Sometimes I wonder how we make it through a single day? The Light and the Darkness, the free thoughts and old fears. Eyes that tell the world of what a man has seen. And in this life, It is bound to be too much. As a child I found out one day, that love was mysteriously negotiable. I searched for the true kind and found a great love, yes one that had it all, the joy, the sorrow. We learn to make our way through that thick bramble, scratched, and a ragged heart, The doctors they can put hearts back together, leaving it up to you to let it get beat up again, in the tradition of all human families. I think back at all the drama of people living together, suffering the broken love, solemn faces held in the past, when days shone with the possibility of happiness. The stories tell of our plight, all those who survived the good, the bad and the ugly, and if possible, will probably do it again, until we learn just what it's trying to teach us, and where it will eventually take us.
1
Moon walking on a night trip;
Sun dawns and the frame skips.
Nurse Springer and doctor Phil,
They're checking cheeks for euthanasia thrills.
Mind's eye is where the drama ends;
Commercial break, it's a cultural trend.
You can still coax music from a beat up drum.
You cannot fire peace from the end of a gun.
All the other kids with the pumped-up kicks?
Haters gonna hate, that's some truth ****.
You walk the way the wind blows
Or so the story goes.
You rode the waves of blue,
And lived a life with no clue
You blow smoke of tar
And drive a beat up car
You live in built-up walls,
Where twilight slowly crawls.
A fortress made of stone,
To keep yourself unknown.
You traded wind and sky,
To watch the world go by.
But rain taps on the window pane,
To remind you of the pain.
And the wind still knows your name,
Before you quit the game.
You throw the portal wide,
And cast the ghost aside.
Out where the blacktop gleams,
You wake up from your dreams.
You head across the bay,
To find a better way.
You turn toward the east,
The captive soul released.
The engine starts to roar—
You walk the way no more.
Your
Beat-up
Pick-up truck,
With the rattle
Somewhere deep inside,
Carries me through the night.
The windows are down, the scent
Of the day's petrichor is strong;
I've seen something new today, I feel
Like the child who once craved your attention.
But we've changed, the truck isn't silver -
Today, from now, we're eye-to-eye.
Our work, bills, meaningless things -
Whatever comes to mind,
I smile and laugh
It all away
In the back
Of your
Truck.
Being bad when we should be good
grew up as kids playing childish games
running round the neighbourhood
calling each other silly names
having fun in my beat up car
went out as teens dating weekend nights
driving down the boulevards
looking at the bright city lights
must have been blind and didn't know
who it was I was looking for
'til I went all around the whole wide world
to find you the girl next door
way back when
we were the best of friends
and now
childhood sweethearts is what we are
after all we've come so far
childhood sweethearts mi amor
together now and for ever more
They want to lock up Officer Crespo for 27 years
But is the case as it appears?
I got a letter from the Center for Police Defense.
They claim the accusation makes no sense.
Crespo was called for backup, drug dealers were speeding at night
They pulled over and pointed a gun, wouldn't that give you a fright?
He wanted to make it back to his four kids and wife
He managed to shoot first, killed but saved his life.
The court did not tell the jury about the drug dealer's crime spree.
Reading what he did that night, that doesn't seem fair to me
The guy had just beat up his girlfriend and he was high on a drug.
The car was stolen, the gun illegal, not the type to give a hug.
The letter made another claim: that the D.A. dislikes police
If the letter is correct, this witch-hunt must cease.
Cops don't start a day wishing to kill a man
Life in jail for manslaughter is not part of their plan.
If you get rid of good cops, someone else will fill in
You won't like the new enforcers; results will be grim.
I'm not a blind believer, we should follow every clue
But it's easy to make judgements when the gun doesn't point at you.
Stand up for the weak and speak up for the quiet.
When people are bullied they are forced to hide it.
They are scared and afraid and they want to speak up.
But they know if they do that they might get beat up.
They suffer in silence and don't say a word.
They're so close to suicide because their feelings are hurts.
By the time we figure it out it's already too late.
Another persons life has been taken away.
Stand up for the weak they can't do this alone.
And speak up for the quiet because they can't speak on their own.
dusty room full of junk;
creaking wooden floorboards.
small dollhouse, somehow shrunk,
lies nestled, treasured time.
aging, darkened ember;
old, beat -up wooden trunk.
She likes to embroider me -
a subjective needlepoint
yet a realistic arts and crafts.
A long relationship
requires some fine stitching.
I see a broken thumb nail,
a hand greasy with engine oil.
A vinaigrette of my silhouette
cleaning grandpa's old revolver
just because I do sometimes,
just because.
A chipped tooth and beat-up nose
the fist that hit it, now nowhere
to be challenged.
