An Obvious Observation

Even now I can not help but to think:

Perhaps what we know is not the truth.

Some, like roaches, to dark corners shrink

To avoid being revealed by what proof,

Evidence, or facts, that may be displayed

In the attempt to show the world the light,

News can't be trusted: we're all being played,

Distracted from what is right in our sight!

Insidious elite peddle their lies,

Demanding we believe all that they say,

Now, however, we have opened our eyes

Their filith clear to us, and on full display.

Knights of a new order assembling

Incensed at the sheer boldness of it all

Leaving the lower elite trembling

Low hanging fruit will be the first to fall.

How could we have allowed this to occur?

In this day and age? In this time and place?

Muse on those questions, but act on the cure:

Shamelessly Crusade against this disgrace,

Endeavoring to purge the parasites

Lest we be consumed by their appetites!

For our Future, our Children, and what's right!

She

She watches the swarm of men moving through her city.
What’s left of her city…
The once happy homes have become tombs,
holding broken remains, and broken dreams.
Names scribbled on what’s left of a wall the only reminder of lives now gone,
and with the arrival of these men, even that will become lost.
Family, friends, neighbors live on only in her memory,

She slings her pack off her back, and braces herself…
like others from her scattered unit in the city are doing.
Deep breath in…
                           … deep breath out…
 …She squeezes the trigger.

She falls to cover as a hail of bullets answer her own.
Their volley interrupted by her compatriots down the road….
New target, the enemy distracted…
Looking…
                  …Breathing…
 …firing.

There is a familiar rumble in the earth…
She heard this before…Men run from cover to get out of its way.
It rounds the corner, and bears down upon her.
She grabs her pack…
                                   …runs three steps…
 ... takes no more.

Her post explodes into a cloud of fire and debris,
bringing an end to what remained of the building,
and the memory of so many.

Her unit scrambles to stop the tank,
to push back the men,
but in the end, are forced to fall back.
She will be mourned…
                                        …She will be remembered
until the last in her unit falls.

Rise

Can any of us today dare to dream
About living our lives with true passion?
Embodying true greatness, like those past,
Searching within ourselves to find that spark
And pursue our passions with greatest zeal
Regardless of what may stand in our way?
Will we cross our Rubicons, or stand down,
And let opportunity slip away?
Spiting the Senate, or letting them rule?
Ask yourself this question with honesty:
How could you ever truly be happy
Enduring the yoke you could have cast off?
Right now, as you read this, I hope you choose:
Overthrow the Senate of doubt...and rise!

A Memory

It’s the little things I don’t expect,
like the smell of a Dutchman Cigar
that can take me back decades ago
to the river bank beneath the stars.

Your favorite spot you called ‘the Rock’,
where a boulder sat proud and alone,
which we kids would try to climb and sit
 like little fisher kings on our throne.

Mom sat on her blanket and watched us
till the blue-sky gave way to the night
and you lit the kerosene lantern
to keep away our childhood fright.

Relaxed, you’d sit in your fishing chair,
rod and reel in in your self-made holder,
talking to mom while watching us climb
and push each other off the boulder.

Sometimes, when your cigar was half done
You’d give us kids that sideways smirk
and give it a toss, then have a laugh
as you watched us dive into the dirt.

The first time, mom roared, but now resigned
She’d shake her head watching us search
and let the finder take a few puffs,
or finish it off, what could it hurt?

Sometimes we’d fish in almost silence,
told that we would scare the fish away.
But now that I am older, I know,
you just needed some quiet that day.

We’d clear away trash, or gather wood,
to roast some hotdogs, and make some smores,
Then listen as Hank Williams Junior
sing us to sleep on that river shore.

I will never smell a Cigar’s smoke
or hear a Hank Williams Junior’s tune
without thinking back, happy, yet sad
to all of my memories of you. 

Hemlock

     On the outskirts of the city lay a small town with more churches than businesses. On a good day, most folks just blew through the town using the county road. On a better day, they bypassed it completely by using the old State road that lay just outside of town. Most people in the city didn’t even know there was a town just a couple miles away, and people driving through it only knew it was there because of the green town sign along the road. It was the simple green sign used to denote a town, and nothing more. No ‘Welcome to Hemlock’, or ‘The town of Hemlock welcomes you’, or even a name sign with a population.

