Long Barons Poems
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West Texas is a vast, wide-open area, dusty, windy, and dry. Many a time I hid the mostly unbranded calves I took from the herd on the XIT ranch behind the tumbleweeds that had built up in the small valleys across the open plains only the moonlight could see. I tried to move at night as much as I could because rustling cattle had become a dangerous occupation as I was finding out. Cattle barons had hired gunslingers and trackers to bring justice to outlaws like me and they were on my trail. Hoping the wind would erase my tracks I moved as many miles as I could, stopping only when water was found which wasn't often enough and the cattle, I stole were gettin' weak. I was halfway through New Mexico territory trying to get to the Magdalena cattle drive to sell my stock to wranglers I knew but I had to let the calves go and save myself. I could see four mounted cowboys on the mesa under the clear blue sky with me in their sight. I ditched all the weight I was carrying except the rifle and Colt on my hip as I headed into the Sawtooth mountains when a shot rang out. My horse, spooked by the noise reared up, throwin' me off onto the hard ground below as another shot rings out. I feel a burning sensation in my side as I get up to run for cover in a grove of gnarled trees' close by. Bleedin' from a gut shot, I know I won't recover as I hear the four cowboys drawing near. "Give it up boy, you aint goin' nowhere, this is the end of the line" the cowboy said. I replied "go to hell lawman!" as I fired from my Colt hittin' one of the riders. I tried to run further in the brush when I was struck again through the back. Mortally wounded, I thought about home and the woman I loved there. The cowboy on the black steed said "your rustlin' days are over son, anything you want to say?" "Give me a drink will Ya". The cowboy dismounted and handed me a bottle of whiskey, I pulled the cork with my teeth and took a swig. Handing the bottle back to him, it was getting hard to breathe as I said "grant me my dying', wish will Ya". "What is it boy" he said. With my last struggling breath, I said "bury me in Datil".
A Shining Flower Vase
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~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
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\\ I I //
\\ I I //
\\ I I //
\ /
I I hold the I
I loveliest I
I flowering I
/ blooms of \
/ the spring \
/ seasons and I \
/ ignite the rooms \
/ of all fervent lovers, \
/of monarchs and kings \
/ of lords, barons, nobles \
/ as of the commonest men. \
/ I adorn the shrines of temples,\
/ chapels, churches and pagodas. \
/ Whether carved in glass, in bronze, \
I in copper, in silver or in gold, I shine I
I reflecting light to illuminate the lives I
I of all laudable onlookers of beauty. I
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Magna Carta
Charter that determined
the King does Not
have absolute power
for he may not reign at his own
self-centered whim, nae!
much of his authority must be
siphoned off
Relinquished to
Earls, Lords, Barons, Bishops
Knights no longer must blindly obey
The king and his subjects convened on the
dewy emerald green meadows
Of Runnymede
King John was compelled to sign the Magna Carta
With one voice they deemed of him a tyrant
At his nadir, weakest point
No longer an absolute Monarch
Enraged were the
English Kings
so, that after John
no member
of the royal family
has been
Christened John eversince
This shall not be forgotten
During
King
's r
n e
h i
o g
J n
The Sheriff of Nottingham’s Nemesis is
R O B I N H O O D :)
The Gilded Age by Mark Twain in his 1873 novel /The Gilded Age: A Tale of Today, which satirized the era's materialism and political corruption is just what this King has ordered in his Megabill —Poetess
There was economic prosperity,
tho unconscionable social inequality
as a few “robber barons” tycoons
amassed great fortunes,
whereas degradation inflicted dire poverty,
mass starvation from petty wages
and long suffered humiliation
spawned a widened path and following stages
Arising of labor movements,
for better rights and conditions
narrowing the gap ‘tween the CEO
and the working Joe
killed for organizing strikes
The Gilded Age was notorious
political corruption made glorious
influencing many politicians
dominating were the captains of industry
An era of the rise of patronage systems
and widespread bribery and kickbacks
eroding trust in the government
Lack of effective regulation
contributed monopolist’s chasm reign
solidifying rich/poor disparity
We’ve forgotten that era and are in the midst
of repeating the plunder
A royal signature enshrines greed now just as then,
making America for the privileged gilded again
His majesty has his victory lap
and with no room for a generation gap
he’ll sign the Big Beautiful Bill
On this Independence Day
A gilded new age awaits his will
The fake isolation of the island insinuated the fostering of remnants;
remnants of religious fervor, close knit seafaring families, and rugged farmers;
remnants of power past and present.
