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Best Poems Written by Scott Howard Myers The Gypsy King

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Details | Scott Howard Myers The Gypsy King Poem

Wall Street

Set upon the new world stage within the burning fires of hell. Silently posed factions of the elite, suppress the true inherit of Mother Earth. The meek children bending over for millennium, taken spankings of bare bottoms, pelted slavery.

Upon entry to rule, the open stage of smoked mirrors began to reflect back upon the podium of lies. Taught by scholars from university books of political science. Fearful of leadership matching mirrored images, of false pretense, babbling rhetoric. The stirring masses of discontented, individualistic, thought of as dead - enders, trouble makers, and rebel rousers, rallied aimlessly.

With super hero, Captain Do Gooder, bleeding helpless on the floor of Wall Street. Weary lost hope combatants mustered courage, and accepted destiny. To this point, someone shouted against the wind of change. Felt by all who sensed the importance.
"To death do us part of the purpose to which we, the united, stand for justice".
The chant began, as Captain Do Gooder was dragged away, and cuffed, once bleeding helpless on the floor of Wall Street.
Damn the torpedoes. Damn the torpedoes.
Captain Do Gooder, fallen, bruised ego matching skinned knees, lays helpless. Who will save them now.

Second glances from high rise penthouses. Serving champagne and caviar. Brought iron clenched hands once hidden, to draw the stage curtain down.

With Captain Do Gooder nowhere to be found. The voice that came from pain of pupil. Born within broken dreams of promised lands. Realized nothing was coming cheap on this occupation.

The dusty streets found Captain Do Gooder aimlessly stepping against the winds of change, down Wall Street. The well-intentioned, arrested and broken spirited, lost hope of recycling any salvage rights taken from them by Metro.

Was this the end of the well thought out, pushed down occupation.
Was this the beginning, of the underground faction. Where was senior generation X hiding. Only Captain Do Gooder and the well-intentioned, world stage occupiers, hold the key to that Pandora's box of hope.

The peoples across the oceans were already springing far ahead in their own, more brutal campaign. For they had no cushion on which they were raised to kneel against. Tyranny ran over them. A lesson yet not felt, or learnt, or taught, in the new world. No chance of city mayors issuing eviction notices. Bullets, tanks and bombs were of the order. Brought down the line, traced back to the ones our United Nations to this day, refuse to acknowledge.
While leaders there home internet shop, and pump out the lies. Everyone dies.

In the heart of the continent of center, where unto which as mankind sprang forth, for its first and ever conquest.
The lights kept dim, to obscure the violent cleansing. A facade to disguise once moreover, the brutal tyranny for which the greed of the elite, control the dimmer switch. Diamonds and oil fuel the fire of war and oppression, on this stage of greed and guilt. Too far away, and too many distractions upon center stage for one to see or care. Thought and looked upon by most as racially motivated. The origins of all mankind, to be left, far too far, behind. The true forsaken people. Why is man unkind.

So..........will Captain Do Gooder raise the bar to which drinks for the house, and all around, will quench the thirst felt by ninety nine percent of the people............mother knows best.
Yet, still, self-inflicted roadblocks of appointed destiny, drop kicked long days past. Faint light shining far ahead, within the tunnel of hell, brought up to land. Firm above the depths to which it sprang. The truth of world order.

Wait......what do we see......do our closed eyes deceive our cries........................................

We see Captain Do Gooder catching second wind.

She breathes deep now and all can hear her war cry, no longer whimpering softly. As in past tense situations, given way to dazed and confused wall street *****es.
She builds momentum, as our brothers and sisters lay dying and bleeding. On the streets of some not so distant for telling, of what's to be, will never not be coming full steam ahead and plowing through the hidden agenda. One step beyond the line drawn in the sand of time, we thought would never be crossed. Give way thoughtless future tellers, and takers. Still holding firm with paper cuts, deep into the hands who printed and prepared such slave papers, kept by the elite bankers.

Captain Do Gooder returns renewed and refreshed. Our true Mother.
Captain Do Gooder feels strong, as bruised knees and scraped hands heal.

