a tea social at the elks…

a social tea at the elks

listen child
i ain’t gonna lie
to you
that
man
could drive
anyone
to
drink
and
sometimes
he says things
that
could curdle milk
but
you ain’t
gonna find
a finer man
working hard
for
his family
working
two
or
three jobs
just
to assure
nobody goes hungry
or
can’t have enough
of
their
wants
to
convince them
dreams
can come
true
so
if you start
putting him down
you may find
yourself
on
the ground

we are don quixote…

we are don quixote...

as writers
days are spent
fighting
windmills
writing
words
on
the wind
words
of
unrequited
songs
for
freedom
and
justice
wanting to believe
in
the virtue
of
a less than
virtuous nation
hoping
to shape
the myth
into
reality
a nation
for
all men
judged only
on
their merit
but
that’s
a panglossian dream
the siren’s song
filled
with
vain
and empty
words
of
chivalry
a song
that has led
many
to death’s
stony shores
still
believing
their contributions
to
society
and
their suffering and pain
could not
be
ignored
forever
but
that was
excessively
optimistic
for
most traces
of
their lives
have been
erased
from history
all that remains
are
shadows
of
windmills
and
these few words
cast
into the ether

 

 

a dream we had…

a dream we had...

for a brief
moment in time
we believed
the
dream
could come true
that
our words
could save lives
and
change
the course
of history
but
after all these years
we are still
counting bodies
from
war
and
seeing
women
denied
the rights
to
their own bodies
love
one another
is still
really
just
the lyrics
of
a song
sang
by
a few folks
sipping martinis
at
the club house
a sentimental relic
of
college days
days
when
some of us
watched
our friends
being dragged off
by
the police
some
never
the same person
once returned
from
captivity
some souls
are
perishable
war
rape
and
police batons
can do that they say
just as bullets
can end
life
and when
the white sheets
are replaced
by
dark uniforms
of
blue
or
black
the murders
are
made justifiable
lynchings
without
ropes
nothing has changed
but once
we had
dreams

 

 

once we were…

once we were...

the small space
between
his nightmares
and
his reality
has grown smaller
he no longer
stares out
his window
searching for
empty promises
to be fulfilled
nor
does he pray
anymore
he has grown
to realize
that whatever god
there may be
his lot in life
is not
a priority
for that god
or
any god
so why would he
expect
that his fellow man
would give a damn
to them
he’s
a homeless bum
not worthy
of
their consideration
for anything
just scrap paper
to be
swept away
before
morning rush-hour
but once
his hands
cleared the land
that fed them
then
they called him
an essential worker
till the land dried up
and
nothing could grow
the bank took his land
outstanding loans
the land still stands naked
hometown
a ghost town
and
he
a ghost
of
society

ancient bones speak…

ancient bones speak

i lie here
among
severed spines
from
lynchings
and
shattered skulls
from
clubs and shotgun blasts
so
i’ve grown tired
of
all the rhetoric
all
the promises
written
on
the wind
words
i’ve heard
over
and
over
and
over
again
words
that are
no more
than
sterile seeds
so
i’ve learned
there will be no
harvest
of
freedom
for
only the chaff
of hope
has been planted
into
the cracking clay
of
tomorrow
the husk
of
dreams
left there
along side
these
blood stained
bones
of
mine