     On the outskirts of Hemlock, on the last intersection before the small gathering of homes gave way to fields and woods, lay the old Albright’s Convenience store. It had been a place where people could walk to grab an ice cold coke on a slow hot day, or where folks could grab a couple cases of cold beer on the weekend during a beer run when they were not exactly sober. Old man Albright never called the law, and he reaped the rewards when he upsold items to the drunks coming in.

     When old man albright passed away, he left the store to his son, who sold it to the first person to offer cash, and fled as far from Hemlock as possible. The guy that bought it didn’t even live in Hemlock, and the lack of pride or upkeep with his rental properties reflectected it. 

     The new owner attempted to run the store, but ended up just running it into the ground. The ridiculous increase in prices, and the subsequent rise of shoplifting made him just shut it down. Rather than cut his losses and sell the property to someone else, he gutted it, threw in a half-hearted bathroom and kitchen, and rented it for as much as he could convince people to rent it.

     Some seasonal worker families crammed in occasionally, and some desperate junkies hoarded together for the winter a couple times. Every time, the landlord would use threats of informing the law on the residents in order to get what he wanted. He’d get extra money, free labor, occassional sex, and people to move his merchandise. 

     Some residents pointed to the glorified slumlord as the reason why things were ‘going downhill’ in Hemlock. Some of the older families called it quits and moved from the area, hoping to save their children from the flood of Opiates floating around town from the half boarded up houses. Those that stayed often prayed for their community, but it was a losing battle. Everytime one junkie was finally picked up by police, a few more moved in to take their place. 

                                  ~

     Jamie knew nothing of the history of Hemlock, its apparent bleak future, or even the history of her home. All she knew was that her stomach hurt, and she was hungry. Momma was still sleeping on the couch where she had been for most of the day. 

     Before she went to sleep, momma had filled two bowls with Cheerios and three sippy cups with kool aid and set them down in front of the cartoons. 

     The cartoons had gone off.

     Her cheerios were gone.

     She looked at momma. The no stick was still in her arm, and momma had made sure to drive the rule home that Jamie was not to go near the no sticks. Jamie had cried for the longest time, and her hand was sore for the rest of the day after momma smacked it when she picked up a no stick one day.

     Jamie did not like the no sticks, and not just because of the memory of the pain in her hand the last time she touched one. She didn’t like how momma fell asleep everytime momma played with one. Sometimes momma had friends over, and they all took turns with the no stick. The last one always dangled it from their arm until they woke up again, or were carried outside. 

      The thought to cry until momma woke up popped into her head, but she knew momma wouldn't like that at all. The last time she tried that, momma had been so mad. No, she would just wait till momma woke up. Whenever that would be. 

     She took a drink out of her last cup. It was almost gone. Usually Momma was awake again before all the cartoons were off, and would get something to eat. She would shuffle into the kitchen almost like the mummies in Scooby Doo and put something together. It wasn’t like the food that was at Grammy’s, but at least it was something. 

     As if agreeing with this thought, her stomach grumbled. She downed the last of her juice, and looked back to the TV where people were arguing in a room. She didn’t know what they were yelling about, but at least they weren’t hitting each other. She hugged her stuffed unicorn, Mr. Sparkles, tighter against her grumbling stomach, and tried to make sense of the people were yelling. 

                                 ~

     Momma’s cell phone rang again. She could see Grammy’s face on the screen, and as much as she wanted to slide the green circle, she knew momma would be upset that she had touched her phone while she was sleeping. After Grammy’s face disappeared, the phone chirped as it had done the last few times she had called, and then lay silent. 

     Jamie watched momma for a moment as she slept. She had fallen asleep like that a few times before. Sitting on the couch, leaning against the armrest, with a small pillow as a cushion. Jamie thought for a moment before walking to her room and grabbing her blanket off the bed. When she had fallen asleep on the couch, momma always gave her a blanket to cover up and keep warm while she slept. Momma would be so proud of her that she remembered to do the same for her. 

