Long Good sense Poems
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I went to work for him that year,
early on, in the fall,
It was my job to help feed,
water, and clean the stalls.
The quarter horses that he raised,
were among the finest to be seen.
Then there were the mustangs,
rough and rank and mean.
From time to time, the mustangs,
would somehow make an escape,
No matter how carefully it was chained,
they seemed to be able to open the gate.
Then we’d saddle-up and chase ‘em,
and push ‘em back to the pens,
When it came to the mustangs,
trouble knew no end.
He never really answered,
when I asked him why,
He kept these three, who were dangerous,
with such wildness in their eyes.
Once, he said,”They’re the last of our kind,
a rare and special breed,
Spirits, not of this earth,
waiting to be freed.”
This didn’t help me understand,
the mustangs or this man,
Who seemed to keep them at all costs,
though they didn’t wear his brand.
Then, one day as we fed, I saw him...
as He took loose the chain...
Softly, he said, “Come with me”,
and we walked to the truck in the rain.
We rode the truck to the hill,
where we could see for miles.
Motioning to the tailgate, he bade me sit,
and gave me a knowing smile.
Below, the mustangs had finished their feed,
and, as if they had good sense,
They began their morning journey,
around their pasture, checking fence.
When they came to the gate,
for a moment, they did pause,
And gave a glance towards the hill,
as if they knew the cause.
I will remember the next few moments,
Forever, they are etched into my mind,
And the emotion I felt, as we sat in silence,
never again, shall I find.
We watched them bolt from the gate,
Running for all they were worth,
All four feet up off the ground,
Flying, between Heaven and Earth.
The explanation that he gave,
he didn’t have to give.
But, his words ring in my memory,
all the days, that I live.
He said, “I let them go sometimes,
so I can remember, when I see,
What it’s like to break loose,
and truly, be Free.
For awhile I’m allowed, by Grace of God,
to be a part of wondrous, unseen forces...
And that, my fine young friend,
is why I keep wild horses."
They ask how this could come about?
How could a young man just snap,
this did not happen way back,
enough to make a good soul doubt.
They wonder why has it changed,
what’s different now than before,
what turns a young man to horror,
why are things not the same?
Craven folks say it’s all guns,
not above misusing a great loss
to advance their political cause,
never helping out anyone.
Some say that it’s the drugs,
medicating the boys of the world
because they are not little girls,
give them pills until their numb.
Perhaps they speak some truth,
it’s hard to grow, healthy and hale
when society demonizes males,
even when they’re in their youth.
But I think it’s more than that,
I don’t recall so many disturbed
back when our homes had fathers,
something so many now lack.
For young men especially,
an adult body and a child’s mind,
awash in hormones all the time,
of guidance they have a need.
’cause the cold, unyielding fact
is that men are for aggression bred,
and very like to end up dead,
if not taught control and tact.
A father is essential here,
one who’s survived life’s burdens,
learned what is required on men,
how to conquer masculine fears.
A single mother is not enough,
though her love is like a saint’s
she physical cannot restrain
a young man who's acting rough.
With more fathers in the home
to make clear just what life is,
and sometimes to crack the whip,
more boys would prosper and grow.
But to the nagging PC-crowd
to say that it makes good sense
to utilize such male guidance
is an idea denounced loud.
Most of them do not believe
that gender is even a thing,
and the great challenges it brings
They steadfastly will not see.
To claim that two parents are
crucial to a balanced life,
best achieved by man and wife,
to them is a step too far.
Ideology makes them blind,
they’d rather this mess go on
then dare reveal that they’re wrong
and have to change their mind.
And they won’t dare admit
that sex is not a social trope,
that the things real men know
could help put a stop to this.
So now we’re in this place,
the solution that they won’t see
is backed up by long history,
and should be encouraged post-haste…
…but I’m not holding my breath.
