Long poem by
SillyBilly theKidster | Details |
Sentenced to hang in the town of Lincoln,
Billy made his bold escape.
Both of his guards died from thinking
that a shackled young boy couldn't break away.
I've often wondered what thoughts were going through his head
as he stood staring out that window chained to the floor by his bed,
watching the gallows being built that would soon seal his fate.
Was he planning at that very moment his greatest escape?
Did he already know that his hanging would never come to be?
Was he already aware that before night fall, once again he'd be free?
Whatever his thoughts, they were interrupted rudely
by Deputy Bob Ollinger, one of his guards while in custody.
"Word has it you said that if we ever met again you'd kill me on the spot.
Well here I am Kid. Now's your chance. Show me what you've got.
It's a shame that you'll hang in another week or two,
because I'd love to be the one who gets to kill you.
I've got 16 silver dimes in the barrells of my shotgun.
I'd love to try them out on you, but I can't unless you run.
If I free you from those chains will you run for the door?
Oh by the way Kid, your Ma was one sweet dirty whore.
I'll kill you before you hang Kid. That's a sure bet."
"Be careful Bob," said the Kid, "I'm not hung yet."
Bob thrusted his shotgun hard into Billy's gut.
The Kid looked up at him in pain and said, "Now what?"
"Don't do it Bob," Bell screamed angrily,
"or you'll be the one who'll hang for sure
for killing an unarmed man in cold blood
who was chained helplessly to the floor.
It's time for the other prisoners to be escorted across the street to be fed.
The Kid's not going anywhere. He's chained to the floor by his bed.
Anyway, I took the prisoners last so now it's your turn.
Go and have yourself a beer and I'll stay here
and guard the Kid until you return."
Bob Ollinger placed his shotgun into the gun rack.
Before he left he said to Billy, "I'll see you when I get back."
No one can say for sure if the above dialog ever truly took place,
but one thing's for sure,
Ollinger tormented Billy at a merciless endless pace.
They were arch enemies who fought against each other
during the Lincoln County War.
Ollinger was in the posse that killed John Tunstall,
Billy's employer, friend and mentor.
"I have to use the privy Bell," Billy said to the deputy.
Bell kept his rifle trained on Billy as he tossed him the key.
Billy unlocked the chains that kept him bound to the floor.
Still in handcuffs and leg irons, Bell escorted Billy out the door.
Billy entered the outhouse closing the door behind him.
"Let's not take too long in there Kid," Bell said with a humorous grin.
While in the outhouse Billy managed to slip one of his hands out of his handcuff.
"You fall in there Kid?" Bell laughed, "You've been in there long enough."
"I'm coming out now Bell," Billy said opening the door.
"Sorry I took so long Bell. I must have ate something bad for sure."
Deputy Bell then escorted Billy back to the jail cell.
Once inside, Billy spun around and smacked hard Deputy James Bell.
Bell lost his balance, dropped his rifle and was momentarily stunned.
"Hands Up Bell!," the Kid yelled. In his hand was a gun.
"Please don't do it Bell," Billy pleaded, but Bell tried to run.
The Kid had no choice but to do what had to be done.
He shot and killed Bell, then went and got Ollinger's shotgun.
The Kid never found pleasure in killing,
but Ollinger would indeed be the exception.
Knowing that Ollinger heard the gunfire, Billy stood by the window
and waited for Ollinger to appear in the street down below.
One senior named Godfrey saw Bell fall dead down the stairs.
The moment probably gave Godfrey a few more gray hairs.
Ollinger ran out into the street as Godfrey screamed,
"The Kid's killed Bell!"
Ollinger looked up into both barrels of his own shotgun
and whispered, "..and now he's killed me as well."
"Hello Bob!," Billy called out with a song in his heart
just prior to blowing Bob Ollinger apart.
He blasted both barrels into Ollinger's chest and face.
Pieces of old Bob lay scattered all over the place.
Billy smashed his shotgun in two, threw it at him but missed.
"You'll never rifle me again," he screamed, "you son of a b*tch!"
On the balcony he addressed the crowd whose jaws hung agape.
"I don't want to hurt anyone,
but I'll kill anybody who tries to prevent my escape."
In the office he found a sledge hammer
and smashed the chains of his leg irons free.
He told Godfrey to fetch him a fast horse immediately.
As he walked down the stairs, he came upon Bell's lifeless body
and many eyewitnesses admit
that the Kid looked upon him and said almost tearfully,
"I'm sorry I killed you Bell, but couldn't help it."
