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Mark Springer Poem
Tim was the new judge in Deadwood Flat
Not really qualified, just a rancher at that
He first case was of the outlaw, Horace Slade
Caught red handed in a cattle raid
The jury took ten minutes to recommend the noose
Better than letting this rattlesnake loose.
Tim smoothed out his robe, asked Slade to speak
Slade perked up, though his future was bleak
"It was only my brain, my brain it was me.
Badly constructed, that's how I plea
My thoughts, my feelings, my crooked way
All preprogrammed in my DNA!
"You see Dad was a member of the cardshop mob
Mom always drunk, and moreover a slob
My twin set a cat on fire at the age of three
So, who could predict much hope for me?
Tim panicked, searched his dictionary
Couldn't find DNA, wished he was on the prairie
He had never heard that excuse before
But said to Slade, "proceed, tell us more"
Slade felt hope, and got on a roll
He said "ain't no such thing as a soul'
"I know the computer hasn't been invented yet
"But we're programmed, coded, our path in life set!
"I shot a man to watch him die
Then partied at the bar for an alibi
Not my fault, an MRI would have shown
My limbic system, quiet as a stone.
The jury murmured, Tim gave a sigh
What was a computer, or an MRI?
Slade's nonsense was going too far
Slade could have used a lesson in better P.R.
Tim said, "I hope what you say is not true
I like soul and spirit, the afterlife too.
But either way, some feelings I can't transcend
My brain wants your pointless existence to end!
They planned to hang Slade on the Alder tree
Justice would be served, jury did agree
Then Slade tried a ploy, to explain his crime
He yelled "I'm a traveler through time!"
"I come from the year 2024
DNA, MRI, computers and more
Got stuck in a time warp, had to survive
You'd do the same to stay alive"
They had to let Slade go, agreed he's insane
Tim didn't like to do it, it went against the grain
But Deadwood Flats couldn't hang a guy
Who believed in computers, DNA, and MRI!
Copyright © Mark Springer | Year Posted 2024
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Mark Springer Poem
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I tapped my keyboard, my eyes bleary
As I tried to write a novel that was no bore
I looked for inspiration, how to avoid clichés temptation
I’d write about rejuvenation—hope for the lonely lass Lenore—
An epic tale of a maiden born anew named Lenore—
A blockbuster for evermore.
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
“I have writer’s block, Mr. Raven, perhaps thou might be a maven.
Though you be ghastly grim and ancient wandering from the Nightly shore—
Tell me can a modern writer craft prose that’s not a bore?”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
“My idea that just can't lose, a crippled, homeless guy who likes booze
He’ll rise to fame and glory but I worry on some phrases in this story.
This and more I plan I’d write but the DEI staff might fight
On the plot’s blood and gore that tells life’s authentic core
Where from zero to hero, he’ll wins the fair Lenore
Wins her love forevermore!
The Raven looked pained and croaked "Nevermore!"
Then, the air got denser, this bird was a woke censor
A ghastly leftist bird who drifted over my parquet floor.
“Wretch,” I cried, “who appointed thee—to impoverish my vocabulary
Give me respite – let me write my way the story of Lenore;
Don’t dilute my novel to be a crashing bore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!
Is it possible nowadays to write a novel at all?
Can I earn more than zero, if I include a macho hero
A macho hero to clasp a demented maiden who won't be sore--
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore?”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the underworld’s dark shore!
“Don’t use ‘dark” said the Raven, “use BIPOC instead” as he continued sitting
On the pallid bust of Obama just above my chamber door;
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out my body that lies contorted on the floor
Shall be lifted—nevermore!
Copyright © Mark Springer | Year Posted 2024
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Mark Springer Poem
Have you been
Hiking the Quiraing trail on the isle of Skye?
watching golden eagles as they fly by?
Have you been
Hiking through fields of paintbrush on Mount Hood?
From Trillium Lake to Timberline, if you haven't you should.
Have you been
Pushing a frontier, discovering the new
Being all you can be, pursuing every clue?
Have you been
Locked in a small box on a Sandinista command?
They call it a Casita because there's no room to stand.
Have you been
Found dead in a Gulag before you might have been traded
For a Russian hitman, now all hope faded.
Have you been
Imprisoned by the scheming of one man's small mind
wings clipped, hemmed in, and confined?
Have you been
Locked up for ten years in Ariel Castro's basement
Chained, beaten, having ten years wasted?
Have you been
In solitary confinement for a year, because you protested fraud
In a D.C. jail, rights trampled roughshod.
Have you been
Dying with no friends left, in a hospice bed
Your sons think you are unaware, but you're all there, not yet dead.
Have you been
Dreaming at your desk, with your eyes wide open?
Looking for space, wishing for time to surf life's ocean?
Copyright © Mark Springer | Year Posted 2024
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Mark Springer Poem
I eased our kayak into the river of lies.
There was me, Dave and Jim, experienced guys.
The current grew stronger, Jim said he would quit,
He said it felt wrong, the scene didn't fit.