     Jamie took momma her favorite blanket. It was her Unicorn Blanket. It had a bright white unicorn with long flowing pink hair that was flapping in the wind around a sparkling golden horn that had purple glitter on it. Jamie and momma had named her Bessie, after Grammy and Pappap’s pony Bess on their farm. 

     Jamie climbed onto the couch and pulled Bessie up her momma, careful not to get near the arm with the no stick, and tucked it in around her neck. She then gently kissed momma’s cheek just like Momma always did for her, and smiled. Momma would be very happy she had brought in Bessie to cover her up. She felt so cold.

     Jaimie looked at the window as she climbed down from the couch. The sun was fading, and it made her almost as sad as she was hungry. Momma had said they would walk to the park today, but with it getting dark, she knew it was almost bedtime. Momma was going to wake up just in time to put her to sleep. She sat back down in front of the TV where people were driving cars really fast. Maybe momma would make her a snack before she had to go to bed. 

                                ~

     The headlights of the car splashed across the walls through the window, and lit up the room. Jamie’s heart pounded in her chest, she grabbed Mr. Sparkles, and ran over to momma to shake her. Momma might yell about her being too close to the no stick, but she was more scared of whoever came with the lights. She still wouldn’t wake up.  She looked over to the door, as she heard the first knock. Momma had put the extra bar on the door before she was playing with the no stick. Momma said she did it to keep out the ‘Bad guys’. Jamie thought that some of Momma’s friends were bad guys because of the way they yelled at each other. One had even hit momma. Pappap hadn’t been too happy about that when he found out. When momma had taken Jamie to the farm the day after the man had hit her, Pappap went red in the face, and went inside. When he came back out, he was stuffing something black into his belt. 

     As he started pulling away in his truck, making a cloud of black smoke from the exhaust, and spraying gravel everywhere, Momma had yelled at him to stop. Grammy was crying a little, but she didn’t yell. She just started to carry Jamie inside the house, asking if she wanted something to eat. Before they had walked through the door, she heard Pappap yell from his truck that he was going to ‘Teach that boy a lesson’. Jamie never figured out what lesson it was, because the man who hit momma never came back to their home. 

     After the second knock, Jamie ran to her room and threw herself into the closet, pulling the door almost completely shut behind her. She wanted to keep it cracked a little in case Momma woke up and started to look for a place to hide with her. Jamie burrowed deeper into the closet as the knocking on the door turned into pounding.There was a voice outside the door, yelling something, but between the tv and the pounding, Jamie didn't know what they were yelling. She clung tight to Mr. Sparkles and strained to hear. She could feel herself begin to cry, but tried to stop as she wiped her tears away. She would show momma that she wasn’t scared. Or at least, she wouldn’t show her that she was.

     Jamie felt like she had been in the closet forever before the pounding and the yelling stopped. She peeked out the crack in the closet door to see that the house was no longer filled with the light from the window. The light from the TV screen was once again the only source of light in the house. She looked towards the old Paw Patrol lamp on the table by her bed, and thought about turning it on, so at least she would have some light while she hid. However, she did not want anyone to know where she was in case they had snuck in. Momma had told her once that some people were sneaky, and she couldn’t trust them.

     Grammy and Pappap were different, though, Jamie knew. They always had surprises, and fun things to do. They didn’t act like any of momma’s friends did. They never yelled at her, or grabbed at her...or anything else. Grammy and Pappap would hug on her, and kiss on her, and give her the best cookies and chocolate milk before bed time. She loved their farm, and the animals, and her room there. 

     Not to mention that they never had any no sticks there.  

     Jamie stepped out of the closet, holding Mr. Sparkles close, and walked over to momma. She had slept through the whole thing. Looking over to the window, Jamie could see nothing but dark, and could only hear the voices on the TV. Now that her fear had left her, her stomach reminded her that she was hungry. Maybe momma wouldn’t mind if she tried to find a snack of her own. Maybe she would even be proud of her for being a big girl and getting something for herself while letting momma sleep. She was using her potty chair like a big girl, just like mommy taught her, maybe she could make food like a big girl. 

     With that exciting thought in her mind, she went off to the kitchen to see what she could find. 

