Johnny Wrongcrowd

He had a slender young frame
And typically inquisitive eyes
That captured the sunlight
In their sapphire prisms.
But they are closed now
And almost completely covered
By his wild blonde hair.
He had a sort of folk fame
That is the cause of young girls’ cries
And makes older boys want to fight,
Cause ruckus, or any other sort of schism.
His parents always wondered how
He had flown free as a song bird
Without a single worry or care.

He did not often wear shoes
We he explored the woods
And ran through town
So his feat were tough
And strong because
He liked to run.
He had everything to lose
Hanging with those hoods,
They’d only drag him down.
He was not as rough
And respected the laws
When he had fun.

So it is strange to see him
Still in the oaks
But in shiny black Sundays
And an uncomfortable suit.
Now, when the porch light starts to dim
He won’t be in to tell jokes
And that special way his grace would amaze
Deserves all of our tears and a noble salute.

The Kids in Schools

Those mocking calls from the school house’s walls
Were all the fodder that some cannons need to lauder
In all of those perverted, bent, twisted, gold star prose.

The heroes we hark forth with like dogs only bark tiffs
Like leaders of packs feast upon the weak like cats on rats
So only the mass may think for the lumbering, stupid class.

Where’s the headmaster or dean to cheer up the prey and wipe the slate clean?
Sitting in a corner, no doubt, sad about not being published; all prone to pout.
But all is sunny as long as their favorite students’ parents have influence and money.

Sad, that those full of spirit cause the weak to cry yet never hear it
And receive praise for their activity and popularity with the passing school days.
Yet the weekend demons only wake to worsen in the holiday seasons.

Inspired, are we, by the system of unfairness we see?
The answer is no and we answer by our lack of show
Of any want or ware to make that prison hell for our kids fair.

Sweet Chariot

Sweet chariot you better not swing so low
Cause if you cut too close
You might cut my soul
And Lord knows, And Lord knows
If you cut my soul
That I aint got no where to go.

Sweet chariot you better come to carry me home
Cause I don’t have a ride and I need to go
Toward my kin so I’m not alone
And Lord knows, And Lord knows
If I’m alone
That I aint got no where to roam

Un huh
Un huh

I Dare Say

I dare say,
the fair play
is getting quit hectic
And the moonlight
is too bright
for any other skeptic,
So while we dance
and romance
let the questions ask
About our lives,
Their pretty wives,
and any troubling tasks.

The Fall Rain is for Widows

There is love in the rain
When it falls in the small
Hours of the growing morning.
It makes all the same,
Coming down in the Fall,
While widows start their mourning.

The sky cries for their losses
And offers up its trees and their leaves
The reds are blood for the broken hearts,
The oranges are for graves like crosses,
And the brown is a warning for life’s thieves
While the raindrops fall like darts.

It is cold and lonely early in the darkness
And no blanket can make that special heat
That settles the body but warms the soul.
The only cure for the heart’s failed fitness
Is family to love or a stranger to meet.
Company makes half empty glasses seem full.

But when no one is near
Or hermitting seems an answer
Then rain can fill the cup just as well.
When the sun is refused its clear,
So the moon stays a dancer,
The stairs forget they always fell

Even behind clouds the night remains,
Left lingering in an August downpour
For those sad hearts missing that love.
The widows shuffle, cowered over canes,
Across the bent and twisted hardwood floor
Of their darkened porches and smile at the gift from above.

The rain pours as a blanket
And covers and drenches,
Pooling on the cooled ground.
Without a single regret
It is swallowed and quenches
While thrusts die and then drown.

The morning is dark early
So it is harder to see the drops
While they plummet toward the shadowed grass.
The moon shines a clean white pearly
Onto the sleeping shrubs and tree tops
With amazing grace and timeless class.

Somewhere in the world beyond
There is always a golden yellow dawn.
But in the world that the lonely left-living mark,
Sometimes it is best to wakeup in the dark.