As Billy mounted the horse the chains of his leg irons startled the beast.
The horse reared up and threw Billy down onto the street.
He was at this point his most vulnerable laying down on the ground.
The crowd could have overtaken him easily, but none made a move or a sound.
Once again Billy mounted the horse
and fled with the sound of his leg iron chains ringing.
Many claim that as he rode out of Lincoln County
that they heard the Kid singing.
Billy had escaped danger so many other times in his past,
but this was his greatest escape ever. It would also be his last.
"I had no intention of killing either one of them. My plan was to tie and gag Bell and then get out of there before Ollinger got back, but then things went terribly wrong.....I certainly didn't want to kill Bell, but I had to in order to save my own life....I never felt happier than when I gave it to old Bob. I said, "Look up here old boy and see what you're getting". I then blasted him in the face and breast. He use to ride me to the point where I just couldn't take it anymore."
- Billy the Kid
Long poem by
William J. Jr. Atfield | Details |
Differences – you say !
I – me Lass – brave Helios, rides his golden chariot,
drawn by fiery Steeds, into the vastness of this universe.
These mighty Titans, dispatched – brilliant, glowing -
ruled, controlled the blueness of this planet, the heavens.
Our bright Sun, sprinkles life giving particles, waves,
out in all directions – into the endless firmament.
Then there is the cold souled, silver shield that traverses
that moth eaten, dark cloth, that hangs like lead
in that dead laden space, blackness the place
you choose to ride – your life to hide.
Oh !, if only we would climb down from the edge of fences.
Oh !, if only we would leave behind, walk away from defences.
Oh !, for us to, but if we only could, reach our dreams
Oh !, for us to, not have all those things, it seems,
that get in the way – life’s experiences, what it means,
from time to time, - that should be left behind – long ago,
that hang on so tightly, from fears that you won’t let go.
Oh !, for us two, to find the door, to see, understand, to know.
Oh !, for us to, for us to realize, that after the end, the winds will blow
it all away, into waves of rainbow colours that will show
it all to have been a necessary, but unnecessary way to go.
No matter what is said and done, it all is the universes flow.
A straight line, towards your destination, is the obvious choice.
Unfortunately, a jumble of thoughts, experiences, become the voice.
A trip – full of baggage – and around the world we go.
A carrousel ride, on each and every horse, the story doth show
A very dizzying ride it is, the point, to get to know
is a journey, of many directions, on winds that blow
Live and let live the life one so chooses.
Seldom is it necessary if one wins or one loses,
not much concerned for – or where or why.
For in the end, it is all in the beholders eye.
Much too much involved !, much to obsessive,
with others and the lives they made a mess – ive.
I can only wonder ?, make an educated guess, live
with my analysis and know, from the heart you give.
I cannot carry the weight of your life into today,
for all that was, all that is, need not words to say,
for nothing will change, not before, nor after, it’s your way,
no matter what one chooses, or not, to express, it’s the game you play.
All has come into, become a part of, is constantly shared
with, and no matter how it affects, it’s no longer cared
for, for it all distracts, disrupts, disturbs the air
that we are inhabiting - and not – it is unfair
I know that it is part and parcel of the lady fair.
If only to the point, but you never seem to get there.
Hours and hours go by, I cannot help but cry
as I listen and listen, understand, I do try.
Actions, activities, motion, play are the order of the day,
board games to win, games to lose, but they cannot be had,
for it is not in the cards – alone – one can have a say,
only but for two, does it come though, to share and that’s not bad.
Vocalizing, expressing, gossiping, complaining are your way.
Hours to exercise the body, the soul, the mind, it is so sad,
for it leaves so little to share, so little time for making hay.
Not such a bad way to connect, what a great fad !
Just some of the differences that have come to be
what is between you and me, yet there is much more to see
that could come into you and me as we ride this rough sea
of life, that at times you find joy in this old boy, so free.
Happy am I when you come near, when you are here.
A little hollow, a little empty, in the end, harbour fear
that the sunshine will fade, be covered, will disappear.
Which way ?, - our ships passing in the night - will we steer.
Will the Mole, leave her underground, black hole ?,
to – with eagles fly – reach out and touch the sky ?
will this night hawk, this owl, venture into day light,
play in sight of shadows, created by a sun so bright
and warm, where day creatures know the storm
that rages throughout and within, who shout
with voices searing, with knowledge clearing,
with understanding of choices made by rending,
choices made for, and by them, behind a closed door.
Living a life that has been over flowing with strife.
