Best Brushy Poems
II.
Liesel spent months worrying about this,
about dark minions and young souls that hurt,
she even started fearing for herself
for questioning the teachings of the church.
She did not want to damn herself to Hell,
but she couldn’t believe that it was true
that a loving God would punish children
for something that they themselves couldn’t do.
How did it make sense that helpless infants
could be punished due to their parents?
Why would they suffer for another’s sins,
how in the world did such a thing make sense?
But Liesel kept this turmoil inside,
and tried to just keep on living her life,
didn’t tell of doubts that haunted her thoughts,
or worried dreams that kept hear up at night.
It all came to a head six months later,
her neighbor’s new baby died in his sleep,
The town gathered up for the funeral,
to weep loudly, and to pour out their grief.
Liesel loitered near the back of the crowd,
every so often she glanced to the woods,
until finally she saw the woman,
and decided she’d settle this for good.
She crept out of her parent’s house that night,
made her way slowly down to the churchyard,
at midnight the old crone walked to the grave,
and from her cloak removed some sort of jar.
She opened it and stood there quietly
for a long moment, then shuffled away,
Liesel followed, determined that somehow
she would not make this foul demon pay.
Through a dark forest of eldritch oak trees,
where brushy undergrowth scratched at her skirts,
across gurgling streams that wet her feet,
down dark ravines where the wolfpacks still lurked.
Amidst calling owls loud in the night,
she followed that old crone through the wild,
she kept a good distance, forty paces,
her feet bled, and she wheezed from the trial.
Finally she came upon a small glade,
to the center of it the crone did go,
right to an old cabin that rose up there,
Over the door was a sign that said ‘Limbo.’
Her heart froze as the old woman walked in,
she saw the briefest flash of light from inside,
all of her reason screamed out, ‘You should run!’
But she couldn’t, no matter how hard she tried.
Some great force acted deep within her soul,
she couldn’t say if for good of for ill,
but Liesel found herself approaching the door,
simply a pawn to some powerful will…
The Aged Man
Authored by Chuck Keys
There is a sadness inside of him,
Draped by layers of heartaches and disappointments,
Insulated with his long beard, thickly white eye brows,
Unkempt brushy long dense white hair,
Dry peeling cracked lips, slightly ajar,
Showing his smoke stained chipped teeth,
Wearing a dark, soiled, bulky long scruffy ankle length coat,
Two buttons were missing,
With a 2" uneven tear at the bottom of its left side stained pocket,
A dirty powder-blue weathered wool and leather hat, with ear flaps down,
It was a long cold night, in mid-January, the month of his birth.
He moves like a man covered with fear and age, and maybe hunger too.
Mornings and evenings are but doorways
In and out of his leftover forgotten soul,
To the long endless days and nights, forlorn and grey.
He meanders about with a slow cautious gait, head down often times,
Eyes more closed than open, squinting even in the dark unlit night,
Torn gloved hands (with a large irregular frayed hole in the palm of the left),
Each hand fisted tightly for warmth,
Arms tightly at his side, stationary, not swaying,
Protectively wrapping himself inside,
Or just holding himself, maybe for warmth or some unexplained reason.
His life is full, the years buried deep inside.
The pounding aches inside, remembers his early years,
Ages ago, wrapped and protected inside his large family,
But never a part of it, not inside,
Always outside searching, for what can't be found, ever.
His own family that slowly left him was remembered,
Material children today, groundless at best,
That have no memory of what was,
Only what is or what will be.
Grandchildren that lacked life inside his hug.
The pounding aches inside; smirks, sometimes,
Knowing time and space, loving and giving, peace,
Remedy for all that ails.
He knows only what he knows,
He loved, loves and will always love.
Even alone, he is in joy, at peace.
The old man walked into his last mile, a short while ago,
His slow cautious gait, one small step after another, and another,
As the gates opened, he turned and looked behind,
Frowned and smiled,
With nothing left to say.
