For those who lack conviction
Aspirations stay but a mirage
And for those crafting mountains from mole hills
Detriment a deadly barrage
Believers of strange eyes upon them
Flaunt shame as a wristed corsage
And without the courage to soften their hackles
Lie confined in their mind's dank garage
Jongleurs of fabled failures
Treat their worry to massage
Subjecting the rest of their dreadful days
To vexation's entourage
Clever inventors of futuristic fear
Paste pictures to a specious collage
And blame the world around them
Imaginary Sabotage
Oh how we value artifice;
Indeed we'll bow and 'scrape'
Upon a stage of the falsest rage We hang;
on every word and break
The props are real to viewers
the plots we know by heart
They’re lionized and idolised
most people of these arts
We imbue them with much value
Though some are not so good.'
There seems an understanding
That the softer life is best
Though of those that there 'labour'
seem limp wristed in the main
However this easy life it seems
Was the choice of harder brains.
©Joe Maverick 25-2-2018
It seems the Old West and America
Are two of the many things we must save—
All these changes are coming much too fast—
Big John Wayne must be turning in his grave.
They’ve done and made cowboys an evil thing;
Seems like there aren’t no heroes anymore—
TV westerns and movies are now rare—
There aren’t any causes left to die for.
Oh, but we are politically correct
And limp-wristed we brag on how we’re green—
But green’s just another dern word for red—
It all takes our freedom and is obscene.
Yes, when did our country take the wrong path?
Where’s truth, justice, the American way?
It seems our leaders are a bunch of fools
And they never listen to what we say!
It’s time to take back the land that we love
And live by our Lord’s and the cowboy’s code—
Praise God and pass the ammunition son—
We’ll ride to reclaim the country we’re owned!
Oh, why has the land we love gone astray?
And why aren’t we now the home of the brave?
And why have we let it all slip away,
While big John Wayne spins wildly in his grave?
You can almost hear the funeral procession
of leaves drifting lowly to earth, symphonic
children’s laughter bounces off crispy tips
rain completing its wash; lost
wet clothes saturated with a day
that will enter history.
Softness of winter foretelling a story
the one washed down storm drains
wrapped in black tied laundry bags,
suitable for the shedding skin of trees.
Swirling wind tosses the pile of dry bones
nature, a chef mixing a salad
water the dressing-- children the tongs;
lunging through piles as if waltzing
without mirrors.
Time, a rake with bony fingers
scraping delicately across
an earthen scalp. Longing
for new birth, sprout your wings
lullaby the past.
Lost within reason
singing without words
wrapping around
the rusty rake
propped lazily
across a skeleton fence.
If we face the east, can the west capture thoughts
a limp wristed boomerang never returning expectations?