We are down on a sandy beach
And our legs dug deep in the sand of pain
Left stranded in the sea of sadness
The night of destruction falling on us with extreme darkness
Hovering on us the venom of evil
With rain drops of blood on our land
The storm getting heavier by the day
The flame of hope blown away by wind of wickedness
We live in a country where no one is safe
Where death darken the sky like an imminent doom
Where the majority live in ardent poverty
A land where corruption is at its peak
Our leaders the master chef to all our miseries
With eyes of blind spot to the need of the people
Deaf ears to the cry of the innocent
Blind eyes to the sufferings of the poor
The beat of political madness stirs in the air
With sound wave of pain to all the citizen of the land
Human lives valued only for a couple of coins and a few naira note
Innocent blood shed all in the name of political game
The taste of power and excessive desire for wealth
Sum with their selfish and political greed
Puts our dear nation in a state of unrest
Children of innocent souls being tortured through burning knife of evil
Leaving the youths to live their lives in fear
Our girls are no longer safe to go to school
Terrorism the bad sweet smell polluting our atmosphere
With it effect on us an horrible scar
People being nurtured to the highest point of hatred
With every of their road leading to violence and terrorism
Little by little we are losing our national pride
Our economy dropping faster than the speed of sound
Our leaders failing in every good sense of leadership
With the interest of the people far from their mind
From the cry of the rejected and abused children
To the tears of the suffering and confused adult
Same questions comes to the mind of every nigerian
Why do we have to suffer this much?
Are our leaders so blind to see that the nation is on a downhill of destruction?
How long will it take for them to hear our cry?
And what will it take for everything to change for good?
I guess only God has the answers to all this questions
And the golden key to our freedom
All will have to do is to keep praying
And keep hold of our little flame of hope
Cos one day I believe everything will change for good
evening mist curls
slowly up the rugged path
pondering life journey
The old man sat quietly. He was pensively weighing his actions and the balance of right and wrong in his life. Finally realizing there were better things to do he simply told God he was willing for Him to take care of consequence in due time. It was June, though it seemed unduly cold for the time of year. His old chair squeaked as he strained a couple of rocks, to and fro, and he thought, “My gosh the critters are noisy tonight.” Not that he thought the squeak was from the bugs, because he knew better. It was simply a noisy evening. He smiled as he thought about how much pleasure he had given old man Taylor because he and his buddy Jason, as kids, had stole two watermelons from old man Taylor’s small garden. Old man Taylor must have told that tale half a million times or more to anyone he was around more than fifteen minutes. Funny thing though, he could remember when it only took about 30 seconds to tell, but now was like ten minutes.
‘Where my sweater” he thought as the night chill sent a shiver across those boney old shoulders. A toothless grin showed he didn’t like wearing those store bought pearlies when he was alone. “ Dad gum!! What was I just thinking about. Oh! my sweater!” He wouldn’t have remembered but he was still cold. That seemed to be the biggest waste of growing old. He had to re-live every thought three or four times before he could let it go. He just seemed to think he would never bring it back again. Truth is he was right. He laid his head back on his pillow shortly thereafter. He took a last drag off a worn out cigarette and ground it out in the ashtray beside the bed. “Only time he smoked,” he told the Doc, and it was the truth. Oh, eons back he had the habit bad, but good sense took hold of the better half of him and prevailed in the fight to give them up. And it was a fight, after smoking some thirty odd years. That was the only good thing what came out of his daddy’s death some forty years earlier. This was the last thought he ever had as his head snuggled down into the clean pillowcase, a smile upon his lips.
the final verse
always ends the same
hallelujah
The Government's behaviour firstly no longer defends our church
this mockery in itself shows a deep lack of good sense
or the simple sourced judgement to cast defiance
within this ruling class displayed
Openly liars vulgar hounds with misunderstandings of truthful agendas
as silver lining shines within their beady eyes split tongues brag
poisoned two left feet heading backwards chaos screams from injustice
Milking a treasury for all it's worth then rising the pension age
blindsided are the fools whom are unable to see past the sheriff of Nottingham
Bailing out banks without consent and giving the bankers bonuses
this our rainy day fund feathering someone's nest
We pay through the nose breathing in this capital suffering
creating slaves illegally burdened citizens are chained
dipping into pension funds the existence for this illegal action
hands out always taking never giving
Such corruption goes beyond unchallenged by lawmakers
beggars of the very purse strings
15 million flushed down the toilet for paper postal codes
billions worth of fish harvested out of our Irish sea
Gas and natural resources given away freely
our sovereignty has been removed bit by bit stolen innocence
under false ideas stealing our children's future legacy
leaders without backbones snakes pushing agendas
For free, taxpayer-funded abortions put on the table
in this bill signed with bloodshed to legalise
the killing of unborn babies in Ireland of all places
never thought I would live to see the day
Millions spent on a referendum called choice
incorrectly claiming murder as just
to be an important part of healthcare
our family focus has lost all sense of direction
Challenging the very structure in mum and dad
to begin with motherhood is the single strongest character
filled with loving compassion such are the rights removed basically damned
Every single word into the temple of our origin
death of democracy spilling the most innocent of blood
sacrificed for the sake of pride our nation has fallen
No longer united Irishmen and women a land divided
it is from these spoils of war that's killing our children's legacy
Eyes, in such a way, that some strange virture, some everlasting release
Was imparted to he. A strange bargain indeed; to resist the gods and to please
Satan in his rebellioin from all that was natural, yet also noxious
After a tie; for, to what end unlimited perfection…..it would seem abnoxious
With no end in sight; and big oaks and trees seeming mortal, yet not dying
Ever guessing His source, teasing their mysteries and playing
And their relation to Adam; her husband, not by choice
But a program counter-intuitive; such that her voice
Would only ever be a mere shadow, a gaunt echo
Of Adam and his Masters booming light, much like the gecko
Who hides softly and silkily in shade cool and damp
Or the giant elephant loping about clumsy who only seems to tramp
‘Why this gecko seeking moist air, when the sun chokes his breathe
Or the elephant, whose stampde maks him an unwelcome guest.