Majestic blue mountain tops with their
head's high above it all. Hundreds of
brilliantly, bright yellow maples that are
aligned at the foot of the blue hue
mountains, standing tall.
Golden hay lying, brushy at their feet as
topaz colored grass surrounds the hilly
water's edge, so artistically complete.
In the evening's glow the amber sunset
dances off the water so divine.
A master piece painted canvas of nature
that has with stood the test of time.
Brown, whiskey
brushy tail who jumps
from the roof top
to the tree just as
easy as can be.
Round and round
mister squirrel goes
onto the tree trunk.
Not a worry or care
has he.
He sits on the branch
looking down at
the bird feeder and
those silly cats
who watch him through
their window each day.
Higher he goes, with
a nut held tightly
to be hidden so when
winter comes he
can have him a snack.
Sitting proudly making
his tail go into a curl
form, so bushy, brown
as he shows of for the
cats he is teasing,
letting them know they
will never get him.
Bushy, Furry, he is quit
amazing as he sits
on the branch, jumping
to the roof top down he
hops and off to new
adventures.
A cold-blooded killer or a kind hearted man,
Searching for justice with a gun in his hand
He escaped many times indeed he did,
He is known as Billy the Kid
A charming young man, with a heart-breaking smile,
He rode across the desert, he rode many miles.
He is known for the things that he did,
He is known as Billy the Kid
Chased by lawmen, bandits, and thieves,
Billy is dead now and many are relieved,
Shot by Pat Garrrett, his so-called friend
Murdered and betrayed, enemies in the end
Could history be wrong?
A lie have been told,
Could Billy have died at ninety years old,
In a small town in Texas, a place called Hico
Brushy Bill Roberts,
A man growing old,
Stories of his life,
Many have been told
He claims a life of killing,
A life of revenge,
He wants to be pardoned,
He is nearing his end
"Do you have any proof that you are who you say?"
Does Billy the Kid still live today?
These questions were asked,
By an attorney of law,
Then Brushy revealed his scars,
Many wounds he saw
The truth has been told,
It's finally out,
Was Brushy "The Kid?"
I have no doubt
blue death
stalks Brushy Creek
heron is back
My fragrances have guided you to my colourful winter gardenia
A cobbled pathway will walk you to a vanilla mushroom house
Atop with a fireman's helmet of red riding hood flower wine
Bee loved sunshine daisies spread their wax petals on the crimson rooftop
Clusters of blue lotuses float in my faded old bathtub in close vicinity
The small wooden well with an overhanging planked bucket sheltered above
Houses red geraniums and ruffled peonies in the backyard
My skin peeled timber wheelbarrow rests being tired of traying
Blooming pink roses, green brushy ferns and purple asters
A pathway of coloured mandalas to step upon with sweeping skirts
Encircle around small earthen-pot fountains dripping lazily
From one clay vessel to another to ripple over creamy pebbles
Leisure around the hibiscus bushes and you'll find a log table with stumps
Rest a while and watch the the stone swans resting their beaks on breasts
Pleased to carry their petunia backs to dwell in your warm arbours
I'm a paradisiacal retreat for a photographic memory to paint me in words
April 4, 2016
city limits;on 2nd street and elizabeth avenue,near a tire shop,and its where billy
the kid the out law lived and died;as brushy bill,so sad,yet here stood by those
very same street names in real life,his last 3rd living descendent, generation gap
as i guess we could of called it now!he wasnt dead,like all would of like to
believed or masked;he was my son,mr pj bertrand jr,and me im his mom;norma
jay bertrand the writer4386/homeless international poet of the usa/07!in reality
how practical does that sound,but my son at 24 years of age looks more
idenitical to him every day,its gets kinda spooky!in and out of hico,texas,except
here he was by the same stop sign holding a white plastic sign with a christian
quote on that read on wed,oct 26,05 can gods people help this family in
america;why?we that is i and my family was out on a personal fundraiser walk on