Brush of destiny sweepstakes, allots winnings of earth shaking, volcano erupting, tsunami tidal waves, with bonus draws of worldwide chaos. Future draws are to be held with worldwide winners. Grand prize, dead oceans rising.

The next generation have no fear digest writes the next chapter.

Hold the press down firmly wall street backbiting backbenchers. Drawn into the crossfire, on her mark, place the x on the next general who dares not fall into civil disobedience.
Captain Do Gooder has grown teeth, and she is biting down hard against the line to pipe riches, spoiled from her lands. Stolen from the first pilgrimage, fifteen thousand years old, lost empire.

How dare you steal from, and pollute the minds of her children. Yet old enough to drink and drug and die in war. How dare all of us.

Meanwhile back at the ranch. Captain Do Gooder hugs tight that tree of life, to which sprang all this elbow rubbing and diversion. Wall street huddles in her corner, painted red to match the lengths to which an end will surely bring to it.
Painted red for all to see.
The end to friendly letter writing, give peace a chance, make love not war, generation taking a bow, and snow birding it, to false sense of security land. Like the ostrich with its head in the sand.

Details | Scott Howard Myers The Gypsy King Poem

North of Sixty

North of sixty, you see the cold. 
Big skies, and short days told. 
Forests shrink, past big river. 
Listen closely, hear them shiver.
Bison wild, roam free here.
Timber wolf run, moon light clear.

North of sixty, black raven flies. 
Wise old bird, wing spread skies.
Mountains roll, to horizons edge.
Older than, our souls can pledge.
Great silence here, all is still. 
Refresh ones spirits, reviving will.

North of sixty, last place on earth. 
Pristine halls, of Mother Earth. 
Before we sit, and watch her cry. 
Mankind must, unite and try. 
To find a way, to keep her clean. 
Before we see, Mother Earth turn mean. 

North of sixty, I know we can. 
Teach ourselves, revive our plan.
Stewards’ oath, to keep this land.
Safe for life long, eternal plan. 
Great Spirit too, we shall be true. Big skies, forever keep them blue. 


SHM

Details | Scott Howard Myers The Gypsy King Poem

Horse

Three million years ago.
Three toed, and foraging the swamp lands. No bigger than a house cat. Timid.
Horse found safety in numbers. Prey mammal. Happy horse. 

Two million years ago.
Mother Earth began to dry, and the small herbivore found need not of so many little toes to carry itself through the wetlands. Time took a toe, for want of need tends to do this. Drier lands, less sinking times to mud.
Fast and agile kept it safe. Many predators to run from. Many leafy species to graze upon. Happy horse. Happy two toed horse. 
As time does make way for progress, and need of speed increased, the little horse began to grow. The size made way for need again. Mother Earth takes good care of these things. 

One Million years ago.

Happy horse walked on single toe, it had strength and weight to meet its foe. 

Until a predator with mind of wise, with straight ahead, long visioned eyes.

Realized this horse could soon be caught, and traded with some food for taught.

Unlike the ones before which horse evaded, this one offered grain be traded.

Captured, trained, and kept a slave, with brute force this horse it gave.

A life in freedom it soon forgot, and many tricks it soon was taught.

I have found along my way, and continue learning to this day.

That Horse was here to make a trade, of partnership, we never made.

So next time that you kick it hard, remember the tale, from this horseman bard. 

SHM

Details | Scott Howard Myers The Gypsy King Poem

Friends Just Like You

Just let me say, this one little thing. 
Before the door shuts, my words might sting. 
I feel that you are, completely unjust.
So my feelings won't be, too badly crushed. 

That other day was left, I know unsaid. 
But for now, I wish you were dead. 
I know that's a little, over the top harsh. 
But why don't you go, get lost in a marsh. 
With alligators, snapping close at your heels. 
Perhaps then you'd know, just how it feels. 

To put up with people, who pretend they know all. 
Makes talking to you, like speaking' to a wall. 
So just one more thing, as that door firmly shuts. 
I believe that your mind, is filled up with just nuts.

Do I make myself clear, I just want to be true. 
Don't need enemies, when, I've got friends, just like you. 