There is much to know, about what was laid upon her soul.
Some can, some cannot let go, why ?, I do not know.
Can the bound, the nocturnal, the frightened ?,
find freedom, find in the diurnal, find in fearlessness,
a soul mate to travel with, upon day light roads, opened.
A soul mate to take into the darkness, the coldness.
Can they be blended, one into the other, if the story be told.
Differences – are they few or are there so many ?
Are we able to live with them ?, or without any ?
There we are – two old birds on the wing,
with different voices, different songs to sing
of any or all, to the table, want to bring.
Shed light, and let show, what is our thing
which at times has put us into the ring.
Sparing in defence of our particular notions,
beliefs, as we express – in animated motions,
a light, who we truly are in the heat of the moment.
Yet the hurt, the pain created by wards, was not meant.
Yet they have lent a truth, some truth was sent
out from the heart, the soul, life ancient
that dictates - in the moment – what’s fates sentiment.
And what are the differences you see ?
What are they ?, what is between you and me ?
B. J. “A ” 2
March 15th 2003
Long poem by
C. L. Thornton | Details |
His Nameless Horse
The last horse my grandfather had
they shot one spring morning
behind the barn, in which it had
lived for many years without a name.
Peach trees were in bloom, pink
and striking, in chilly April air.
It was an old horse, its backbone
sagging like the roof of an old farmhouse;
it wore a gray matted coat of winter hair.
Its mane was dry like a spray of weeds,
and its hoofs were ringed with tufts
of dirty hair and bits of caked earth
and dung; its long tail fell listless
from its roughened rump
like a cluster of coarse bailing twine.
It was the last morning of its life.
It had eaten its last oats and taken
its last drink of well-water.
My grandfather entered the stable
and led the horse out to the outside
back pen. I followed behind as I had
so many times before. But that morning
the old horse walked with a limp
caused by a swollen, infected knee.
Surrouding the pen on one side, I saw
the men standing, pressed agaisnt each
other, faces drawn like mourners.
Then I saw it, the familiar rifle,
leaning against the weathered shingles,
the small red box of bullets next to
the butt. And I knew. I knew what
the old horse did not know. In dread I ran
back into the barn. I knew what the old
horse did not. And I pressed my hands
hars over my ears, and I waited. Waited
for the shot that would bring down
the old horse I had befriended, the old horse
I had talked to morning after morning,
the old horse I had fed pieces of carrot
and apple to; the gentle old horse whose
knotted mane and tail I used to brush,
the old horse I brought fresh water to
on hot afternoons, the old horse I used
to spread wood shavings over its stable floor.
I waited. And I knew what the old horse
could not know. I waited. And when
I heard the shot, my knees buckled
and I jerked as if the bullet had entered me.
And I fell to the ground and I groaned
and I cried, and I kept my hands hard
against my ears, shaking my head
as if to dislodge the sound of the shot
that had filled my head and amplified.
The old horse let out a sharp cry and fell
with a hard thud, like a big bag of grain,
its knees buckling under its weight,
collapsing on itself, a pile of dead horse.
What hurt most that morning was
my grandfather’s casual treachery –
not so much as a pat on the old horse’s
shoulder, not a word of farewell, no outward
sense of loss or sadness, no tears. Only
a cold guiltless betrayal, as it seemed to me.
And the men who had gathered there
that morning, they had come to watch
the killing. Did the old horse not recognize
their faces? Did it not wonder why
they were there? Did it not see the rifle,
the small red box of bullets? Could it not
have surmised it was going to be shot,
and by the very hands it had trusted,
the very hands that had fed and cared for it,
that had spoken to it like a friend for so
many years; hands that had mended
its harnesses, led it to pasture for so
many springs and summers, had walked
behind it for spring plantings, guiding
the plough it pulled, breaking the dark
earth into furrows, while the old man
dropped pieces of cut potatoes in the furrows?
How could the old horse not have known?
And they roped the dead horse
to the tractor, the small hole in its
forehead still leaking blood like
a liquid red ribbon. They dragged
its body to a secluded corner of the field
grown thick with greening yarrow
and new shoots of goldenrods,
the men following behind, silent
and solemn, to where the earth
had already been gutted open, waiting
like a gaping mouth to swallow
the horse’s carcass: a large meal
that would take years for the soil
to digest, leaving only a small depression
and a stench of rotting flesh
escaping slowly through a growth
of prickly blackberry, purple vetch
and swarms of buzzing insects.
