You held me as a child within the safety of your arms,
while my father slept unsoundly below the blood soaked earth,
you taught me words unfamiliar to me and laughed at my efforts,
while you grieved for a son who you say died for my freedom.
You told me stories of gods who once ruled our land,
while we prayed to God to grant father peace,
you showed me the night sky and told me of Plato,
while we looked into the heavens and imagined him there.
Now God has taken you too to be by His side,
and for loving me Grandfather fills me with pride.
Rest In Peace.
Gone Are The Youthful Days
Gone are the youthful days of being a cat about town
beautiful young wife and family settled this man down
Yes, memories of wild times , hell raising most nights
the many new loves, sweet makeup loving after fights
Gone are the glory days of wild songs and Rock n' Roll
living too hard, too fast was great fun that took a toll
Chasing the pretty gals and not knowing we had been caught
they set such pretty traps, "we won them" or so we thought
Gone are the many sweet things we foolhardy took for granted
we fought life, the dangerous world , with feet unsoundly planted
Each victory was a celebration of dodging shameful defeat
so many of us would rather fight, gamble and love, than eat
Now that the future has turned such to memories of the past
we must face the cold brutal truth, it all went too damn fast
06-29-2014
Dark Night,
Feral Spirit,
Whipping about,
Howling out in beastly anger,
Screaming, raging in unknown rage,
Tearing down upon the light,
Which violently tears him with their spears,
And then drifting upward,
And voicing its pain in banshee-like screams,
Which rip down upon the mortal realm,
Tearing up parts of things unknown.
Feral Spirit,
Dark Night,
Unsoundly,
Streaming down upon thy mortal realm,
To consume those who worship thy defiant light,
Down, down it goes,
Blocking the light of the moon,
And smiting the last spots of light,
To tear those of the light,
Which caused him violent pain,
Dark Night,
Feral Spirit,
Unknown, unheard.
Cotton sleeps unsoundly,
Knowing many hands are there to pick it--
Many scarred hands that roam
The fluffy fields at the crack of dawn.
Cotton gets anxious
When sunlight wakes the morn.
Cotton smells the coffee brewing
And fidgets fretfully
At the thought of brown
Blood stained hands.
Cotton meets its death
In sacks slung around
Poor men’s shoulders.
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