A fog shrouded canvass awaits the onslaught of August revelry.
And, where widows walked the peeks of robber barons manses, the elementals now play.
Tomato red fire trucks ring the seaside green. Throngs of , oh so, polite W.A.S.P.S
and multicultural couples dot the lawn in precise groupings.
The squeal of stroller strapped toddlers echo across ocean
and down alleyways lined with painted ladies
Gay blades and saucy sisters saunter unharassed through the crowds of young families.
Prosperously retirees with salt and pepper hair in pink and green golf shirts line the porches
of the gingerbread homes ringing the green.
In the gazebo a brass band plays John Phillip Souza and closes by belting out
the American anthem, after dark, no flag wave, yet random patriots stand.
Their forms silhouette upon the gray fog like their intentions
mocking the holiday aire with their reminder of war….
those raging on in Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan and Pakistan.
and fade with the crowds roar to “Sit down your blocking the view!”
And as the elite, and privileged meet and greet chatting in wonder over the multiple sightings
of airforce one choppers and past President Clinton.
The three times the worlds average wage is spent on FIREWORKS, frivolously,
for the entertainment of the richest citizens of the planet. God Blessed America.
So Often Ignored
Nannies know little of color
White holding favor by 5th Ave employers
Barons and Baronesses of means
Gazing from insulated windows on high
As infant guardian merges blanketed carriage and job
Into daily Central Park realities
Inquisitive bundled baby stares
Starched guardian
Folded like a napkin atop the park bench
Idles her time with smartphone pressed to ear
Caressing air-born voices
To soften dreams
Rigid as the armor-hardened uniform
She wears
Mittened hands strain with curiosity
As sweatered pit bull puppy
Strains at leash
Infant eyes tear of confinement
Duty and resolve tethers canine away
Both wondering in infantile language
Must naïve curiosity always remain separated
Why so much fearful exposure
Engendering further fear
Made to keep separate
Connections intended
From eight stories up on the avenue
Binoculared eyes and iphoned voice
Remind Nanny to place baby's reaching hands
Beneath angora blanket
Protect
Protect
The puppy sniffs another moment
Nannie pockets smart phone
Gathers responsibility
Wheels away doleful innocence
Master jerks leash
Ever mindful of misunderstanding
Suddenly...
The simple language
Pant
Lick
Smile
Giggle
Contact
Becomes one's early experience
Cautioning of query's risk
Onlookers duck heads
Perhaps conscious
Acknowledgment might create fatal pause
Thus
Retreating ignorance by observers
Becomes a "through a glass darkly" for innocents
Risking perhaps forever embedded distrust
As the child with smiles
A puppy with out-of-control-tail swag
Separate
Unrequited love
Becomes just another vanishing moment
For disquieted hearts
Simple lessons of oneness
So often ignored
MUSIC IS THE DRUG
~~~~~~~
In the symphony of life, a rhapsody so grand,
Music as the drug, a magic at our command.²
Notes like whispers, touching deep within,
A symphony of soul, where new worlds begin.
Just like a crackhead yearns for a high,
We crave the tunes that make us fly.6
In the rhythm's embrace, we find our escape,
Lost in the beats, our souls agape,
Schooled by the bars that you can't grip,
And stereotypically serenaded to sleep.¹°
But who are the dealers in this realm so divine?
Who are the barons in this hidden Hades so fine?
The ones who craft the tunes like a design,
They are the maniac masters of the line;¹4
Musicians and poets, composers who weave,
Threads of emotion, making us believe,
Notes like whispers, touching deep within,
If music is a drug, we are the dealers, akin.¹8
With rhythm and harmony, we weave a spell,
A drug of choice, in which we all dwell.