The men stood silent and watched
the dead horse dragged and fitted
into the open grave. And they stood
around the grave gazing at the dead horse,
noting how neatly its body fit there.
Then, to my surprise, my grandfather
removed his hat and stared pensively
at the nameless creature he had killed,
the horse he had known for most
of his old age, the horse that had
served him selflessly. And wiping his eyes
with the back of his hand, he walked away.
Certain men then took up shovels
and began to fill the hole; the others
following my grandfather to the house,
talking in whispers, as if they had
witnessed the burial of one of their own,
one they would never see again.
And for as many springs as they might
live, they would talk about the old man’s
horse, the horse without a name,
the harmless creature they had come
to watch die on a chilly April morning
when peach trees were in bloom.
Long poem by
Brian Johnston | Details |
Not to let the air out of anyone's tire but it's really not fair to compare religious
writings to modern science. Scientific theories for one thing are models of
reality (for example) and do not really claim to be reality itself. Though
there may be some 'scientists' who claim that 'science' is true in the same
sense as the belief that there is a God, I am not one of them and I believe such
'scientists' are not very bright! . Holy writings always require us to have faith,
to believe something because it seems true or because we want it to be true,
or because someone we trust told us it was true. Science tells us a model is
true because all the tests made to determine it's accuracy show that it's right.
And any Tom, Dick or Harry who performs these necessary tests will always get
the same answer. In short: Science is verifiable, Religion is not.
I am both scientifically trained (A sort of scientist I guess) and a practicing
Christian. I find value in both my faith and in science. I personally like to think
of a scientific theory as a kind of a poem which can be very beautiful indeed.
This of course can be difficult for a layman to see who doesn't understand
mathematics very well.
When a child asks you why is the sky blue how do you answer? Do you say
'because God made it that way, ' or do you tell the child well it's because light
obeys the laws of refraction, which once you study mathematics for 20 years I
will be able to explain to you? The simple answer here is that 2000+ years ago
we were much more childlike than we are now. Our ancient texts give the
wisdom of the ages (and it is wise) but just like science is not literally true,
maybe it is not scandalous to say that our spiritual ancestors wisdom is not
literally true either. God may have spoken to us as children then, but one of his
great gifts to us was Science as well. Those who ignore what Science can tell
us, do so, I believe, at considerable peril to themselves and to others.
When Christ taught others he used parables a lot. Surely most people will
admit that while these parables may teach us important truths, they may not in
fact have ever actually happened. In this sense I personally believe that the
Bible is not literally true and that does not mean it is not the word of God, it
just means we need to grow up and understand that our responsibility to God
extends beyond the Bible. Science in fact has much to teach us about how to
understand what is written in Holy Books like the Bible and we should listen,
because the same God that created the universe, created Science too!
Here is just a small example that a scientific theory is not reality, but a model
(or poem) about reality that can serve us without being literally true.
Gravity is a very simple example. We all have an intuitive feeling about gravity
being a force of some kind. This crude idea of gravity being a force has taken
us a long way, to the moon and even to other planets and back again. This was
an early model of physics. More modern physics has a different model which is
really very different sounding and complex but which is much more accurate
than the simple idea of gravity in explaining what we see when stars get very
massive for example, or when we travel very fast. This takes us into some of
Einstein's theories which are much more accurate and complicated than gravity.
So from Einsteins viewpoint, gravity does not exist at all, it is what is called a
'fictitious force' that exists only because the mass of an object, especially very
big objects, cause both space and time to curve. Doesn't sound like gravity
anymore does it, and yet the new theory, though it does not replace the
usefulness of the laws of gravity for you and I in our daily lives, means that for
science gravity is as old fashioned as a horse and buggy.
Did you know the the earth is 4.5 Billion years old, not 6000 years old as the
Bible estimates, and was man really created by God by breathing life into a
figure he molded out of clay or did God create man though evolutionary
processes that took millions of years to accomplish? I personally admire the
God more who created the potential for every thing we see around us in an
instant, than a God who took seven days to accomplish the same thing. But
that's just me. Science can be tested as I have stated, the Bible must be taken
on faith. Given the possibility that both were given to us by the same God,
what do you think we should do? Do we really have to throw one or the other
out completely? I don't think so. Both are valuable.
Long poem by
Broken Wings | Details |
Walking in the dawn,
in the forest loud with sound;
Hear the birds sing in the trees!
Listen to the wind,
see the stream flowing free;
Touch a leaf so green, dew wet!
Do you hear it now,
the sound of nature, the song;
A song so sweet, magical
Written April 23, 2009
Colourful leaves in piles,
luminous colours for miles and miles.
