Wednesday, February 24, 2010

hunger draft

(This was inspired by Charles Dickens "A Tale of Two Cities)

She was fair, had a certain air, walked every where, strove to care,

yet the hunger lay in the streets, yes the hunger lay in the streets.

New faces, new places, they travel each day, searching for redemption, revival, anything.

They have left the land of no hope, for the American dream so fair, a sure thing you bet, they have left, they have left with a hope and a dare.

yet the hunger lay in the streets, yes the hunger lay in the streets.

Onward citizens, onward, search for the elusive medal, nugget, hope, hope!

Faces of gaunt children, hair receding hope retreating. Down at the bank, down at the store, there is hunger.

hunger in the streets, yes the hunger that lay in the streets.

Then a cry, faint in its beginning faint who would have guessed the ignominy that they suffer, as their hopes fail them. Stark reality, freedoms tossed as they do what they must to survive.

Ho then congressman! Ho then tax man! We have no bread to tax, take pity!

They lay, corpses in their chairs, their lives have ceased as they stare out the window, glossy eyed.

Who will give them breath again? Breath, sigh, their children cry,

On you we rely!

Yet words and tears fall on deaf ears, silent fears, wasted years.

Yearning rising, yearning boom, fought for and paid on the backs of laborers, searching, searching for newer and better.

Onward upward bless this house. Stretch forth and cry, enemies of my heart!

I will fight for the freedom of singing in the streets.

Many generations have passed, they knew and took for granted upward progression.

Ignominy they thought could never last, all deserve 15 min. of fame, so they say.

Nameless faceless masses stand
crying hallelujah let us live!


How do you carry forward the waters of life, when it is slowly leaking away? Your shelter was built, your life was planned, yet now you have no place to stay.

You wander in hunger, for heaven to send, redemption for what you have done, your fears, your tears and all of the years, you have worked and you've bled on the throne.

The throne of deception, the throne of desire you added more to it and your hopes they rose higher. So you worked and you planned and all of your dreams, they were dashed in the sand on the streets,

where hunger lay in wait, yes the hunger lay there.

Hearts have stilled with the news,

In the streets there is a hunger, a preponderance of insanity as lies are told and swallowed, there is nothing to fear.

No one has listened, who knows what the silence means yet it lingers.

A presence is felt the grim reaper himself, Charon awaits, there is hunger in the streets it is there.

With each stone that falls from the foundation, unheeded, each step in the sand an illusion. Each stone that falls from the walls as you walk down the streets of desertion. Your grasping for something, grasping, grasping...

and the children they cry in the streets, yes their children they cry in the streets.

Tuesday, February 2, 2010

Cowboy Camelot

*One of my favorite pieces, my Great Grandpa was a "Cow Puncher" which I suppose meant that he broke in horses. Plus my Uncle Mo is a dyed in the wool cow boy, owns a cafe up the hill from here with his girlfriend.

There is a once upon a time, that exists in my heart.

I can see the daylight breaking over the horizon, crackling morning campfires, and blue hazy smoke curling lazily in the air.

Morning in a Cowboy's Camelot

Biscuits and bacon eaten with appreciation while sitting round the campfire balancing plates on knees.

Listening to the dawn chorus of the birds. How do's and mornin's spoken with drawling tongue and twinkling eye, amusement about life in general.

Cowboys with their leather and beads, their feathers and weaves, a tip of the hat, a bit of a tease.

I can smell oiled leather and smoke in the western store. Hear boots on the wooden floors, bells tinkling on swinging doors.

See the barrels and bins full of horseshoes and pins. Rough hemp rope curled on the ground, sand and dust all around. Saddles and deer heads hanging, country music playing.

A cowboys haven

There is still something within me that recalls, swirling fires in the dessert, dusty tumble weeds over a hot trail, sand and sage, dry dessert air, nickering horses, snakes rustling through tall grasses, the coursing of streams down high mountain passes.

Out on the trail with the cowboy

Whisky and whiskers, old spice and pomade, reclining against a log as melancholy chords are strummed, the pick of the banjo, harmonicas drone, chaps and spurs golden in the firelight, comfortable as the red and azure blues fade from the sky in the west.

The cowboys evening salute to the stars