our own;since we were victims of both hurricanes and had no address physically
and lived in our suv;that eventually quit.no organizations cared and femur refused
to aid us;so we did it on our own,headed toward dublin,texas no less;off hw y6
north west for that one paticular night,it was where no one was giving rides and
only passing us by;like a real loser we felt inside;in and out of hico,texas,what
they didnt want to realise;billy the kid wasnt missing he was right there by my
side on the side of a abandoned house of white stone;resting my shattered knee
caps due to my bone cancer,on 2nd street and elizabeth avenue i was then
petting billy the kid who resemblance could kill a real deer that happened by! and
it could of been seen on the back on a rural map;its where njay wrote this on the
side of the ditch,if the residents came up and some would be in literal tears
telling him do you know who you look like;he could only nod yes mam or sir!and
sigh!believe it!ask the manager of chicken express cafe america;if you think i
lie;its more than just a word of mouth!i and he was both in and out of hico ,texas
and thankgod it wasnt in the south;yet no body asked how?nor had the nerve to
smile or laugh!or saw wowl!his living legacy america!is in actual replica on your
streets;a remake of the notorious gun slinger of the west in and out of hico,texas
call me and you can see him more than twice;at 409-679-5423
A Wolf’s Paradise
A place, where once the wolves of time, shook off their godly shields,
To come to Earth eternally, where only seasons yield.
They fashioned then, a godly place, of wood and shade and stone,
to rest their souls and bide awhile. A heavenly, earthly home.
All have tried to sing of thee, the Human, Nymph and Muse.
Of your verdant halls of ochren shades, which golden lights suffuse.
These wolves of time, have erelong passed from memory, thought and deed
And left this for humanity, a place for those in need.
A heady place, of mossen scent, this place of liquid time,
Where peace and joy, yet still abound and all this can be thine.
A fastness free, from troubles real, a place to soothe thy soul.
A drink of serendipity, true tastes of life, your goal.
Come, walk with me within these walls of wood and shade and stone.
Come, lay with me in spirit’s rest, this one true wolfenholme.
Brushy
Stranded courtesy bittercold without food or drink
Dire straits necessitated
yours truly to bethink
outside the box (literally outdoors
of squarish structured nested dwelling),
where blinding albedo effect
forced me to blink,
additionally also ruffled tail feathers
of this sole surviving male bobolink
(North American songbird,
Dolichonyx oryzivorus)
pushing survival species
to extinction brink,
thus series of unfortunate events
woke resident chewink
(North American bird,
Pipilo erythrophthalmus
also called: towhee
or ground-robin),
tweeted from within
his cozy armoire chink
polar vortex froze habitat,
whereby arctic wind found
brushy areas to clink
unwittingly brambles ferocious
waving circular rotation
wrought minuscule countersink
eh, no bigger than a cufflink
his ornate bejeweled complex edifice
compliments of sizable income
allowed, enabled, and provided
opportunity in tandem
with significant other
to create acronym named dink
(dual income without kid)
acquiring handsome combined income
rendering and selling stylized goldfinch
also known as distelfink
common motif in
hex signs and fraktur,
which interpretive native folk art
eye state meaningless
without rhyme nor reason,
superfluous gibberish by George,
and/or...well... courtesy
following more purposeless gobbledygook
defying poetaster to incorporate doublethink
intelligently nsync with downlink
playfully, jauntily, and deliberately
creating confounding badinage eyewink
at thee, no doubt many
an anonymous innocent
reader calling me ratfink
under their breath or more
colorful brutal appellation
inducing cheeks of unknown followers
turning fifty plus shades of firepink
moost definitely concurring gink
perfectly apropos description
concluded individually versus
collectively, quickly, and
unanimously i.e. (think) groupthink
I approve this entire message, which
most likely tinders pet peeve,
concluding GoDaddy liberally did hoodwink.