Burgundy, orange hovering,
the trees slowly relinquishing, surrendering.
A cool breeze makes them dance,
some quiet and calm, some leap and prance.
The Autumn sky so changing,
clouds moving, billowing, shifting, expanding.
And in one blustering wind,
piles empty where once colourful leaves had been.
Sun touches the leaves of a tree,
Like a stained glass window scene, to see.
Written October 15, 2008
deep clear sparkling snow
diamond like snowflakes falling
horse swiftly gliding
Written October 28, 2008
my little garden
plant unfurl your leaf
send your root deep deep deep
tis spring tis spring now
Written April 23, 2009
Butterfly hair clip
Deep purple antique necklace
Doll, of my childhood
Pearls, old and yellowed with time
Pink glass vase with wilted roses
Mom's favourite earrings
Scented candle, burning
Written November 5, 2008
On Bent Knees
Prayer books waiting at the door,
polished pews and stone cold floors.
Specks of dust glitter in the light,
half forgotten dreams still burn bright.
Stained glass windows cast a glow,
on bent knees this day my prayers flow.
Written February 2, 2009
Exploring the city on a rainy afternoon,
I happened upon, Ye Olde Book Store;
Opening the door, chimes sang out,
The store dusty, small and amazing.
To the ceiling books and rows of books,
The shop keeper, an elderly man, nods;
I walk quietly, I feel that I am in church,
Alone, I am in this place of books.
So many to touch, but one beckons me,
Taking it in my hands, I brush off the dust;
Opening the book, it seems to me so interesting,
I purchase it of course for a small price.
Finding a café close by, I settle in to read,
The words on the cover seem to be engraved;
A collection of poetry by the great poets of all time,
Page after page, tattered, yellowed with age.
Written April 23, 2009
Standing on a sea cliff with salt on my lips,
Holding out my hands to the heavens above;
Moving past me, a roaring wind, blows my raven hair,
Breathing in the sweetness, it whispers my name,
Tangled with the crashing waves, the birds soaring, the clouds rolling.
Written March 13, 2009
O, The Glistening Tears
You come in the light of day,
Through the ornate cemetery gates you come;
Down the lonely long road,
Past the headstones, row on row on row.
O, the glistening tears.
With a broken weeping heat,
You come, for us your family buried here;
What a cruel destiny and cruel fate,
Such love that even death cannot destroy.
O, the glistening tears.
And when the seasons change,
And fall winds blow over us resting here;
And when winter frost is in the air,
And we lay beneath the pure white snow,
O, the glistening tears.
And when spring comes and flowers grow,
You come in the light of day, you come, you come;
For us your family buried here,
Souls connected by bonds that even death cannot end.
Written February 8, 2009
The Memory Of You
Mom, today I saw a girl with her Mom
They were so happy laughing and talking
Together, mother and daughter, friends
I wondered if the girl realized
My heart was filled with envy and pain
I have so many things to tell you
Happy things, sad things, just things
Things only a mother would understand
Tears came to my eyes as I watched
God must have needed a special angel
To separate the puzzle that was you and me
The pieces that fit so well together
Mom, our love is an endless river
It will go on and on and on and never end
God took you from me, it was your destiny
I know nothing could keep you here
Our parting words, I love you so much
Your answer and I love you my daughter
God took you in the dawn but he left me a gift
A precious gift, the memory of you
Written February 8, 2009
Long poem by
Carol Eastman | Details |
A little girl lost her home this year, for her, Christmas wouldn't be there.
Her family was angry from all the troubles, they simply couldn't repair.
Don’t bother us about presents her parents said, they were depressed by their fate.
With bitterness they said, you’d be lucky to have dinner tonight, or even a plate.
Life was harsh, nowhere to go, anger and fear had put their souls, in a terrible place.
The little girl had found no hope or joy, lurking near their old car, of late.
The car was their home, gas money was scarce, and with few places they could park.
Yes, their troubles had slowly extinguished, that precious hopeful spark.
Without that spark, they’d never find their way, from this terrible place of cold and dark.
And life’s darkness grew deeper nightly, as hope vanished under a reality so stark.
Even the very fiber of her family, seemed to be shattering slowly, slowly, apart.
The child felt alone here in this dark car, as sadness tried to engulf her little girls heart.
The future seemed filled with hopelessness, as shame and dread, were leaving their mark.
Embarrassment to be seen and turned away, made it hard for them to reach out, to restart.