High Paid Homicide

What good would running do now?
None, as far as I can tell.
Your fortune you avow
When you’re in gold and pastel

You are already gone,
And the storm is now here.
I won’t be staying long
But you are gone, my dear.

What good would crying do now?
None, as far as I can tell.
Your fortune I can’t allow
When I see how you do well.

You are already gone,
And the storm is now here.
It’d be nice not to wrong
But who am I to care.

Fire on The Farm

It wuz good not ta fight the temptation ta run.
When the fire starts ta blaze it’s best ya get out a their sun

You got ta know barns full of dried dead hay
Tend ta light on fire an stay that way

What ya did was wrong, playin with the matches
Stop strugglin, yull only rip where the skin attaches,
But by the will of God, he let ya live
Gave ya burns, but boy he did forgive

An I would not be a good man
If I did not try and make ya understand
That he does work in mysterious ways

An when ya come to ya end of days,
Yull remember back to when ya burnt ya pa’s barn
An ran screamin, burnt up, round ya pa’s farm

There’s a lesson there boy I don’t want ya missin
About lookin past some pain toward the Lord’s blessin:
That sometimes bad things could very well be worse
Cause we might not need an ambulance, but a hearse

So when ya on that hospital table
Remember that ya daddy was willin and able
To show ya the light that come from the dark
An the healin power within God's spark

Ya gonna be in pain, make no mistake
Just think back to how I told ya everythin’s fate
And I know in my heart God’ll let ya learn
That ta get ta heaven some angles have ta burn.

Beasts

Back, back with the beasts that wish to trot
Over the fields of daisies and ash
Toward higher mounds of fetid rot
Where knifes help bleed through and slash.

Tame, tame the raging wretched where they stand
And push back against their four legged assault
Grab hold of their manged pelt with either hand
And, with swords drawn, wait for them to fault.

Though, though their teeth may tinge white in the moonlight
Their souls are as black as their devil dog tongues,
Take this opportunity to defend that which is right
And sing glory out to every victory bell to be rung.

Defend, defend the fields of flower and sand
From the beast and their scarlet drenched fangs.
Are you willing to die to defend your land
And look past that great noosened corpse or the way it hangs?

I Walk Around My House Aimless and Confused

I walk around my house aimless and confused
Looking for something to keep myself amused
But wonder still I do down the halls
While sand from The Hourglass falls.
Neither books nor reading can fix my boredom’s bleeding
And reflecting on my figure, I will not satisfy it with eating.
Perchance I should search for my evening cap
And retire to bed for an early afternoon nap.

But perhaps, in order to gain success
In my quiet quest to kill restlessness,
I should try to write through my woe
In a poem that The Hourglass would know.
And If those eternal sands, that fall and shift,
Shall not accept my humble gift,
Then cursed shall I be to meander still,
Trapped within my consternated will.

Walk

When I walk down empty sidewalks,
The cars in the street stream past in session
And their breeze steals my breath, I can not talk
Nor make any grave notice for confession.

Somewhere, had I been walking ages hence
I would have seen oaks, pines, and blue jays.
The forests would not have been broken by lines of white picket fence
And I could have strolled there for the remainder of my days.

There would be no sirens nor concrete nor mass intrusions of man
But only the delicate touch of man’s gentleness toward nature.
No lights could possible dictate when we walked or where we ran
And we would be left to harbor that beauty and save it for the future.

Roses

I dispise how a potted rose is made to sit
Soaking up evening sun through a window.
At night, the light fails its hit
And the flower can no longer grow.

I remember when a dozen or so
Of those beautiful red kisses
Would make any lover’s heart glow
And grant most romantic wishes.

But slowly at first and eventually quicker
The sunlight breaks still and sets,
And lovers health out of their liquor
To return to their despair and regrets.

While true that sweeter names remain
And thorns might rip soft skin,
Blood from the heart flows all the same
When poured over forgotten sin.

Cringe not then for the memories
That those flowers retort,
But for the grass and tress
That do nothing of the sort.