IT HUNG IN THE SMOKEHOUSE FOR YEARS ON END,
JUST AN OLD BLACK COAT THAT NO ONE WOULD MEND.
THE LAST ONE TO WEAR IT WORE IT IN DEATH,
HE HAD IT ON WHEN HE BREATHED HIS LAST BREATH.
MY MEMORIES OF HIM ARE WEAK AND FEW,
BUT I HEARD MANY TALES OF THE LIFE HE KNEW.
BACK IN THE THIRTIES IN EAST TENNESSEE,
JOBS WERE SCARCE AND TIMES WERE HARD FOR A FAMILY.
IN ORDER TO SURVIVE, SOME TURNED TO THE BAD
THE DEEP MOUNTAIN HOLLOWS WERE ALL THEY HAD.
THE MOONSHINE STILL GAVE HOPE FOR MEN WHO WERE DOWN
THEY MADE AND SOLD CORN WHISKEY ‘TIL OFFICERS CAME AROUND.
HE WAS CAUGHT AND PUT UNDER A PRISON GUARD BOSS
SENTENCED TO BRUSHY MOUNTAIN, IN THE HILLS OF PETROS.
HE’D ALWAYS PLAYED TUNES ON HIS OLD GUITARS
SO, DURING HIS CONFINEMENT, HE PICKED BEHIND BARS.
IN HIS TIME OF INCARCERATION, AND AWAY FROM THE ROCK-PILE
SOME AFRICAN-AMERICANS SHOWED HIM A NEW PICKING STYLE.
THEY FINGER-PICKED THE BLUES WITH A BROKEN BOTTLENECK
HE LEARNED THESE SOUNDS AS EACH TUNE HE’D COLLECT.
WHEN HE’D SERVED HIS TIME AND CAME BACK TO HIS HOME
HE HAD NO OTHER DESIRE TO RAMBLE OR ROAM.
HE MET MY WIDOWED GRANDMOTHER, THEY CHOSE TO WED
ALL HIS MISTAKES AND EARLY WRONGS, SHE HELPED HIM SHED.
FOR A FEW SHORT YEARS, THEY LABORED TOGETHER
IT WAS THEIR INTENTION TO BE FAITHFUL FOREVER.
BUT THERE CAME A NIGHT AT OUR COMMUNITY SCHOOL
WHEN AN OFFICER OF THE LAW THOUGHT HE’D BROKEN A RULE.
THOUGH THE DEPUTY WAS MISTAKEN, THE TRUTH HE REFUSED
HE RESISTED HIS DEMANDS, HE WOULD NOT BE ABUSED.
THEY STRUGGLED, A GUN WAS FIRED, THE BULLET ENTERED HIS CHEST
AN INNOCENT MAN LAY DEAD, IN HIS BLACK COAT DRESSED.
I REMEMBER THE OLD BLACK COAT WITH ITS LARGE GAPING HOLE
TO MY YOUNG AND FERTILE MIND, IT SPOKE OF A STORY TOLD.
MY GRANDMA WAS A WIDOW FOR THE SECOND TIME
AND THIS TIME IT WAS BECAUSE OF A LEGALIZED CRIME.
HE DIED IN THIRTY-NINE, WHEN I WAS ONLY FOUR
BUT I RECALL THAT NIGHT OF SORROW, IT’S A MEMORY I KEEP IN STORE.
I WOULD LIKE TO HAVE KNOWN HIM IN MY YOUNG DAYS
I WOULD LIKE TO KNOW MORE OF HOW HE CHANGED HIS WAYS.
Stranded in bittercold without food or drink...
Though the following
twittering scenario quite absurd,
methought diehard adherents of mine
(intimation also quite far-fetched),
some unnamed readers insomnia
nevertheless could benefit courtesy
a thought provoking tweet
east of Eden heard.