But life goes on, and we can’t fear to rebuild, or the future will be hard to impart.
The girl suddenly declared there’s more to life, and she wouldn't let it conquer her heart.
She decided triumphs will come, and all will get better, if she held to that hopeful spark.
Seeing the desolation and anger here, she couldn't stay around, she had to get away…
So she climbed out of the car, and she walked into town, not so very far to stray.
She went and looked at the store windows, where Christmas was being displayed.
The music and people filled her heart, lifting her spirits, deep inside, that day.
She noticed a store, way down at the end of the row, on the next block, where it lay.
No one was there, it seemed lonely, and the darkness was again, spreading it’s decay.
She ran there in time to see an old man closing up, with sadness on his face betrayed.
What use were his goods, if no one would shop, or come down along his way?
The super store down the block, was daily making him lose more and more in the fray.
He could no longer afford to hire people, and the season had very little time, to stay.
As they talked the girl saw that she couldn't let the darkness take another, so she prayed.
Then she told the old man, if he’d open the shop, she’d bring customers down his way.
She added, she’d find reasonable workers, if her family could live upstairs, she portrayed.
First bring the customers, he said, and the rest will be yours little friend, he conveyed.
She had him put his best toys, as a contest prize, and to add lots of lights on the display.
He set a contest, “Winners-the best collectors for families in need” on Christmas Eve.
He put out a bright contest sign, but still nobody came to his end of the block, to survey.
So she had him call the Salvation Army, for a kettle, Bell ringer, and Carolers, who came
Lickety split, their way.
Then she had him call a dear old friend, and farmer, to bring a tractor full of bails of hay.
Another volunteered his horse and sleigh, both, to see the city lights thru New Years Day.
This was a great idea, since the older drivers, could use the help, for their bills to pay.
The girl ran all over spreading the excitement, and to come see the prizes, his way.
The families suddenly started heading toward his door, and to those wondrous rides.
At that moment her parents came, and she explained what her hope, had improvised.
Her father talked a contractor into building a disabled family a home, to help advertise.
He could get a tax break; come to this store for supplies, and hire unemployed workers, he devised, so wise.
In the end, each night grew brighter, because of a girls hope, and heart-warming delight.
And the old man began smiling for the first time, in a long, long, time, starting that night.
All was saved, a home was found, and another built, as a sad little girl taught grownups to smile along the way…
You might say, A Spark of Hope lit a candle, then a raging fire, which was burning bright by Christmas day.
The moral to my story is:
Never give up on Hope; it’s your best friend, as life brings its troubles your way…
Know that with time, a good heart, good will, and friendly ways…
You can find God’s gifts again, if you don’t let the dark take you away…
Long poem by
Alan Blenkhorn | Details |
You, never, left me
Out, of, sight
Bi Polar stumbles, on
The, children’s, prison
He, plans, on
She, could, be, in, there!
Had, no, time
To, even, move
Twenty or, more
Then, a, familiar
He, always, knows
Where, to, go
A, cold, dungeon
Damp, and, dark
Not, one, kid
On, horse, and, saddle
This, group, traveled
Under the, African, stars
Fills, bright, tonight
Then, a, spot
These, kids, could be, the life, of, him
He, doesn’t, want, a, goddamn, thing
Helps, them, feel
A, little, less
His, energy’s, force
Through, jungles, in, the pouring, rain
Not, to, mention
The, constant, strain
Requiring, no, attention
These, kids, never, complain
The, group, finds, a, stray
On, their, pathway
He, strolled, through
Like a, snoop
Can, we keep, him!?
He, lost, his, kin
We, let him, in
Circle, like, flies
A, lion, cub
Brought, these, kids
Up, the trail, a, ways
Trouble, turns, in, the, haze
Pounds and, more
Put, on, this, pack
The, size, of a, Lincoln, town, car!
He, ever, saw
A, beast, of, pride
We, should, really
Try, to, hide
Quiet, in, grace
In BP’s, daughter’s, pretty, face!
She, never, moved, a, muscle
With, plenty, of, reasons
He, seemed, to listen
Like, she, belonged
He is, not, a, pet!
Cub, is, our, friend
You, need, not, fret
On, each, face
For, an, awkward
To, find, the, mothers!
Group, to, group
Lead, the, pack
The, best, ways
As, if, in
She, must, be, near
Is, talking, to, the, birds
He, has, forgotten
What, are, you, doing, here!?
Your, story, isn’t, quite, clear!
Are, those, your, horses?
Any, other, resources
BP looks, back
Was, there an, attack?