SHM

Details | Scott Howard Myers The Gypsy King Poem

The Tree the Bells the Blazing Guns

The Tree 
         The Bells 
         The Blazing Guns

Seemed like fate never saw kind, on that drifter called Stone.
Riding the dusty trail, over the Rockies, alone. 
With winter behind him, on that warm, spring day. 
He was planning for Calgary, by the mid-month of May. 
Winter was hard for him, fending off the bitter cold. 
Was many a nights, the devil had wanted his soul sold.
But despite those hard months, he had managed to stave. 
Enough strength to keep both feet, out of his own, self-dug grave.

When the folk of the town had found their loot gone. 
Was then when Stone just happened, to come rambling on. 
The truth of the matter, was not plain to see. 
Because when Stone rode to town, it was all contrary.
With the real culprit gone, so no one else to answer for thieving.
Left Stone all alone with nowhere to run leaving. 

Stone heard the bells of the small town church sound. 
With guns blazing, the town folk shot the thief they had done found.
And because they were all, as mad as can be.  
They hung poor old Stone, from an old hanging tree. 


SHM

Details | Scott Howard Myers The Gypsy King Poem

A Man Called Pain

Born beneath an old Elm tree, nourished from the teats of a Jackal, sired by the Devil himself.
He knew who he was. 
He was pain.
Where he walked, he inflicted the same.

Bringing forth residual shame, was his favorite game.
This man named Pain, with worldwide fame.
Invisible to most, but felt by us all.
As when your skin does crawl.

His only intent, was to make love fall.
From behind his invisible wall.
The Demons do call.
For one and all.

So when you hear that man's name.
It's no accidental, bad luck game.
He turns health into lame.
The Devil and son are the same.

This man called Pain. 

SHM

Details | Scott Howard Myers The Gypsy King Poem

Sanction This

To our friends, no disrespect intended


Sanction this, Mr. President. 
Canada is not, up for rent. 
Talking about, world presence.
It’s time we built, ourselves a fence. 

Why is the price of oil so high. 
Why do you send, your youth to die. 
You claim to be, a god fear nation. 
I can't believe it, part of creation.

When is your plan, to walk right through. 
That line dividing us, from you.
You think we'll take it, sitting down. 
You'll see our smile, turn into frown. 

So, sanction this, Mr. President.
Think twice before you pitch that tent. 
I'm pretty sure, if you want more.
We burnt that house, of white before.

This land of ours, is not yours to take. 
This land of ours, for heaven’s sake. 
Will have to be the starting place. 
That slaps you good, right in your face. 

Sanction this. 


SHM

Details | Scott Howard Myers The Gypsy King Poem

Percolated Coffee

From sleep to wake she mutters.
Her mind stalls, mumbled words she stutters.
The walls guide her down their dim lit hall.
It is but a crawl, as her coffee does call.
No automatic drip, no self-timed event.
Morning ritual, to her time well spent. 
From beginning to end, that old coffee pot.
Guarantees , that her java stays hot. 
So, before her day starts, there is one thing for sure.
She will always partake, of her percolated, coffee, cure.

Details | Scott Howard Myers The Gypsy King Poem

Freeman Tale

In writing this down, to not make you frown. 
Pretend all is good, as all stories should. 
The story to unfold, of a tale yet untold. 
Long ago glory, of hardened men and some gold. 
This all came at cost, morals, values all lost. 
The hero would be, a dark man, not yet free.
Born into the chains, from far desert plains.
The men took him to slave, to work till his grave. 
Day and night he did toil, for their gold from the soil. 
Day and night did they drink, their souls starting to stink. 
As the months turned to years, the dark man shed no tears. 
For the hardened men fought, over the gold they had sought. 
And one day when he woke, a voice inside him, spoke. 
It made perfect good sense, a plan to jump, fence. 
Yet his plan to be free, came easy you see. 
For the men and their greed, did one day, make bleed. 
In a drunken fit brawl, from spent guns did they fall. 
And the dark man did see, that for once he was free. 
For all of that gold, as he worked for when sold. 
To these hardened men bought, to dig the gold they had sought. 
Was all his to be, and set sail on the sea. 
To back home to the land, from where he did stand. 
Long time ago, once more a free man.
SHM