                                   ~

     She woke with a start. The was more pounding and yelling, and the entire house seemed to glow with lights. The bright white lights as before, but also a bright red and blue swept through the house as it blinked. Mr. Sparkles was sitting by the open bag of potato chips they had devoured before they had fallen asleep.

     Before she could grab him and stand up, there was a loud boom against the door. She squealed and dove to Mr. Sparkles. As she turned to go towards momma, there was another boom, and the bar that momma propped under the door knob flew back and clanked against the floor as the door burst open. 

     She froze as the room house was filled with so much light she almost didn't see the dark shapes of people rushing in at her. Several stopped at momma, but she screamed as one of them came directly for her, picked her up, and started to take her outside. 

     “Momma! Momma!”

     She fought against the shadow man as she reached out, screaming for momma to wake up and save her. The man held on to her, firmly, but gently. 

     “Shhhh...shhh ...its ok, little one,” he said softly. “I have someone who wants to see you.”

     “Jamie!”

     Jamie stopped struggling, and spun around in the shadow man’s arms. Eyes adjusting to the lights, she saw Grammy and Pappap by their truck behind what she now saw were police cars. Grammy ran forward and grabbed her from the man’s arms. Jamie saw his badge as he turned to run back into her home. Grammy and Pappap held onto her, kissed her, and stroked her hair, as she stared out over the cars and flashing lights, watching as the shadows seemed to dance in them. 

     Grammy took her to sit in the truck, and pulled out her phone and let Jamie play with the Angry Birds. Jamie looked up at Grammy after a moment of playing, and saw her staring out the window at Pappap, whose hands were on his hips and head bowed down.  Jamie snuck a peek towards the house where police and some others were still coming in and out, and Grammy gasped and started crying when they pulled a long table out with a blanket on it. Pappap fell to his knees, shoulders shaking, which cause Grammy to start to cry louder. Jamie didn’t recognize the table though, and she didn't know why everyone was so upset to see it. They never had one with wheels on it. She wondered if Momma had it hidden in a closet, and if that is why the policemen were there. 

     As Grammy started to cry harder, she pulled Jamie into her arms and squeezed her tightly. Briefly, Jamie could smell cookies on Grammy’s shirt, and she wondered if Momma was going to wake up so they could go have a snack at the farm. 

                                    ***

Tomorrow

My father sat in his chair on the porch,

watching the kids run around in the grass.
He sat watching them, smiling
as they laughed and screamed while running past.

I thought to myself, get a picture
of him surrounded by the kids
but I didn’t want to interrupt their play
and now I wish I did.

Tomorrow, I thought, is the party
I’ll get a picture of them then
but moments later, he had a seizure
now I won’t get the chance again.

He gave a sound that will haunt my mind
until the very day I die
and then he slumped into his chair;
the kids began to cry.

We called for help,
and did our best to keep him alive
but I failed that crucial moment
and I watched my father die.

My father taught me many things,
and one last lesson with his last breath:
‘Tomorrow is never guaranteed,
remember today, and remember death.’

I should strive to pack in daily
what should be done each and every day
from hugs, and pictures, and I love Yous
ensuring great memories are made.

By casting away tomorrow,
and making a full life of today,
perhaps my kids won’t share my remorse
over things that I meant to say.

Conversations left not started,
not finished, and vital words not said…
Offering me nothing left
but a crushing sense of guilt and regret.

I can’t tell him what I needed him to know
I can’t ask him what I need to know.
and all because, like that picture,
I thought I’d do it tomorrow

Therapy

Drunk.
My aim
As I drink
Beer after beer
Seeking out that fog
To steal away the thoughts
That are causing me to drink;
So that I can not feel the pain
That twists in my gut like a dull knife
Twisting fast and furiously though its
Blunted at the edge and rusted through...
With this fog can I find relief...
So I seek that merciful mist
In whatever bottled brew
That I may find close by
And so wash away
What I feel now
If only
For a
Spell.

Ode to Taco Bell

I thought it air, 
I gave a push
and molten shart
shot from my tush
I clenched my cheeks,
Alas! Too late…
The dam, once burst,
I could not abate!
Like a duck I waddled
to the closest loo
The shat then spread 
as liquid shats do.
I waddled quick,
but the shat ran down
My pants, white khaki
Now streaked with brown.
A line of shat
left a telling trail
in my wake
to tell the tale:
One of misplaced faith,
a poor fool’s blunder-
How I ruined my day
and blew my skivvies usunder.

