Ode to my Forefathers (An Original Work)

(Painting by Robert Wood “Texas Hill Country”)

 

 

As the generation that helped shape us slowly fade away into memory

We steel ourselves against the coming storm with the legacy they buried for us

Out past the hill country draw, where the coyotes sing and the night bird sleeps

Though my head be weary I cannot falter a step my children

For I am the next generation to bury my legacy deep and remote

Somewhere secret where only the penitent man will pass

When Lacking Inspiration, I Always Go Back to Kipling…

Mandalay

By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin’ lazy at the sea,
There’s a Burma girl a-settin’, and I know she thinks o’ me;
For the wind is in the palm-trees, and the temple-bells they say:
“Come you back, you British soldier; come you back to Mandalay!”
Come you back to Mandalay,
Where the old Flotilla lay:
Can’t you ‘ear their paddles chunkin’ from Rangoon to Mandalay?
On the road to Mandalay,
Where the flyin’-fishes play,
An’ the dawn comes up like thunder outer China ‘crost the Bay!

‘Er petticoat was yaller an’ ‘er little cap was green,
An’ ‘er name was Supi-yaw-lat — jes’ the same as Theebaw’s Queen,
An’ I seed her first a-smokin’ of a whackin’ white cheroot,
An’ a-wastin’ Christian kisses on an ‘eathen idol’s foot:
Bloomin’ idol made o’mud —
Wot they called the Great Gawd Budd —
Plucky lot she cared for idols when I kissed ‘er where she stud!
On the road to Mandalay . . .

When the mist was on the rice-fields an’ the sun was droppin’ slow,
She’d git ‘er little banjo an’ she’d sing “~Kulla-lo-lo!~”
With ‘er arm upon my shoulder an’ ‘er cheek agin’ my cheek
We useter watch the steamers an’ the ~hathis~ pilin’ teak.
Elephints a-pilin’ teak
In the sludgy, squdgy creek,
Where the silence ‘ung that ‘eavy you was ‘arf afraid to speak!
On the road to Mandalay . . .

But that’s all shove be’ind me — long ago an’ fur away,
An’ there ain’t no ‘busses runnin’ from the Bank to Mandalay;
An’ I’m learnin’ ‘ere in London what the ten-year soldier tells:
“If you’ve ‘eard the East a-callin’, you won’t never ‘eed naught else.”
No! you won’t ‘eed nothin’ else
But them spicy garlic smells,
An’ the sunshine an’ the palm-trees an’ the tinkly temple-bells;
On the road to Mandalay . . .

I am sick o’ wastin’ leather on these gritty pavin’-stones,
An’ the blasted Henglish drizzle wakes the fever in my bones;
Tho’ I walks with fifty ‘ousemaids outer Chelsea to the Strand,
An’ they talks a lot o’ lovin’, but wot do they understand?
Beefy face an’ grubby ‘and —
Law! wot do they understand?
I’ve a neater, sweeter maiden in a cleaner, greener land!
On the road to Mandalay . . .

Ship me somewheres east of Suez, where the best is like the worst,
Where there aren’t no Ten Commandments an’ a man can raise a thirst;
For the temple-bells are callin’, an’ it’s there that I would be —
By the old Moulmein Pagoda, looking lazy at the sea;
On the road to Mandalay,
Where the old Flotilla lay,
With our sick beneath the awnings when we went to Mandalay!
On the road to Mandalay,
Where the flyin’-fishes play,
An’ the dawn comes up like thunder outer China ‘crost the Bay!

 

Poem: Catharsis

Nothing like some Seax Prose first thing in the Morning.
Smells Like…Victory.

The Serpent's Loft

in the beckoning twilight I find the darkness

lax and lazy, complacent, satisfied

loose it reigns, a careless abandon

and I laugh, I laugh and cry

how I found God in a khlysti sermon

so soft and weak, so pale like moonlight

dough between my fingers

a pampered darkness scarcely bleak

gone and away the weight from my chest

the laughing, cawing turns to me

I see myself in me

every vein a hissing snake roaring

shrieking backwards up Yggdrasil’s spine

where there the stellar serpent lies

Nidhogg, swallower of all

keeper of all that dies

sweet dragon of my brood

and there I feel between my hands

there i feel the neck that hollers

pleading, bleeding into me

but i can squeeze now

fingers writhe and palpate

tender embrace of hate

gentle as the silent dawn

killing night with kindness

no more enthralled

the darkness held underneath my knees

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Call From The Crags

Call From The Crags

by Wisconsin Kraut

 

Will the inheritance of our people be put to grinding mill?

 

Where is my shining prince 

Steed tramping proud

Voice carried firm 

Blood flowing pure?

Where is my binded kilt

Pleats swirling quick

Tartan shining bright

Belt pulled snug?

Where is my faithful claymor

Blade chopping swift

Hilt woven stout

Scabbard empty apt

Have we stuffed such to forget our old chieftains

Have we been enlightened to scorn our fathers dress

Have we laid down our ancient broadswords

And invited a foreigner to our mother’s breast?

Do our eyes no more see charging stallions

Do our legs forget roads long past

Do our arms not recall clash and fire

Shall we spit upon what God gave to admire?

Are songs not sung of great heroes

Are badges of kinsfolk no more worn

Are bastions of nation now failed to build

Will the inheritance of our people be put to grinding mill?

NO!

My blood yet burns hotly

And fills my veins with razors

My mind still recalls our fallen kings

And dreams of what can be

NO!

My belt is pulled tight

And girds my loins in iron

My plaid is dyed brightly

And bears my family’s name

NO!

My broadsword is raised highly

And blade is keely worked

My targe is griped firm

And dirk carried sure.

 

The Farmer (Poem by Free Idealist)

The Farmer

 

Walking down the bloodied street,

I enjoy the dirt upon my feet,

That feeling that feels so sweet,

Of earthen dust so fine and neat.

I’m stared at by the men of town,

Their faces full of scowl and frown,

Who look so often always down,

So deep in debt they just might drown.

I laugh to myself at jokes in mind,

Jokes too rude for one to find,

In such a place like this, so kind,

Where all are woke, and yet so blind.

I travel here for a simple task:

To fill their pantry and their flask.

I’m given no thanks, and I do not ask,

In the goodness of this deed I bask.

I have no time for the fools of throne,

Whose songs are sung and horns are blown.

I care quite little for their walls of stone,

Instead I linger with the seeds I’ve sown.

Watching them grow from year to year,

Wiping away each and every tear,

Cultivating these souls so dear,

And teaching them to never fear.

While I’m in town I’ll just be polite,

Because I know full well I’ll be alright.

I’ll lay in bed with my wife tonight,

And fill her full of much delight.