I’m, not, well…
BP, never, even, came, close
To, the, children’s, post
Sits, in, a
All, the, time
Long poem by
Cyndi MacMillan | Details |
Tess Hiatt knew she was playing with fire, yet couldn’t seem to stop herself. This was the third time that she’d intentionally trespassed down the clearly marked path, the third day she had staked out a perfect spot to view the going’s on at the haiku Equestrian school.
There was something mesmerizing about their exercises. And that one rider, the way he kept everything so controlled, so precise, peeked her interest. He would trot the circuit, then effortlessly move between gaits. The cut of his tight breeches, the spotless coat and the sheen on his boots spoke of routine and discipline, two things she lacked.
A fence kept rider and horse within an enclosure and she wondered if they ever longed to just jump the expanse and head for the hills.
She stretched her neck, moved a branch and sighed. Where was he?
“You do realize this is private property, Miss?”
She almost lost her balance. Mr. Discipline was right behind her. Oh, crap! She felt warmth flood her cheeks. Her chin lifted in self-defense. “Hi,” she said.
His look changed. A grin spread across strong features. “Hello. So, you’re curious?”
“Yes and no. Maybe?” Oh, he was handsome. Her heart rate picked up.
The laugh was warm, friendly. “I can’t remember the last time I saw somebody ride bareback. He looks spirited. Hard to handle?”
“Jack? Sometimes. He does what he wants, but then again, so do I.” She patted the mustang’s neck and received a soft nicker in response. “We put up with each other. Have grand adventures. Sass and kick ass.” She tilted her head. “Who’s your short friend?”
“This is Basho. He is a rare, Japanese breed called Misaki uma. I won him in a bet. He’s happier just standing in a field or poking along beside a pond watching frogs, but I’ve grown fond of his gentle ways. I think he barely tolerates me.”
She couldn’t hold back a chuckle. “Maybe you should give him more reign.”
“Maybe you should give yours less.”
Her eyes narrowed. “When’s the last time you just let loose, Mister? Don’t you ever just gallop through the creek? Let the mountains pull you closer? Life doesn’t consist of a training ring, you know. When’s the last time you unbuttoned your starched collar? I am neither staunchy nor dull.”
“Dull? What, you find the haiku school so staunchy that you keep returning for a closer look? Yes, I saw you.” He leaned forward. “As far as creeks and mountains go, first, you need to learn to ride the proper way. Then you can go frolic in the wildflowers.”
Jack, sensing her mood, shook his head. “Easy, boy,” she whispered in his ear, leaning low over the horse.
Tight Breech’s eyes followed her movement. She watched his gaze drop then zero in on her cleavage, saw his jaw clench. Tess became acutely aware of how much leg was revealed by her shorts. He seemed to have noticed that as well.
She felt slightly dissy. “I learned the basics, just. And I can ride fine, thank you very much. Probably could run circles around you and your students. I don’t need to learn Dressage to ride Western. They’re as different as ... well, as..... a Mustang and Misaki uma, as beer and sake.”
“We seem to have differing opinions.”
Basho snorted and Jack’s ears pricked.
“I should be getting home,” Tess said, wondering why she didn’t want to leave when this man was so irritating. Cute. But as annoying as hell.
“Look, how about we just take a ride up the trail. I think Basho likes you.” He gave a look, a long steamy look. "And as far as my buttons go, how about we talk about that some more? There may be some... merit... to showing more skin."
Tess blushed. Yup. Playing with fire. But she liked fire. “Okay, you can walk me back to the ranch. But watch out for Jack. He likes to nip.”
