Neil. Bud, you are showing your age, but still rockin' in the free world, I see. I remember the day I found you down by the river some time back after the gold rush. I was feeling helpless till that pretty cowgirl in the sand with a heart of gold took pity on this old man and gave me a hand loading you up into the back of my VW.  It was like threading a needle, and the damage done to my back without her help would have been something awful. She was a real cinnamon, that girl. From Ohio, if I recall. Well, I see the sky about to rain, looks like a hurricane may be coming. Could be a real thrasher. Tonight's the night that we shoulda been having a harvest moon. Well hey hey my my old friend. Time for this southern man to head on in. You hang loose, and I'll be seeing you in the by and by.

r ~ 14Mar14.

Imagine powder blue , morning flowers ...
Green clover nestled beneath swirling eddies , enraptured by Summer hay and sunflower fields , the chorus of Mourning dove , Brown Thrasher and laughing Crow ..Village church bells announcing each daylight hour , quiet Sunday mornings broken by Pileated Woodpecker and Bluejay ...The smell of Honeysuckle and fresh cut grass , burning leaves and Sassafras ..

Hey you reading this.
Yeah you.
No one else.
Are you aware of your own thoughts?
Of others?
Of yourself?
Do you ever enter a room
And feel a swell of pressure?
Minds buzzing in and out of harmony.
Perhaps a psychic thrasher?
Yes, in company, it is a struggle.
For your mind and thoughts indeed.
How do you know
That who you think you are is you
And simply put not just me?

inspired by TC Tolbert's poem, ""Dear Melissa"*

                                        ~~~

joined skin cells shed and shredded,
two bodies, a compositoy,
an experiment in the temporary,
now, lost under lock and key, at a secure depository,
remote, undisclosed location,
kept unheated in a dark cool place
to preserve their combinatory
slow, half-life decaying oratory

the body is never an accident,
even though we mostly are,
accidental tourists, two collision-prone comets,
lark, rambling rambunctious adventurers,
on a half-day tour only,
leaving behind commingling blinking dust vapor trails,
 emissions of a tour bus journey rerouted
                                                            while under orbit sail

some cells, microscopic, preserved digitally,
aged to imperfection, thrash my eyes,
making me speak in tongues I do not recognize,
but fluently possess, no wonder there,
the memory place fairly empty,
room aplenty for passerby's and the imagery
                                                         ­ of the vaguest of dearly departed

skin is not the only mot shed,
                                                       sloughing of woeful words, shelled

                    
                                     ~~~


Dear Melissa
TC Tolbert

a curve billed thrasher
is cleaning its beak on the ground—
we are closer now than ever—sitting
in shadow—I never want to scare
anyone—not really—I have a friend
who loves people who come out
suddenly—in the dark—
                                          pleasure
is the same distance as pain from here—
that’s my skin on your sweater—both hands
stripped now—I know I am someone
to you I am entirely—practicing
Spanish on the computer—gesturing to
the neighbor instead of speaking—
                                          to sharpen
the body is never an accident— someone
I know I am not—letters are inseparable
from loss—moving what can be still
moved—one is sweeping the mouth—
what ever isn’t skin—take it off—

The windswept crackle of Jehovahs machinery
Honey sweet greenery with trolling titmouse
sentries , white contrails drawn onto blue canopy and
brown leaf melodies
Woodpecker percussionist tap the song of dusk
Songs of the rusty red clover valley
and golden sagebrush
Psalms of cardinal chatter and brown thrasher cackle
Bronze raptors circling sun -streaked hillsides flushed
in crepe myrtle , yellowbell and azalea
Where the purveyors of creation live , thrive and belong*...

^¡^

I heard a desert bird
sing a new song this morning

yes... before the sunrise

i recognized it as the
song of a cactus thrasher
but it had added a
new note to it's call

i've never, in my 40+ years
in the desert, heard it's like!

it must've found love

i know

because i myself
found a new note

the first time i said your name.


soulsurvivor
(c) 5/31/2015

Mocha brown fawns dance amid my orange horizon ,
hoping to please their mother under a dashing springtime Sun ..
Curiously forage Chestnut and acorn , alert to the call of the
morning Brown Thrasher , the chime of young Turkey hens and
the call of Coyote and river dancer ..
Wood Duck ducklings careen Port Lake , smacking sweet bills
as they work the edges ... Tiny green Frogs line the banks , perform
their morning ballads in chorus with Katydids and House crickets while
water spiders lead interpretive dance along the mirrored waterway ..
Mr. Red Fox is running late , off to points West into the blackberry fields along Bear Creek .. Wisteria , honeysuckle and wild roses are filling my soul as I pray before the morning scenery ....

Playful Fawns in early Aprilis garb
Foraging the Sepia brown patchwork detritus ,
the clap of brookside along the foggy divide ..
Eastern hens answer the question of Chickadee
and Brown Thrasher ..
Bitter Blackbirds command the fire breaks ,
multitudes shifting from canopy to rain washed
visible pasture .. Move South , quietly disappear ..