Dire straits necessitated
yours truly to be atypical and think
outside the box (literally outdoors
of squarish structured nested dwelling),
where blinding albedo effect
forced me to blink,
additionally also ruffled tail feathers
of this sole surviving male bobolink
(North American songbird,
Dolichonyx oryzivorus)
pushing survival species
to extinction brink,
thus series of unfortunate events
woke resident chewink
(North American bird,
Pipilo erythrophthalmus
also called: towhee
or ground-robin),
tweeted from within
his cozy armoire chink
polar vortex froze habitat,
whereby arctic wind found
brushy areas to clink
unwittingly brambles ferocious
waving circular rotation
wrought minuscule countersink
eh, no bigger than a cufflink
his ornate bejeweled complex edifice
compliments of sizable income
allowed, enabled, and provided
opportunity in tandem
with significant other
to create acronym named DINK
(dual income no kid)
acquiring handsome combined income
rendering and selling stylized goldfinch
also known as distelfink
common motif in
hex signs and fraktur,
which interpretive native folk art
eye state meaningless
without rhyme nor reason,
superfluous gibberish by George,
and/or...well... courtesy
following purposeless gobbledygook
defying poetaster to incorporate doublethink
intelligently nsync with downlink
playfully, jauntily, and deliberately
creating confounding badinage eye wink
at thee, no doubt many
an anonymous innocent
reader calling me rat fink
(Ed “Big Daddy” Roth's child)
under their breath or more
colorful brutal appellation
inducing cheeks of unknown followers
turning fifty plus shades of firepink
moost definitely concurring gink
perfectly apropos description
concluded individually versus
collectively, quickly, and
unanimously i.e. (think) groupthink
I approve this entire message, which
most likely tinders pet peeve,
concluding GoDaddy
go tell Aunt Rhody
yours wittily, truly,
quirkily, nervously, jokingly
attempted to hoodwink.
The orient rays through the tree tops
Illuminating the foliage,shades of green
Sieving through the mist, hallowing land.
My mind wakes to an soothing breeze
Meadows crowned by myriad dews
Glittering to welcome the morning sun-
That tickles the hillside limpid stream-
Giggling through the lea to the fields.
A stork waiting stealthily calm
While crabs shelter under pebbles
A snowy swan swims across
Making ripples by its webbed feet.
The ridges far off in the canvas
A silhouette of a sleeping giant
Nonchalant of its murky feet-
As the sun peeps through its side.
Parrots in pairs flying thru the golden ray
Spotted far off in the sky waxing blue
The calves sprinting curiously away
with careful care their mothers graze.
The squirrels swift on the branches
wagging brushy tails sniffing for nuts
we haven’t lost the paradise yet,I vouch
But gone miles away on our own choice
Staring onto the blanks of skin depths,
I might as well fake for forsake.
Bright eyed and brushy tailed,
Hidden in the mask of despair.
Abandoned quiets of youthfulness,
juggling with lives apse.
"Hush, speak no more.
You ain't my reign,
nor am I interested in lame."
A beginner's mind, which I am not aware of.
Thinking of rainbow vivid and lush greens,
carving forced passions of strangers beliefs.
Bright sleeked while the sharp of shadows go un-noticed.
"I do not fear the dark"
So I say.
While my eyes were coved to mantic sounds of silences.
'Youth' it was someone said.
Bipolar I corrected.
Most hyenas are not predictable but Squirrely was the weirdest of all
So strange, he was thrown out of the pack when he was a cub
He’s just so unusually and blatantly odd, said his sister, Maul
Squirrely is beyond the realm of fantasy said his brother Chub
They did not like his smile and his laugh bordered on the insane.
He gallops around like a goat, a donkey, a llama and a horse
He had hair so messy, it was brushy too like a lion’s mane
His family did not like him, but his grandma took him in of course.
Squirrely had a marvelous life with his loving Gran.
Until she died and went to the promised land.