High society has always been
High above the rest
High in their castle and oasis
High in the penthouse and palace
High in the big house and gated suburb.
While the rest wander the hills and fields
Streets and alleys, making a living
Or scraping a living.
Seeking greener lands of the free
Ever westward;
Pilgrims and pioneers, trappers and traders
Roughnecks and rednecks
Seeking their own jackpot
From the Klondike to Vegas.
High and low have always existed side by side
One above, one below
It’s no different today
Just more of both
With the gap between wider than ever.
But what really is high and low?
Are those at the top better as well as richer,
And those at the bottom really less than?
One man’s wealth is another’s poverty
The loss of freedom within a gilded cage.
What is richness, or beauty, for that matter
If it is only measured against another
And not a natural quality of just being alive?
The gap between have and have nots
Is material, but that gap is easier to cross
Than the inner gap that doesn’t know
And cannot see what real wealth, beauty
Freedom and exalted being really means.
(9/22/26)
Wizened elf researched the fly trappers as well as he could.
They were wreaking havoc and destruction in the deep north wood.
How do you get them to stop? He asked, looking them up at will.
Unfortunately, you have to push them out a bricked over window sill.
We don’t have those wizened elf lamented, now worried.
He heard the mice below, some of them now had scurried.
There has to be another way, he said, reaching for another book.
He has no great solution, I guess, I say, giving him a sad look.
Remember the move, The Music Man?
How our hero was terrified of librarians.
He said they wanted marriage.
They were hunters and trappers.
They look unassuming and innocent.
Their ways are wily, their traps are sneaky.
This librarian is one of those. The men do not know yet.
They are checking out books like mad.
Pretending they know how to read.
I am the older librarian now. I sit back and smile.
Remembering when the young lads discovered me.
An old black and white movie
took me back to my childhood
when cowboys rode the range
Major Adams and Flint McCullough leading the Wagon Train,
and Hopalong's ten-gallon white hat
rode the brim of John Wayne's stagecoach in back;
with Roy and Dale saving every day
as Tonto and the Lone Ranger hi-ho silvered away;
Gil Favor and Rowdy Yates blazed the Rawhide trails
as Ben, Adam, Hoss, and Joe laid the Ponderosa tails;
The Mavericks never bet against The Rifleman and Gunsmoke truths
while Wyatt Earp, Matt Dillon, and Bat Masterson made the law fool-proof,
the Rebel and The Restless Gun kept horses ever on the run
and Cheyenne, Davy Crocket, and Daniel Boone
fought both Indians and Trappers without showdowns at noon
those western stars of early radio and television shows after school.
These were the stories of so many heroes, villains and more jewels
the cowboys and cowgirls, and their horses too
revived the west for the fifties youth,
a blast from the past
of the fading western stars.
I’m a trapper! How are you?
I’m a trapper, too.
Then there’s a tragedy of us!
Heh, heh!
Aren’t you too close… your loophole…
DON’T SHOUT!
You know, the tiger is staring at us!
FREEZE!
Take a look!
Let’s look through a crack.
There’s a gang of buffallo murmuring a prayer.
Look at that brook
The tiger is trying to…
Then?
What a good opportunity …
For us, isn’t it?
Hmm… How about your loophole?
Of course ! I will stand up
And prod the tiger in the back to get its attention…
Then you…
Please lie doggo
Until I come back! Trust me!
FREEZE!
DON’T TURN YOUR HEAD!
HANDS UP! GUNS DOWN!
Thank you so much!
Don’t you remember, I’m a trapper too.
The world pushes left
the world pushes right
The middle ground deadly
a trappers delight
Pigeons take refuge
as hawks rule the skies
Hunting all charlatans
—truth in their eyes
(Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2018)
The Mill wheel wouldn't turn until the spring,
the workers loaded up all their belongs;
and left for town and to their families,
soon the Mill was quiet with only mice.
The winter wind was now blowing snowflakes,
ice was forming on the roof and windows;
then, a soft scraping of the aged Mill door,
and a homeless group came in with the snow.
Whispers ran through the town from door to door,
that the Mill was haunted by ghost shadows;
trappers had seen movement around the Mill,
but when they would enter there was nothing.
No sound except scurrying of a mice . . .
or was it mice that ran away to hide?
When winter came to an end the group left.
Ice melts revealing secrets- the wheel creaks,
as workers return to the Mill in spring;
and they find signs that people have been there,
had lived there all that long freezing winter . . .
for on the wood floor lay a child's rag doll.
_________________
July 6, 2018
Poetry/Narrative/Ghosts At the Mill
Copyright Protected, ID 18-1038-717-01
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Lake like glass,
no wind this eve
which makes
blackflies hell
but the canoe glides
across the water
like the trout
I pursue
but seldom
catch.
Up two islands
turning back at
the abandoned
trappers cabin
returning fishless
to my humble tent
and a solitary scotch
as the sun sets
and mosquitoes
replace blackflies.