Not content to merely laugh at the huge trunk of the dromedary and his tusk
To reach up and grab his elephantine robes and to smell his musk
Likely she grew tired of the large mammal and his heavy hoof beats
Relentlessly poundingthe earth beneath, hearing him, perhaps from Africa to Crete
And caused the rumbling which finally toppled the walls of those fair cities Minoan
Or how else did the Kingdom of Knossos fall, so far, the ancient site shows a window
Of perfect harmony and bliss an ordered society and blest, with violence well at bay
The Idylli morals deepset in grape and olive, crushed sunset with sailors at play
Riding on top of dolphins and drinking from the boot, gathering for the store-house
Oil, Wine and Wheat; preparing for competition with glove to box or race to trod---no man a louse
It would seem this island fantasy a paradise much like that mentioned in Genesis, Eden
Where the rule of the monarch rested lightly on the people; and men had ample time to find their abundant pleasure, among the dolphin or minotaur
Where pictures depict gymnasts leapingover bulls and by so doing pass the bar
Of manhood in such simple and playful way, with manly innocence
They had proven their version of the garden—With good sense
The old man sat quietly. He was pensively weighing his actions and the balance of right and wrong in his life. Finally realizing there were better things to do he simply told God he was willing for Him to take care of consequence in due time. It was June, though it seemed unduly cold for the time of year. His old chair squeaked as he strained a couple of rocks, to and fro, and he thought, “My gosh the critters are noisy tonight.” Not that he thought the squeak was from the bugs, because he knew better. It was simply a noisy evening. He smiled as he thought about how much pleasure he had given old man Taylor because he and his buddy Jason had stole two watermelons from old man Taylor’s small garden. Old man Taylor must have told that tale half a million times or more to anyone he was around more than fifteen minutes. Funny thing though, he could remember when it only took about 30 seconds to tell, but now was like ten minutes.
‘Where's my sweater” he thought as the night chill sent a shiver across those boney old shoulders. A toothless grin showed he didn’t like wearing those store bought pearlies when he was alone. “ Dad gum!! What was I just thinking about. Oh! my sweater!” He wouldn’t have remembered but he was still cold. That seemed to be the biggest waste of growing old. He had to relive every thought three or four times before he could let it go. He just seemed to think he would never bring it back again. Truth is he was right. He laid his head down on his pillow shortly thereafter. He took a last drag off a worn out cigarette and ground it out in the ashtray beside the bed. “Only time he smoked,” he told the Doc, and it was the truth. Oh, eons back he had the habit bad, but good sense took hold of the better half of him and prevailed in the fight to give them up. And it was a fight after smoking some thirty odd years. It was the only good thing what came out of his daddy’s death some forty years earlier. That was the last thought he ever had as his head snuggled down into the clean pillowcase, a smile upon his lips.