I stand in the mirror and I must ask
Who am I?
As I see it now I'm an upcoming young woman
Dressed in white with the future laid out before her
Finally commanding the respect I once craved
But I listen to the music
Our old songs
And I remember when I was nothing more than a passenger
Just trying to get to a destination
And somewhere between here and now I changed
From another emo gutter rat to a lady
And for so long this is what I thought I wanted
But the title of lady doesn't suit me at all
So as I stand in the mirror it's not one reflection I see but two
A put together lady in red
And a thrasher in black
And they both smile the same sick twisted way
And I just wish it was easy to figure it out
Who am I?

Curious Brown Thrasher songbird
How I long for your window to the
world , traveling Hill country with wings unfurled , skipping from hardwood to evergreen with songs of splendid countryside scenes

Brown Thrasher looking left then right ., plotting her next move , dancing across fresh grass bathed in morning dew , Pileated Wood Pecker sings her morning song , rhythmically putting her toil to music , percussive taps draw inquisitive Eastern Gray Squirrels to her job site , playing and dancing from limb to limb , tree to tree unaware of danger above , Red tail Hawk soaring on warm air high above , Sun at her back , confusing potential prey below , mercifully giving her position away , high above the canopy of Maple , Sweet Gum and majestic Georgia Pine where a cottontail rabbit , frozen , nose twitching , ears turning to and fro , eases out of the tree line to awaiting sustenance in thick fields of green grass , berry , pine nut and bulb ...

Hallelujah Tree Tappers
Songsters of the morn
Signal the warbler , the jay and
the thrasher of the coming dawn

Good day curious crow
Surveying the wetted green fields
of soy and June corn
Alert the valley that a new day -
is born
Hallelujah !

I oft-recall the fume o'er -
Port lake
Egrets with the patience -
of Job
Lapping silver waters
Morning sun ever bright and bold
Harper tree frogs , smoky bogs , painted -
turtles on floating logs
Creations blue eyes at her -
surface
Wind dancers falling into -
the red earth , shores bedecked -
in dogwood , cattail , dandelion and
river birch
Brambles , feeder streams , nuthatch
and thrasher
Bluejays sing the praises of aromatic pineywoods -
high above their muscadine mansions
The crackle of gravel as I walk her shady , serpentine -
trails
The patter of wind seduced silver maples
The call and answer of sparrows along -
the barbed wire fence rail

Briar vines merely scratched the itch for more ,
porcelain fingers tattooed wine red
Morning rays become possessed , muting -
early day laughter and fervent desires
Humid air thickened with pine , wild grass ,
-fertile humus , clay and wisteria
Stirring the brown locust , bluebird , thrasher ,
Guinea wasp , blue skink , toad and cottontail
Three ripe berries in the jar , one for the forager ,
one for the eve , one for the morrow
Traipsing gravel byways to the music of the rattling corn , ****** broomsage and the iron harrow
A whitewashed homestead wrapped in oak ,
mulberry , sycamore and crape myrtle ,
Songbirds of every shape and melodious -
occupation , alert geese crying from the -
hedgerows , waves of sorghum dancing in the -
shaded meadows ...

Condensate trickling neath the noontime pines
Tis the very wine of creation
Returning to a famished earth
Soothing the parched , nourishing the ailing -
and the sylvan floor enfeebled
Winter blades cascading from hardwood canopies ,
of every configuration , texture and hue
Madrigalian forest of a thousandfold , songs of cardinal ,
thrasher , bluebird , peckerwood and robin
Hickory , beech and loblolly undulate along -
the carpeted valley in November's artistic implosion
Broomsage under breaths bidding , dancing red tip grasses
and muhly , wild onion and sage in sacred midday communion* ...

A wood sprite cowled in rain drop diamonds
The lantern from above is shining ever brighter
Bluebirds and cardinals return to my vision ,
a golden religion with sacraments measured in legions ..
Sing O' thrasher , my lover , of gray blankets now parted ,
of streams fulfilled , longing for the ocean deep , of laughter
and harmony twixt earth and sea* ...

I have been memorized by winding dirt
doorways that led me to fantasy. Magical
forest -- it’s funny how simplistic we
name places when we’re children. Overgrown

rhododendrons surrounded me, my hands
plucked leaves off and ripped them mindlessly,
leaving a Hansel and Gretel trail of
torn chlorophyll. So monochrome

without their flowers; my mind painted
perfect, pink orbs onto green. A brown thrasher
flew by, or maybe a hummingbird.
I stared at the light dispersed

sporadically through branches, particles
floating and falling, gentle. Nearby,
I glanced at crocodile rock in the river.
My imagination was good at transforming

the static to life; shapes had more
personality. I tiptoed onto the slippery
surface, stepping on its mouth,
triumphant. Animal planet taught me

that their jaw is only strong when closing
and incredibly weak when opening.
I stood on the beast, and felt safe, strong,
running my fingertips on its bumpy scales.

Now, I see a large rock. I see empty
branches. I still hear birds, but
they’re hidden, my mind unable
to conjure up a flock. I see reality.

A bluebird atop a farm bell patrolled-
his sunnydale ..
Discerning butterfly from cricket-
in the broomsage thicket ..
A chirpy melodious song of love ..
Greetings from Jonah , the thrasher -
& the turtle dove ...
Cardinals advance through the barren-
trees ..
Along the winterberry & the lapping stream ..
Good day from Pi , from the pink sky ..
From the bounty neath hundred year old oaks ..
From February greens to Aprils sunny scenes ..