Long Thieves Poems
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Why do you choose to stoop this low?
On the streets of savages and thieves you roam.
What has affected your sense of reasoning?
When in your father’s house there’s a huge foam?
Your uncertain mobility with so much savings;
hitting rock-bottom which I wouldn’t have guessed,
you waited to go through pains, eating with pigs;
sawed by poverty before you knew you’re blessed.
Your realization is complete, please embrace good sense
come back home and let your pride pretend.
You’re still important no matter how far you’ve deviated
because your welcome celebration, even the king will attend
Madeline Cole worked over the basin,
Washing clothes for her, and her man,
In the wilds of Kansas, 1878,
Where grass, between horizons, did span.
A pretty young woman, a brand new wife
She’d yet to fall heavy with child,
But she hoped and she prayed, whenever she could
That her dreams would wait only a short while.
When on the ridge three forms appeared,
Mounted proud, riding tall on horseback.
Madeline had seen them before this day,
The whole county had felt their attacks.
The Anderlin brother, that was their name,
The scourge of this part of the west,
Rustlers, thieves, killers, and back-shooters,
No lawman rode that they could not bet.
They approached the house, leers on their faces,
The oldest a brigand names Joe.
Madeline grabbed her and rifle and went out the door,
No further would she let the filth go.
Joe he just smiled, and shook his head
Saying ‘Darling, now you listen here!
I mean to have you, one way or the other,
Play nice and there’s no need to fear.’
‘But girl if you push me, I’ll tell your plain
I’ll put six bullets into that chest.
I think you’ll agree, it would be a sin
To put six bloody holes in those breasts.’
But Madeline stood and refused to budge,
Joe’s weathered face grew more ugly and cruel.
He said,’You can’t kill us all, not today.
Be smart here, don’t be a damned fool.’
‘You’ll like what we give you, I guarantee
You’ll be moaning when you are under
The body of a real man, not some green husband
Who likes to play at being a puncher...’
CONTINUES IN PART II.
As the clouds parted
Is when reality started
Crackling booms across the sky
Only GOD knows why
Some disappeared, Others combusted
Liars, thieves and even ones you trusted
Never to be seen again
Thus the wages of sin
Young to the old
Weak to the bold
There was no discrimination
All at one time across the nation
The ones left turned beast
Devouring one another at the feast
It was a sea of blood
Resembling a red flood
Angels swooped down
One wore the crown
Demons came from the earth
As if giving birth
The battle was a battle
Innocents herded like cattle
Evil laying waste
The violence I could taste
This game I'm no stranger
Never feared a bit of danger
No longer feeling mortal
I've stepped through the portal
Kill, kill and kill
I did and I will
Did I do right or was I wrong
I fear the decision won't take long
I
The forest of generations
Each tree with a tale to tell
Upon the rings of their foundations
Where each history dwells
Tress of new and trees of old
Wear leaves like feathers
To display their colors in bold
A culture’s greatest treasures
Peaceful lives preserved
Fallen seeds writing new histories
Until the process was disturbed
By unexpected naval deliveries
A new species brought aboard
And spread among the trees
Where years’ traditions are stored
We’ll replace them with these:
That eat away at the leaves
Like a caterpillar without a cycle
These cultural thieves
Stole with greed on their arrival
Although some free of evil
Just a species displaced
A threat to the people
When their local culture’s defaced
As they die away
Their colors become one
A global shift underway
Their histories undone
For every leaf that falls
A culture’s dead and gone
Hearing the distant calls
As we approach the dawn…
We sing our sixties folk songs
And live in our Woodstock memories
Dancing to Cher’s Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves,
Hanging on to our excitement at surviving the seventies.
Peace is our sign, with love beads and Go Go boots
Thanks to Nancy Sinatra and “These Boots are Made for Walk’n”.
Don’t squawk, youngster, go your own way. Be you.
Don’t just survive, thrive! Live your soul dream.
Take this guitar and travel the world. Take Route 66.
Here are the keys to my Chrysler. Sure she’s old, but she’s powerful.
Singing “Little Ole Lady from Pasadena” with Grandma is not enough.
You have to get out there and live. Your life is waiting!
Destiny is sending you a cookie cake. Gobble up those chocolate chips.
Like Auntie Mame said, “Life is a banquet,
and most suckers are starving to death”.
Don’t let it be you. Go out and grab your gusto.
Parade in your pizzazz.
Be your most delightful and delectable you! Live your ethereal truth, my friend!
''Become who you are;the future belongs to the noble of heart'' -Pindar
She strides with courage in a world of thieves,
a sentinel of truth,a sword against rot
Her eyes pierce the murk of corruption,
her voice shatters the silence of the spineless
But the night is cruel.
Six bullets bite her blood on the pavement,
her life stolen while innocents sleep,
her daughter's laughter fading behind locked doors.
The state turns its back,
its paper turns shield worthless against the gun
the killers roam free,
while kingpins cackle from towers of impunity.
Courts,cops,politicians-
all hands tied,or worse,greasing the path of evil.
We cry,we roar,we rage in whispered storms.
The streets echo her absence
Yet her courage lingers,
a torch blazing in the darkness.
Babita's name rises,
a hymn against fear,a banner against cowardice.
Her truth cannot be buried,
her legacy cannot be stolen,
In the shadow of assassins,
amidst the syndicate's tyranny,
her light endures,relentless,radiant.
We bear witness.