evening mist curls
slowly up the rugged path
pondering life journey
At the corner of the town you shall find it
A small den filled with cigarette smoke and booze
Wherever you decide to sit, just squeeze you will fit in
Among the best kind of people, the kind with nothing to lose
The liquor sold may not be the best in quality
The people here are far from becoming financially stable
But they are good company to keep, while keeping away from reality
Where laughter is shared around every draped shaky table
The barmaids keep quitting for the pay is never enough
To avoiding glasses breaking; they mostly come in plastic
You can’t request for a song, the DJ doesn’t have
The bartender is also the DJ, and he cant afford to fall sick
The place is always open, no matter what time of day
The drinking never stops, it parallels the hour hand
There is always someone to serve you, just as long you pay
If you tip the barmaid well, you can make an extra demand
Even If you have no money, you can get drunk still
As long as next time you remember, to settle all your debts
But whatever you drink be assured, comes not with a high bill
The bartender gives credit, and he never regrets
Men and women come to drink for all kinds of reasons
Some drink to celebrate while others drink to forget
Many drink to pass the time, just to get through the seasons
Others are just lonely,no one is back home not even a pet
The place is not always well lit, nor well ventilated
It’s always crowded, with no room for a dance floor
But people care only for the booze,and how quickly it gets them sedated
They drink till past their bedtime, and the next day the drink more
Everyone is welcome here, whether a regular or passing through
No one will judge you here, its home away from rock bottom
There are hustlers and dreamers and those with nothing to do
You can be yourself here, with no regard to society’s norm
They drink themselves senseless, but talk lots of good sense
Philosophy and religion mixes with whatever say now the politicians
Whether Trump can do the job, and God bless Mike Pence
Shame on that Bruce Jenner, and TV is better off without the Kardashians
Roll back the clock to Josef Locke
(and not before or after),
in climes where shrines have names like Knock
without provoking laughter.
My father was an army man
(and yet me to beget),
all spit-and-polish, spick-and-span,
and quite the martinet.
Those soldier boys were short on poise
in those benighted days:
the Murphys, Martins and Molloys
were raised in rustic ways.
But Duty Sergeant Kevin Coy,
vesuviously vocal,
was out to drum-head or destroy
each vermin-ridden yokel.
His boots could pass for lacquered glass,
his gloves would shame a surgeon:
his dignitas at morning Mass
outshone the Blessed Virgin.
Imagine, then, when Cousin Ben
(all NCOs were family)
provided gen beyond all ken
(with palms perspiring clammily):
“They’re on a charge. I told them, Sarge.
I threatened savage slaughters.
Le nettoyage. A smell at large
in Ballykelly Quarters.”
They hunted high, they hunted low,
they bled the radiators,
more ebb and flow could offer no
Projection of Mercator’s.
Just how to quell that awful smell
preoccupied them greatly:
hard to dispel, suspicion fell
on Houlihan, then Hateley.
Catch as catch can, they caught their man
(not Higgins, or O`Hara):
who’s down the pan? None other than
your man from Connemara.
What Ryan knew was equal to
a peat-bog sown with barley:
he’d not a clue – “What? Put on new
bejeezers, regularly?”
His first long-johns remained the ones
adorning regions nether:
six months now gone, he still had on
the same ones, altogether.
“Wear other pairs? These stink – who cares?”
What’s harder to believe
is, unawares, his thighs’ black hairs
had grown quite through the weave!
“He’s now cashiered for being weird –
why then, we’ll depilate him.”
His locks were sheared, and then his beard,
and pubis, seriatim.
Thus Ryan, Sean, of Shirley born,
his gonads wholly hairless,
is there to warn, so sheerly shorn:
a lesson to the careless.
Whatever sins the Pope rescinds,
or parish priests connive at,
sloth never wins. Redress begins
with Shaving Ryan’s Privates.
Give Yourself a Break
Come on, it’s time. Give it a rest
and stop beating yourself up
about things that are over and done with
when you know you did the best you could.
He’s gone now and you miss him,
and you think you were this, that or the other,
not patient enough, you were selfish,
you didn’t go on his walks with him
and you let him go by himself sometimes
when he had to struggle so to do it.
You went out to a poetry group at night
and left him when you should have
stayed at home with him for company.
You spent too much time with household
chores and sometimes by yourself writing.
He was the one with the health problems,
trouble walking, falling sometimes
when you weren’t there, and he never complained.
Now you look back and blame yourself
when you know, yes, you know,
if you just allow yourself, that you
did the best you could.
It was years that you took care of him,
encouraged him, helped him dressa
and walk, put up the metal ramp
when he went outside and wheeled
him to the car, put the chair in the car,
took him to appointments, got him
into the wheelchair and reversed the way home.
You washed him and changed the bed and
cooked what he liked and watched television
with him and really did give up things
you loved to do and tried to get him to
go out to events you thought he’d like.
Yes, you could be short, maybe impatient
sometimes, and said some things
you wish you hadn’t said.
Give yourself a break. You’re human
and not perfect. Remember how many times
he thanked you for all you did for him.
Remember the good times -
how many times you were gentle with him,
tried to encourage him, hugged him
and told him how much you loved him;
the nights you came down in the night
because he needed help, and you
always told him you didn’t mind,
that you’d go right back to sleep;
hours and days sitting in the hospital
waiting for him to get better enough
to come back home again.
So stop purposely wallowing
in a misery of your own making
and take back your good sense.
Remember the love.