Chris Risum
1865 – 1920
She was the only woman who listened to me.
The only lady who cared enough to care.
For within my own dead marriage
I was sadly alone, pathetically ignored and ridiculed.
For while I was alive, I was an afflicted man.
A man dead inside himself.
A man endlessly looking for absolutely nothing to find.
With clenched fists and thrown shoes,
I was the man dodging the vitriol.
The man who felt absolutely no love
For the last twenty years of his life.
But alas, I met her.
The only woman who ever listened to me.
My lovely Gertrude,
The tall busty eucalyptus tree
On Rideout Way.
And there I would sit in her sensual shade,
On warm summer afternoons with my thoughts and desires.
And with the presumptuous winds
Streaming and knifing from the west
She would reach down with her long leafy flowing arms
And allow me,
A mere man worth absolutely nothing,
To touch her.
To feel incontrovertibly,
Her scintillating life force!
Newton W. Moon
1853 – 1904
So, what is the truth?
My friend, have you thought deeply about life?
Have you thought long and hard about the endless ticking of time
Have you pondered and mused and ruminated with all your mind and soul?
I have lain on many an afternoon
Under the old cedar on Rideout Ranch
And I have reckoned the infinite mercies of the wind.
Have pondered the intrepid ascendance of the sun.
The simple pretense of the flower.
And I have considered the Earth’s colossal incessant turning.
Have wondered and contemplated long into the night
The whirling pulling maelstrom of the human dilemma:
To live is to ultimately die!
And so,
What is the truth, my friend?
Why are we here on this huge ball of dust and water and fire?
And where do we go after the body ceases to breathe?
My friend,
Close your eyes!
Close them tightly and never open them again!
And then you will see the truth!
Lucy Swain
1861 - 1896
Lies! Lies! All damnable lies!
I know the injustice of malicious gossip.
I know the outrage of a loose evil tongue.
In life, I was Lucy Swain, the maligned!
I was Lucy Swain, the indignant!
In truth, I was Lucy Swain, the law-abiding, god-fearing victim
Who resided over on Milton Avenue
With her bent-over heart-broken mother.
In fact, I was Lucy Swain, the innocent weeping victim
Of a thousand cruel hypocritical stares.
And so, let me shout it out
As loudly as my silent soul can,
From my deep grave here in Clark Cemetery:
I never set foot, not once, on Rideout Ranch!
I never set eyes on the winking blue orbs
Of the devastatingly handsome George Towne,
That philandering cad with the fine derby hat.
I never tasted the warm pulsating kisses from his sweet-tasting, pursed lips.
And I never felt the caressing electric touch
Of his firm groping fingers upon my bosom,
There, under the old cedar tree on Rideout Ranch!
Lies! All lies!
And as God is my witness
I never spent even one gloriously romantic moment
In the embrace of the incredibly strong arms
Of the sexy man married to Fannie Towne!
Amen!