Pat Garrett sent Billy to heaven -
plugged 'im with slugs, numbering seven.
How he got to heaven, I don't know -
that lowdown, no-count so and so.
The Kid grew wings, said, "Glory hallelujah -
up here, bullets go straight through ya."
I don't deserve someone good
I need to clean myself up
But the person I was is hidden
where only I have to pat down to find
But don't look near the carpet, you'll find how bad it is underneath
im woven in ways even the people who got me still can't figure out
i move everywhere im not supposed to be
worn out and torn
from the things u no longer wanted
And it's turned me into something horrible
something that just needs to be thrown away and replaced
throw me away
And forget about the things u once loved before
Im not the same
im not the person anyone wants anymore
Henry McCarty (1859 – 1881)
a.k.a, Kid Antrim – ca. 1876
a.k.a., William H. Bonney – ca. 1877
Of Irish ancestry
New York-born
orphaned at 15
from his family shorn
repeatedly asking '¿Quién es?'
around midnight 14th July 1881
entering Maxwell's bedroom
their mutual friend but Billy without a gun
in Fort Sumner where by Pat Garrett
(1850 - 1908)
take my word I kid you not
age 21 sadly Henry the outlaw
in the chest was badly shot
for reputedly killing nine men
but for the posted bounty of $500
it took the Sheriff 369 days to collect
the reward promised by Governor Wallace
(1827 – 1905)
The paper sack left on the floor
has come to life. It’s haunted. Look!
It’s growling and gyrating now—
gone wild. It’s time somebody took
control. Aha! I’ve got ya now,
my little kitties in the sack.
I’ll get your lunch now, Pat and Pete.
Okay, I’ll let you ride my back.
Ouch! Watch the claws. They really hurt.
I’ll put thick blankets on my lap.
Then you can be so comfy but
won’t draw blood. Soon we’ll take our nap.
You’re fighting for the bouncy ball.
Sometimes you’re an aggressive pair;
but, after all, you’re little ones.
Sometimes my human kids won’t share!
Don’t climb the curtains, Pat. Oh, Pete,
you’ve overturned the water dish.
I see what y’all are staring at.
You can’t get to the kids’ goldfish!
You’re so much like the kids when they
were small—just into everything.
When they get home from school, we five
will have ourselves a happy fling.
All I wanted was simple
to be held, to be noticed
to feel like I mattered
in someone’s quiet way.
But here I a
reaching out into nothing
hoping for a hand
to remind me I’m still whole.
And it hurts
not like a cut or a bruise
but like a heart
that kept believing too long.
I only wished for a thank you
a soft word, a nod
but what I get instead
is silence that feels like a slap.
house mouse
rise prize
fat bat
cat pat
People come and people go
and how the times do change
but something here needs to be done
it should be rearranged
preachers pundits politicians
won't ever set things right
the man in the street can make a difference
if he takes up the fight
so many souls lost at sea
tho' they're on dry land
action speaks louder than words
they need a helping hand
and I'd rather see one good deed
putting things back on track
than hear one more kind word
a verbal pat on the back
I prefer to see
one good deed done willingly
lip service carries no weight at all
none whatsoever with me
Story of pat,
Can you hear the sirens?
The old mans values engulfed with burning lust of minors,
Patrick’s family left in suspense & deprived,
Waiting to hear news, if their son is alive.
Peter 5:8 of the bible reads the devil walks among us,
I have met him in a house on fifth street living just behind us,
Across the road from a park there is a house of sin,
This is where a dark story in my life will begin.
Twenty- two years have gone by,
For Pat, his life stolen at the age of 9,
PAEDOPHILE, PAEDOPHILE, PAEDOPHILE! You took more than a life,
But if we tell anybody that you touched us, we will get in strife, right?
Twenty-two years later a neurological hijacking of a memory I must revise,
Tearful compassion as I feel the pain for Pats horrific demise,
I am sorry to the family if they find this written poorly,
“This is Emergency can I ask who is calling”....
Can you hear the sirens?
Troy.B.
Another hallowed arrow from his quivers
One of cricket’s greatest shiver givers
Coursing down your spine like rivers
Fine line..never dithers as slivers
Of adversaries hopes on the ropes..withers
Tipples tickle our livers
The latest tropes of how
Somehow…anyhow won’t kowtow
Postman Pat delivers
Matinee idol looks tease
Record books hooks please
Finds batters crannies &
Nooks with such ease
Impeccable length…metronomic
Chin music chagrin
Such strength..astronomic
Gift of getting the ball to lift
Chronic bounce…hedonic
With his swag bag of quicks tricks
Name on the adored hall of fame
Lords boards with six..another Cummins elite fix
Beat Bob Willis’s record tome of the best
Test figures for a captain at cricket’s home..
Yep..yet another done like a kipper
By this chipper ripper skipper
Who’s not found wanting
His chiselled jaw..up there for sure
With the mean hardcore
Ponting or Waugh
As the best Test baggie green
Top draw Captain (not woke...just a better bloke) seen on screen
Or that’s maybe ever been
Sending you get well wishes your way
To help you get through each trying day
Relax, time and rest will heal your pain
And the sun will shine for you again.
Stay positive, strong and have no fear
Better days are sure to soon be here
A teddy bear in claret and blue
Is sat at home, just waiting for you.
You are truly missed, know that is true
It's just not the same here without you
If I possessed a magical wand
You would be right back where you belong.
I know that you are in kind, safe hands
And the caring is superbly grand
So rest and your health and strength regain
Till you are back here with us again.
* * *
Beach Music, Pat Conroy’s voice in flavors
Of raspberry ice and chocolate paradise
Mists blowing across the waters, soundless
Yet aching so that every heart felt blessed
By his melancholic treasure, the history of a sea
Who restored peace and awakened the night
Blowing winds who waved to the shores
Silencing the darkness and flooding the heart
With a flowing light, a flutter of grace, healing
Hesitant as the passions, poured from pages
Written on the beach…
Where light remembers, a happy
That cannot be spoken, never broken
Glowing on the edges of summer
And revealing to the heart
What it is to love with a love beyond reason
Love that is the reason – the way
Forever and a day…
Beach Music replayed on the silent edges
Of waters who I’ve waded in,
Wading through tears, fears – so many years
Necessity caressing the heart of a memory
Words echoing through a soul who is gentle
And knows the love that is more than sentimental
It is God’s voice, touching on the senses
God’s love… erasing all the fearful, replacing
It with contentment, love that is so intimate
Love that can’t be written...
Echoes on the silent shore of contentment
trumpeting the deportation of Tren de Aragua killers
only one democrat stood up, few even clapped
if congress isn’t united about that
it’s a good thing the president’s not standing pat
There once was a lass who waddled.
She liked running, but she dawdled.
With one terrible roar,
She fell hard to the floor.
Pat gave up eating Mac Donalds!
11/1/2024 Poem 4
You’re so much artificial fur.
You, little bear, do not communicate,
not a word, not a single utterance.
Yet I speak to you, tap your nose,
pat your head - gently, of course.
I call you Mr Titch - yes, a name!
You have been at table with me,
sitting in a bar, I with others.
Should I have said we?
Yes, we were with others, yes we.
Now I watch, almost mischievously.
I observe with a slightly naughty eye.
Each pal will pat your nose,
tap your head, smile at you.
Yet you are so much artificial fur.
(21 Aug 2024)
Rat-a-tat and pit-a-pat!
‘Pon my word!
Pit-a-pat and rat-a-tat!
It’s a bird –
A woodpecker knocking!
Loudest I’ve heard!
His noise shocking!.
Thrashing the habitat.
His visage mocking.
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