A telltale hint of man-boobs
an old man's wrinkly bottom.
Her fingertips are clear-eyed,
but the images are softened
with a patient love.
She also embroiders
hummingbirds, butterflies
and flowers -
a holy trinity to encircle a baldhead,
the dome of which
she kisses each night.
She composes
all these scraps of my reality
on a broad white cloth
that I am happy to wash
my sleep-fuzzed face with
each morning.
She believed in love at first sight
was deluded and double-crossed
one more time put her heart on the line
everything she once had now is lost
never knew no one who'd dissemble and lie
stab her in the back as he looked her in the eye
made the mistake of giving him her trust
now she's all beat up broke down battered and bust
she who had the faith love conquers all
was duped deceived taken for a ride
if she knew then all she knows now
there'd be no heartbreak she'd be dry-eyed
what a charmer come to no harmer
he enticed her then sliced and diced her
he's a two-timing four-flushing freak
if anyone ever was the perfect portrayal of one
living on a diet of deception and betrayal
he's a true Casanova a real Don Juan
GO AHEAD, MAKE MY DAY!*
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There once was a squirrel named Clint,
who lived in tree branches in Eastwood near Flint.
With an armored tank near,
he ruled without fear,
for in Eastwood, with his reign Clint was content.
The rabbits did quake in their burrows,
while Clint fired acorns like arrows.
“Your cheese is certainly no match,
for my tank’s bulletproof with a perfect hatch.
Remember, I’m king of these woodsy meadows!”
So, if you should wander through Flint,
and see Clint with his tank beat up and bent,
just remember this tale,
of nutty squirrel with acorns to impel,
who fancied himself a powerful prince!
They told us our skin meant exile
That our joy would be put on trial
Because it brings rain
But how can they hate the rain when it nourishes the ground we walk on
The same ground that grows the food we need to survive
They want us to cower in the face of their Whiteness
To bow down to their egos and stroke it
For us to call them superior
And reprimand our own blackness
And repent with silence
But we were born strong
Strength flowed through our bloodlines
Coursing through generations
Our ancestors created a legacy of pride
That we their children will not allow to be broken
We have endured the stings of their whips
We have lived through the shackles of slavery
We have taken abuse from the system
Yet still remained outspoken
Refusing to be the beat up victim
And faced the inhumane conditions of incarceration
We were made to withstand any storm
To hold our own
Whilst being pushed around
To trust in the power of ourselves
To embrace the harsh realities of life
To continue to love
And balance the rain with our sun
To smile and not giving them the satisfaction
Of their racism
And to not be bullied by their discrimination
(verse 1)
I have really long hair,
don't understand why people stare.
I'm looked down upon by society,
they try to destroy my dignity.
The people call me lazy and low class,
'cause my mop is almost to my ass.
They call me a hippy refugee,
and try to discredit my capability.
(chorus)
I drive a beat-up old car.
I'm your back road man!
I live at the local bar.
I'm the back road man!
(verse 2)
My vehicle didn't pass emissions,
now I can't get tabs.
My car no longer has insurance,
now I'm chasing taxi cabs.
So, I borrowed plates from a regal,
that belonged to my ex-honey.
Now my mopar looks street legal,
what a way to save money.
(chorus)
I smoke hand rolled cigars.
I'm your back road man!
I drink beer from jars.
I'm the back road man.
Lyricists Inc.
D.A.P. / Digital Analog Productions.
Written: 1-27-1995 David A.Porter
©? 01-24-2023
under this southern sky we all should adore
for this land has never burned with any war.
our life has always been one that is free
free from dictatorship...free from tyranny.
under the southern cross we show our true pride
from the desert plains to beyond the great divide.
under the blazing sun we play, work, sweat and toil
say "she`ll be right" when life spins with great turmoil.
our way is to add O or IE to many shorten words
to outsiders it must sound off beat...so absurd.
our friends we call every bad word under the sun
no offence taken...they know it`s only a bit of fun.
" `ken oath, he`s a drongo" a true blue knows what that means
from Tassie to the Territory...and everywhere in between.
coooee cobber...fair dinkin` your such a galah
we shouted out from our beat up holden car.
whether at a BBQ or down by the sea
it's an ice cold tinny for you...and for me.
our flag is one flown on flag poles oh so high
one we should respect...show our one true pride.
so let's all come together and be as one
in this land...under...the southern sun.
............
*to all the Aussies have a bonza day on Jan 26...and have a coldie for me
Hat Stand
I call my oak hat stand who
I don’t hang hats on
Mr Admiral Confused and also
Not Able to
Think With Clarity. The east corner of
my bedroom was where my
old hat stand allegedly
beat up the
old pedestal fan.
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