Be it rock or jazz, hip-hop or blues,
Through beats and lyrics, we light the fuse.²²
Their instruments the vials, their voices the smoke,
Into our veins, the melodies evoke.
They deal in dreams, in feelings profound,
Their art like a drug, spreading all around.²6
We indulge in this musical haze,
The symphonies guide us through life's maze.
For in the realm of music, we find our release,
A drug so pure, a vibe and a gift of peace.³°
~~~~~~
VICK MANUEL POETRY {VMP}
FORM: Rhymes
Copyright ©?5th April, 2024.
The gated wall they stood before
No timber seemed awake to them;
no splinter stirred amidst the wood,
the nails now rusty in their beds,
where once brave Knights had deftly trod
on mounted horses,
all bejewelled.
True Knights and Barons who heralded The Cause.
That narrowest of narrow paths,
Where only the Truest traveller knows
The healing waters for his love sick heart
Lay hidden deep within the Well,
and who would ever know its source?
For in disguise it lay vast and deep,
covered in thickets where Lion’s prowl
Only the footsore brave seek its song
The song of sweetest melody
and in every chord a different balm;
to heal, to bind, to nourish and to love
but so faint on the wind is the song -
you would ne’er hear it - even if you strained;
wooed by the sound of The Maker,
and only seen by the eyes of the heart,
echoing in fathomless depths.
The beauteous sound of the waters brings healing to his love sick heart,
and trusses of red blossoms spring forth
And with a sweet pure melodic fragrance,
it bursts into a myriad of colours,
Leading him in a dance, singing the sweet sweet melody,
and as he sings,
the waters of the Well gush forth
and he within the waters is reborn.
Continued From:
3. Quien es?" "Who is it?" Part 3
http://www.poetrysoup.com/poems_poets/poem_detail.aspx?ID=195853
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"I find it very hard that I should be the only one to suffer the most extreme penalties of the
law." - BILLY the Kid
- In an interview while on route to his execution in Lincoln County New Mexico where he was
sentenced to be hanged.
Back then it didn't matter who was right or wrong.
What mattered was who had the fastest gun.
The untamed Old West lived by a code back then. "I'll Die Before I Run."
An 18 year old boy wanders into town. All of the locals stare the young stranger down.
All of his instincts tell him to turn around, but he can't turn his back and run.
The youngster can't afford any fear. The kid's found himself much needed work here,
but the competition's greed is ruthless. That's why he wears a gun.
Young William Bonney was just another cowboy
looking for work to earn an honest day's pay.
He rode into Lincoln County, New Mexico as a simple hired rancher's hand,
but he'd ride out to become a legend one day.
Today he's America's most famous bad boy,
but he left us more legend than fact of all he did.
His legend continues to live on in stories, movies, books and song.
Who hasn't heard of BILLY the Kid?
BILLY the Kid's life of crime for many it seems
has been greatly exaggerated to the extremes.
He never robbed a bank, stagecoach or train.
He never harmed an innocent for pleasure or financial gain.
He was just a common stock thief. He'd steal horses and cattle
from corrupt, rich Cattle Barons who'd respond in bloody battle.
It was a lifestyle that Billy truly didn't desire,
but when your wanted by the law employers don't hire.
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To Continue Go To:
5. Billy, the Kid Part 2
http://www.poetrysoup.com/poems_poets/poem_detail.aspx?ID=195851
Monday morning sneaks through shack and grime,
Bullets whirr where drug barons plot their trade,
Gatas tread gingerly.wasting hours and time.
The spaza hums,mugs chime,Rooibos Tea in the lane,
Bambinos sidestep shadows,mae geri into dustty tins,
Old timers murmur incantations under the day's first pain.
Smog sprinkles from braai stands where mamtanies fry,
Pirated Kalashnikovs twinkle in the sun's first glare,
Yet souls beat steady,declining lies.
Klevahs shuffle,wallets empty,agrrements whispered fast,
Tiny tots peep through windows,hearts throbbing loud,
Even in agony,a tenacious hope holds steady steadfast.
Through shacks,mirth trembles,sharp but bright,
The day starts with grit,with pain,with dreams,
In this dream struggle, the spirit fights for light.