Dave urged I go upstream and fight the pull.
I called him a deceiver; he called me red bull.
A rock of hard truth lay right on our path.
I swerved around it; he grabbed on in his wrath.
[chorus]
So many tributaries to the river of lies.
So many ways that untruth can disguise
Be ready to debate, take heed every clue.
And paddle along with a dependable crew.
The waters funneled narrow; cliffs did arise.
I pursued a half-truth on this river of lies.
I shot through Shriek Cleft, and Down-fall Gap.
The kayak shuddered, but I did not turn back.
Went down the rapids, with a groan and a gasp.
Flew out of the boat, into realities grasp.
Crawled up the bank under the merciless sun.
All water was gone, nowhere to run.
I should have credited the feeling of doubt.
High walls all around, how could I get out?
Then found devil's advocate canyon.
Realized I should have trusted each companion.
[chorus]
So many tributaries to the river of lies.
So many ways that untruth can disguise.
They say hindsight's 20/20, that excuse may be true
But when anomalies arise, they're talking to you.
The causes you believed don't believe in you.
False friends fall away, despised friends now ring true.
You overrode the warnings whenever you could.
The paradigm shift was too late to do good.
At lost chance ravine, there's blood on the water.
Down its walls faint echoes of torture and slaughter
Know this - under the din, warnings can be true.
To live you may have to change your entire world view.
Copyright © Mark Springer | Year Posted 2024
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Mark Springer Poem
In tertiary times, when two continents adrift
Titanically collided to tectonically uplift
The gasping ocean floor
Resurrected up once more
Left the water for the land;
Five miles high it made its stand.
And to these youthful mountains (that is as mountains go)
The monsoon clouds paid homage as they gathered far below
They strongly spouted fury and made the foothills wet
But the scornful Himalayas dried the plateau of Tibet
And then the disbelievers from the atheistic West
Where time is not a circle and there is no Ever-rest
Defiled up the silent crags
At the peak they planted flags
You, Himalaya, tried to hide those flags with snow
But...
We know.
Copyright © Mark Springer | Year Posted 2024
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Mark Springer Poem
Years ago, a young man in Brooklyn wheeled his bike out the gate.
His plan, to cross the land, exact route left to fate.
The first week was the hardest, scared, he doubted his quest.
It took all his courage, he says, to keep heading west.
To conquer fear, he says, we have to face it and just go.
Don't stop, commit, don't just drift with life's flow.
Ride a red road through a canyon and crest the next range.
Cross the river, flee the bear, embrace the change.
Much of bicycle touring is miserable, It's not all soaring.
Worse than miserable he adds, much is boring.
He doesn't gloss over this, he does confess.
But no better moments can you possess.
He advises you, when possible, to step into the unknown
Follow your passion, and someone might write a poem.
But while I admire Leon, and his trip does inspire.
He did ride into a real tornado, but there's now a metaphoric fire.
The jailbirds are loose, bad cartels cross the border.
To pursue freedom's road, you do need some order.
Myself, I've been warned off some roads in the Southwest.
Exploring is great, but prudence is best.
I marvel at the story he tells, of strangers trusting him.
Friends of friends gave him house keys, went out on a limb.
I admire that he could join up with new pals on bikes.
Or pause his trip for side-trip hitchhikes.
I couldn't do it, that's for sure
Maybe that leaves me bitter, maybe leaves me poor.
But the most amazing thing to me, that makes me shudder...
Is his diet on the trip - some beer, and mostly peanut butter.
Don't tell Leon McCarron that I wrote this rhyme
He had a great trip, why ruin his good time?
Copyright © Mark Springer | Year Posted 2024
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Mark Springer Poem
Dead men
God's given them one time to reach.
He's split the wall, allowed a breach.
They are climbing out of death's grip.
They are running out of the cemetery, out of the crypt.
Life has iron rules, but they want to give you a reprieve.
They beg you to transcend, beg you to believe.
Listen to the dead before the fissures close
Can the present grasp what the past knows?
They've been let out by a caring fate
Will you attend before its too late?
The veil between worlds grows thin, beware,
It's a hard days night, and life isn't fair
Their desperate plea - don't ignore
They been there, made those mistakes before.
The sun is rising, they must go back
They bent the rules for you, a reality hack.
There's a glare in the air, impending strife.
Rethink your assumptions - will you choose life?
Copyright © Mark Springer | Year Posted 2024
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Mark Springer Poem
They used to call it the Empire State.
But the empire isn't doing too great.
Democrats in power, big ideas they plan.
Too bad for the middle class and the forgotten man.
Low-income high rise in your village
Middle class won't escape the general pillage.
Congestion and crime, they'll surely bring,
Practical doesn't matter, ideals are everything.
Landlords, its coming, statewide rent control.
They think you fat cats should be in a hole.
Squatters' rights beat your rights, so you can't evict.
Pols keep finding new ways, troubles to inflict.