***** AND THEY ALL LIVED HAPPILY EVER AFTER******
Long poem by
john scott | Details |
Kids of today, we here them say, no respect, what do you expect
Always hanging around on the streets, doing nothing and nothing to do
Is it their fault in this decaying society or should the blame lie with you
Dirty, unkempt, drug using, smoking, car thieving, layabouts, so say you
Mature you say, Old and wise but always telling the kids, pushing your own advise
Was it not you that petitioned to have the youth club demolished and razed
Was the noise from a hand full of teenagers so unbearable that you became enraged
Is it their fault that there is no employment and if there is, its on the minimum wage
Yes you live in your own world of self righteousness and predictability, what a pity
Wash the car on Sunday routinely, mow the lawn Saturday on a regular robotic rota, see
Call the kids animals, brain dead, layabouts, ashamed now, ashamed of yourself, you outa be
You have led a privileged life, all bridge clubs and playing golf, you lost reality
OK, so Tom may be a nuisance, he smokes, throws beer cans in your garden, leans on your car
I agree with you, Toms like that and if we are truthful, he probably will not go very far
Then I did hear that he landed a job, begins next week, not the best job washing glasses in a bar
But just to get a chance of work experience is something in these parts, well done Tom, hoorah
The point is, he is trying to make a difference in what he sees as a useless existence, its true
Where as you, Mr Success, from a different time and era well it was easier then, Manager was you
Indexed linked pension now but in your time it was all company car, fringe benefits and salaried too
You probably had a staff of ten, including a personal secretary to do most of your work for you
Not all the kids are the same, Jodie is sixteen, trained hard to be an athlete since she was aged eight
Damned hard work she has put in over the years, non smoker, non drinker, I think it is great
Jodie grew up on the same dirty, over populated, crime ridden, drug problematic, council estate
As Tom did but she chose to change her life by getting up early and doing something about it, mate
You were one of the lucky one's born at the right post war time, no recession, how neat
An economy on the up, war damage to mend, plenty of opportunities and money to spend, oh great
Now you while away the day with your guaranteed pay, standing at the gate scolding at the street
You never had the misfortune to be a hungry kid in a broken home, with very little to eat
Think yourself lucky you got a nice paid for home, with a big garden and central heating not cold
Like the tenement blocks, the people you resent have to live, so high in the sky, its scary, I’m told
For believe me they are bigger, better, higher people and one day, they may drop a bomb on the old
These streets still scare me and I grew up here, They are painted with blood not rolled gold
So get of your high horse and bless the lord for all the things he gave to you and yours
The unfortunate keep themselves to themselves unless you wanna change that course
If you cannot see how privileged life has been for you, go now, go inside and lock your doors
For one day, the kids may get really angry at their lot in life and unleash a destructive force
Long poem by
Jecon B. Nadela | Details |
The ecosystem’s perfect design
A providence of the Great Divine.
A holistic balance that should not fail
If well-taken-cared of by those that dwell.
The atmosphere was just enough
To sustain the living and its habitat.
Green vegetations were all around
And so the spring from underground.
The fish; the birds; and the beasts that creep
Are created good and none is least.
Among the creations that co-exist
There’s a complex being, he’s nature’s best.
The best of all is the soul called man
The exact resemblance of the Supreme One.
He was far superior intellectually
Than any on land or those at sea.
That he was groomed for stewardship
To decide what’s good for all the rest.
There was no contest – ‘twas a done-deal
Because the nature’s best could have done it well.
He holds the task all through his life
With a female aide he call her wife.
And to bear offspring to fill the earth
And pass the task right at each birth.
Then intellect has grown so deep
As the sons of men explored the earth.
They sought to change what God had made;
They no longer sheltered on trees and caves.
Then he built a shelter to house his home;
He decides the size and so the form.
Proud of his strength, he broke his back;
To down a tree or slice a rock.
The task he has he soon abused;
What he ought to keep he has destroyed.
The breach and misuse of privilege
Has complicated the life he lived.
The sticks and straws to build a fire
Are no longer fitted to man’s lifestyle
He has devised a modern tool
He has learned to mine and the use of coal.
With just a click he can have light
Or get some warmth on a winter’s night.
His innovation did not end up there;
He made the bomb and drew a scare.
Primeval woodlands that roofed the slopes
Have nothing left but rotten roots.
To the torrent rain the ground exposed;
would slide so soon, it cannot hold.
Man is unmindful to what will happen;
Of the ill-effects of his own doing.
Erosion comes and floodgates opened
Through quarrying and constant logging.
He invented plastic to wrap his stuff;
As food container or drinking cup.
Then threw away in haphazard;
It blocks the creeks and causes flood.
He’s become too lazy to walk a mile;
From his vibrant youth ‘til he retires.
Before a horse had took him there
But now a car that fumes the air.
Man’s toxic waste takes deadly toll;
It warmed the sky and bore a hole.
It melts the ocean’s ancient frost;
Augmenting tides in every coast.
There is no way man can sustain
From the catastrophe of climate change.
The pestilence it brought about
Crops are destroyed by flood or drought.
But man’s too dumb to understand
The come-uppance of what he’s done.
When the life he lives becomes a hell,
He blames on God of his ordeal.
All that has happened is a result;
Man lost his shelter and source of food.
And the grimmest wrath will soon unfold
When the nature’s best is not at all that good.
Date & Time of Writing:
10:17 a.m - 11:32 p.m.