We lift our voices.
we demand justice,
we demand honor
We demand that the noble heart of the future be remembers
and answers-not with vengeance,but with
the unyielding fire of truth
God is not a building dedicated to one faith
that icon of a dead Christ that’s a myth that man makes…
Because men must define the unknown in stone a human façade or by words in a black book bound by dead flesh to govern the human race or enslave the human heart…
God is not your TV your priest your dollar marks God is not your evangelistic thieves crying for money or power built on the backs of the infirm the fragile of mind…
God does not milk the geriatric frail of body and heart God is not your soul but you are part of it, a divinity a degree of energy bound to all in a universal conscience God is…
Something you cannot understand but it sits beside you all the same God is the constant awareness of a universe living the grand I am
Unseen the Innermost reality you cannot define God outside the pages of a man made black book God is not humanity nor is it removed alone and aloof
It is between all there is and what will be or have been God is in the details god is the sublime or God is colorless in creation of all and nothing God is as simple…
As the grace of wind across this earths ragged face or as violent and as mysterious as the death of a neutron star God is with you and without burnt…
Offerings God is and is not good nor evil for that is human design God is just a thought in a vast mind of the cosmos or a simple electric spark…
More vast and complex or as simple as a human cell God is a black hole in deepest of space God is not an obelisk or engraved imagery nor a myth…
That man makes divinity creation is something you cannot understand but yet know intimately as the voice in your soul…
God is a simple
as the wind across
your human face
or as complex as eternity!
Life of a Wanderer
I am a wanderer, on my way to Jerusalem.
There I will meet my Holy God, not just symbolism.
From the Holy Fathers I learnt of His love for me,
In my young mind, I found the thought so very lovely.
So I set on a journey to discover the source of this love,
I picked up myself, my bible, and my rosary in the bag.
Night came; I found a castle, whose lady has a heart,
She fed me, clothed me, and invited me for the night.
In awe, I asked my benefactor how she could love the poor,
She answered, “It is God’s great commandment to love thy neighbor”.
In the coldness of the night, I felt warm for right there I found love;
In my frozen heart, kindled was a desire to also give love.
I went to sleep that night peacefully, as my heart ceaselessly pray,
For I have met God that day through the wonderful, gracious lady.
Morn came; I bid goodbye to continue my pilgrimage,
I walked for many miles, and then I met some teenage thieves.
They took my bag with my bible and bread the lady gave to me.
I was left on the road with nothing, none, but my bead rosary.
I wanted back my bible, my only possession in this world;
A dark-webbed heart, a mind unlit, and a weary old soul unfold.
I wept, what will happen to an old wanderer who’s got nothing?
I knelt, fists on my breast, “Where is God, his love, in this suffering”?
A memorial of the night before flickered in my dreary mind,
Interior light appeared and I saw my fallen heart intertwined.
A bright spark ignited in my wandering cold heart, goaded me to turn within,
Like a child, mesmerized by an ember, I blew a prayer to keep it aflame.
I descended into myself and I saw God’s love in concrete,
A dying flame, He enlightened me through a love memory lit.
This journey to Jerusalem, I do not know if I will ever reach;
But, His love stubborn, persists to burn within so I will not be a wretch.
8.25.14
A night like no other...
Oh, for the holy night alone in a town where even
the law rests, and thieves do not break out of prison
Oh, this bonny night washing my feet in the pool
in the square where fish die for lack of oxygen
This is the moment when the unseen population appears, banished as they are to the sewers' eternal darkness
Ah, the plaza bathed in white moonlight, and they
dance so tender, fur to fur, noses to noses inhaling, the perfumed air of their existence.
The sacrifice of living underground makes sense
when on a night like this, nature greets them in a heroic effort to keep lessening the waste the humans have left behind.
I write only for you,
Not for the king, so smart,
Not for Paris,
Not for the mirrors of the sky,
I only write for you.
I do not write for the abbot
Who weeps before God,
I don’t write for the publisher
Crying without Morand
And believing only in money,
I write only for you,
By for my dead mom,
Not for the general
Of the armies of Ukraine,
I only write for you.
I don’t write for the devil,
Often in need of love,
I don’t write for the city,
Who thinks only of butter
And for your money,
And steal our thoughts,
I write only for you,
That haunts every morning,
Not for the king, so clever,
Not for the blue angels,
I write only for you,
I write only for you,
Not for the French,
Not for the liars,
Neither for the Parisians,
They eat our cauliflower flowers,
I write only for you,
Not for the thieves,
Not for the picards,
Nor even for glory,
Nor even for the sky,
I write only for you,
Not for Saint Germain des Prés,
Not for the church of Madeleine,
I write only for you,
Not for the dear friends
Who went up to heaven,
I only write to please you.
Je n’écris que pour toi,
Pas pour le roi, si malin,
Pas pour Paris,
Pas pour les miroirs du ciel,
Je n’écris que pour toi.
Je n’écris pas pour l’abbé
Qui pleure devant Dieu,
Je n’écris pas pour l’éditeur
Qui pleure sans Morand
Et ne croit qu’à l’argent,
Je n’écris que pour toi,
Par pour ma maman,
Pas pour le général
Des armées d’Ukraine,
Je n’écris que pour toi.
Je n’écris pas pour le diable,
Souvent en mal d’amour,
Je n’écris pas pour la ville,
Qui ne pense qu’au beurre
Et à l’argent du beurre,
Et nous vole nos pensées,
Je n’écris que pour toi,
Qui hante tous mes matins,
Pas pour le roi, si malin,
Pas pour les anges bleus,
Je n’écris que pour toi,
Je n’écris que pour toi,
Pas pour les français,
Pas pour les menteurs,
Ni pour les parisiens,
Qui mangent nos choux fleurs,
Je n’écris que pour toi,
Pas pour les voleurs,
Pas pour les picards,
Ni même pour la gloire,
Ni même pour le ciel,
Je n’écris que pour toi,
Pas pour Saint Germain des Prés,
Pas pour l’église de Madeleine,
Je n’écris que pour toi,
Pas pour les amis si chers
Qui sont montés au paradis,
Je n’écris que pour te plaire.