Borders wide open, worldwide crooks pour in
MS-13, Venezuelan gangs, we lose, they win.
Homeless camps appear, old diseases arise.
Politicians let a killer loose, and Laken Riley dies.
They say, "Just pack your bags, if you disagree
We don't need you, go to Florida or Tennessee
Idaho, Montana the stampede fills them in
Locals priced out, waters rise, can you swim?
Shoplifters know hundreds of items can go.
No downside, they end up rolling in dough.
For assault, arrests are made but holding is rare,
If you're the next victim, guess who doesn't care.
A store owner could ask, what am I working for,
Just to watch my goods exit out the door?
I know people who no longer walk at night.
Hard to believe pols didn't do this from spite.
They'll remove your oil and natural gas.
You can't pay the AC, but more laws they'll pass.
They'll remove merit from the medical schools.
don't crash getting out, you'll be mended by fools.
What they really believe they tactically hide
Till you elect them, then the four horsemen ride
No room for the little guy, the pols feel disdain.
Look out the window, you're on a runaway train.
Copyright © Mark Springer | Year Posted 2024
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Mark Springer Poem
During the Civil War, money came late,
Indians starved, left to their fate.
Two braves came across a white farmer's food.
They were hungry and stressed and in a bad mood.
Little Bear picked up an egg, Grey Elk said no.
Some things we can't do, some places can't go.
This is a white man's farm; we can't be here.
Little Bear threw it down with contempt for Elk's fear.
Grey Elk was stung, he killed five whites in the farm.
Chief Little Crow found out; said you've done us all harm.
A young man shouted, "Little Crow is afraid, a white man's tool."
Little Crow said, "I am not a coward and not a fool."
[chorus]
Never tell a Warrior he's afraid.
A red cloud will rise, a price will be paid.
The sitting bull will run with the crazy horse.
The wolf pack of fate will follow its course.
Said Crow: Count your fingers any amount.
White men will come faster than you can count….
they will turn on you and devour you all.
Like leaves your women and children will fall.
Little Crow knew what a hopeless battle meant.
But after so many broken treaties, he had to consent.
Friend Wabasha said: It is Great Spirit's will.
We have got to die. Let us, then, kill!
Sioux lost the war, the goal beyond reach.
"I'm ashamed" Little Crow said in his last speech.
Whites are cowardly women, but they won the fight.
Now we must scatter, like buffalo in flight.
[chorus]
Never tell a Warrior he's afraid.
A red cloud will rise, a price will be paid.
The sitting bull will run with the crazy horse.
The wolf pack of fate will follow its course.
There came many seasons, a Drying Grass Moon,
In Dakota reservation, not enough room
Water no good, no game they could see
They buried Crazy Horse at Wounded Knee
By the Yellow Medicine River imagine that force
Traveling Hail, Lightning Blanket, and Crazy Horse
Fierce riding Braves, Flying Hawk and Lone Horn.
From a vain quest of courage, a legend was born.
Copyright © Mark Springer | Year Posted 2024
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Mark Springer Poem
Kathy Boudin thought the U.S. beyond repair,
She thought she saw the deep reality, and it was unfair.
From SDS to the Weather Underground,
She dived deep in Marxism, plain sense no longer found.
A bomb went off, unintended, by chance,
Meant to shatter lives at a soldier's dance.
Kathy didn't learn from that gory scene,
She fled intact, still in the radical dream.
She tasted deeply of the bitter cup,
When stopped by cops, she gave herself up.
But behind her guns took two cops away,
In Bedford prison for years, her price to pay
[chorus]
You say you're for right, end up for the reverse
The end of the road is a funeral hearse
The road to hell is paved with ideals,
Know thyself, its honesty that heals
A model prisoner, sorry but still red
After decades released, but her victims just as dead
Then hired at a university of high renown
Or was Columbia just a facade, already going down
A contrast was Yeonmi Park, a source of light
She escaped North Korea one frozen night
Walked across the Gobi Desert, a long, hard trek
Got mercy when she held a knife to her neck
Columbia told Yeonmi patriarchy to blame,
To censor her voice or join in their victim game.
Echos of a homeland that brooked no debate
Both places she observed anti-American hate
In North Korea you had to obey
In the U.S. students would throw their rights away
North Korea's great leader, a feudal regression
But U.S. Students had illusions of oppression.
[chorus]
You say you're for right, end up for the reverse
The end of the road is a funeral hearse
The road to hell is paved with ideals,
Know thyself, its honesty that heals
Boudin thought it moral to join the B.L.A
A Black Army who claimed crime was OK
She thought it was not for her to ask why
Trust the oppressed, her self-erasing lie.
At the Hamas protests, a leftist describes
Students manic, electric dazed look in their eyes
Who, do you think, more worthy of respect
Yeonmi, Kathy, which one ultimately correct?
Which way will those students go
Will they relearn what the rest of us know?
Must they repeat Boudin's trail of fear
Is there any intelligent life down here?
Copyright © Mark Springer | Year Posted 2024
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