Gray wolf follows in the snow
Gets angrier as degrees begin to fall
Ice makes a coat of armor on the fur
As their leader he joins the pack in action
The hunt begins not simply out of malice
Wolves kill because of hunger when they kill
No food for weeks creates a monsters nature
Temperatures below zero makes them fierce
Howls break the chill through deadly silence
Sharp white teeth come out with growls at night
Reminds them of life's fragility when food is scarce
Savagery sets in with Winter frost
Weaving through the pines they stalk
Trappers rest innocently without a guard
Wood fire warms, comforts those who trust
God watches over everything at dusk
The attack begins by moonlight calm
Wolves jerk their heads from left to right
Ripping out hearts and lungs
Gray wolf is first to dine tonight
With raw power by design on steady footing
The camp site smells of coffee mixed with iron
Drenched in blood, wolves devour everyone
Peaceful sleepers never knew what hit them
Luna, to the depths
of my fondest delight,
You are regally dressed
this beautiful night.
Your beaming full face,
frosted splendidly bright,
Causes Venus to become
pale in your sight.
Your reflection shining down
from your lofty height
Dances on the swaying sea
in bejeweled light.
Known as the `beaver'
full moon eclipse tonight,
In awe still am l as your
shadow takes flight.
I rejoice in the return
of your graceful might.
© Connie Marcum Wong
Note:
**Why is the full moon known as the "beaver" full moon?
The U.S. Naval Observatory's Geoff Chester offers the reasoning behind the name:
"[The] name comes from Native American skylore reminding trappers to set their
final traps for the season before the beaver ponds freeze up for the winter,"
Chester writes. He also notes this moon is sometimes also referred to as the "Frosty Moon."
There was left no middle,
of the path. It was a washed-
out theme and
negative numbers.
No bounce in the steps.
You were cowering in terror
of tomorrow. The fear
overwhelmed the alp.
It was a family feud,
from ashes to bones.
The mixed cadence was sending
the wrong signals to the walls.
The voices now come on the street,
for traditional wars, in
change of seasons. It
was raining out of turn.
Satish Verma
Sandy Blight
D’Lise he was about ole Dirran town,
Back in the early forties,
When Sandy Blight could make you frown,
Interfere with your naughties, …….bad-sex?
When running eyes came shortly,
Yer Eyes were plastered tight..
Fine sandy dust as red as rust,
It blew, came in from Cobar,
The sky was red,
as yer eyeballs Fred,
from June until October.
People came in their wagonettes, no lie,
To get away from Cobar,
With mattery eyes, like the bite of flies,
Yes bungy eyes all over.
Old D’Lise saw these sore eyes,
And hatched himself a cure,
Sure it wasn’t from the bloody flies,
Bottled piddle could be a doer.
A spit in the eye could cure the flys,
If you suffered the blow-fly bite,
Slapped em down with an axe you clown,
An they’d buzz on outa sight.
Ainaseed in the piddle bottle,
Was the sweetest disguise, delight,
Bit a yellow belly color, .............Aussie fish
What looked like Snotty-gobble,
Cured too bloody right …
Dingo Dog Trappers used Ainaseed for their decoys,
To kll the smell of man, when setting their Dog traps for Dingoes.
Snotty-Gobble Bliss-bombs are the yellow fruit on a tree Miseltoe, sweet fruit of the Aussie bush.
Don Johnson
A few bars I just dropped in the booth not to long ago.
Check them out.
Tom & Jerry The Kidd chase money/ angry birds make my bills look funny/ shooting banks like Stephen curry/ math equations I handle in a hurry/ for the paper I go crash dummy/ I bet a silver spoon taste yummy/ wasting coins like a tsunami/ history of Clyde and Bonnie/ OK/ pull up in a nigga set/ but before I rhyme on, gotta get my lick on/ I flex like a bicep in a arm/ you betta have luck when you wear yo charm/ hold up/ LB quit brainstorming yo words, verbs, nouns, and adverbs provokes me to take action like a verb/ ain't speaking money then it ain't word/ OK/ them trappers call me BooLansky/ Gun shine state representer/ old bills wearing suspenders/ so how I can fall out of rhythm/ I'm tripping off this Seagram/ but how I can I trip when high/ Abraham my main Guy/ prices on heads that killers buy/ I learned three ways to use buy/ uh/ LB NASCAR paper which sea, as long as my lids see, and I ain't talking about no lids card, paper connects on da iPod, Put God first believe in God LB
- Loverboi
I found peace
with the scorching
Heat of the winter
against the immense sunsets!
Through the huge
animal's bones
as if it were a sense of
personal freedom
such as the chilling-spirit.
Here I found the given mother,
twinning waterfalls,
which, all beavers
and done, the hole land is reflected
to you through my incensed eyes!
But when I sought the hawk,
along the hunting past,
I found the blanket,
Powder, Tobaccoes, Knives,
trappers and fur,
entwining before me the immense
shaft
of this peaceful spot!
Ah! clear in the funky river,
the soul, our soul!
the sweet water to the bone,
opening high the evil-tempered past,
the struggle golden mass,
with unnatural bloom.
who comes no more.
If I could fly
where would I try
to climb a mountain where birds lie
safe from trappers
blasting loud guns
If I could swim
where would I take fins
to swim a deep river with schools of fish
unharmed by fishers
hook lining for their branchia
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