Holy Week

I sit in horror as I watch the flames
dancing around as they lick at her stones…
The smoke billowing from her sacred  bones…
Paris…the West…will never be the same.
And in the city streets, the moslems cheer
Declaring their bloodthirsty god is great
And that the infidels deserved this fate!
While all of France weeps, the moslems just sneer.
Suspicious, a fire on Holy Week...
I can’t help but wonder what they will say
To try to make the outrage go away...
Will we ever find the truth that we seek?
What scapegoat will they find to take the blame
For the fire they set at Notre Dame?

Rest Stop

I stopped by a rest area today,
Even though it took me out of my way.
I sat in the lot a moment or two,
Not really sure what I wanted to do.
Eventually, I just walked around
Taking in all of the sights and sounds.
I found a wooden bench by a old tree
Surrounded by flowers and buzzing bees.
And I sat down there, and I closed my eyes.

Memories swirled in my mind like a mist
Of times when we stopped at places like this
To rest, to play, stretch our legs or eat,
Or just to explore: a traveler's treat!
We’d talk to other folks on their own trips
Forming fast, yet fleeting, sort of friendships.
As all these memories around me swirled,
I opened my eyes, fell back to the world,
The present one...and I sat there and cried.

I sat on that bench near all afternoon.
Though I knew I needed to be going soon,
I couldn’t really bring myself to leave
When this patch of land was helping me grieve…
Finally, when I could no longer stay,
Without a good excuse for my delay,
I walked slowly back to get to the lot,
Abandoning there some of the pain I brought,
Finally feeling as though we’ve said bye.

1

Vindication

For twenty-two months, they hunted their prey,
Swore to the heavens there would come a day
when proof of his crimes would be brought to light,
and end, what they claimed, our nation’s plight.

They’ve roared in rage since after the last vote
“Foreigners and traitors upset the boat!
There’s treason afoot, and we must impeach!”
This was the sermon the medias preached.
In that time, the FBI fell from grace
from its once almost untouchable place
as pinnacle of American law.
Now, steeped in corruption, they’ve lost us all.

The medias once held honored positions,
have now become a source of derision,
having come together in the attempt
to sow among Americans contempt
Of President Donald Trump and his base,
seeking division class, faith, and race.
Fanning the flames and turning up the heat
encouraging folks to take to the street…

Then they gathered, their torches all lit,
This was the end! Oh yes! This would be it!
Their mouths watering for the coming treat:
The Grand inquisitor’s report:  complete.
The report summary: no collusion!
After howls of outrage and confusion,
Lo, and behold, my fellow red hatters!
Now we’re told the report doesn’t Matter!
They cry “Cover-up!”  and “Conspiracy!”
and accuse our leader of Tyranny.

But we’ve stopped listening to what they say,
for now its time to do things the right way…
Now it is our turn to investigate
those who have betrayed these united states.
Politicians, actors, or media’s voice
their treason the result of their own choice…
We’ll give them a trial that they are due,
Should take less than a month, not twenty two
before all of their crimes are brought to light,
revealed and removed as our nations blight.

Now is our time, to put it so bluntly,
To tell the world: This is MAGA country.

Haiku on a poet's role

Forgive me my words
If you find them abhorrent,
But they must be said:

We are expected
If we think ourselves poets
To be true to self...

Honest observance
To what goes on around us
Regardless the view

Should be put to pen
For our fellow citizens
To see as report

Of the times we live
Outside the realm of the news
For those that come next.

If you hate the works
That talk about what you hate,
Why not ignore them,

Instead of forcing
Poets to watch what they write.
Have we come to this?

Let angry voices
Write out their angry verses
And vent frustrations

And happy voices
Speak of flowers and the like
And read at your choice...

Our integrity
As poets and as readers
Demands nothing less.

Old Friend

What gives man comfort in his time of need?
Consoling him like no lover or friend?
Opening his mind to new line of thought
Allowing him to finally defend
Against the suffering of his poor heart
Or the sorrows that threaten to drown him?
There is only one immortal ally
That always shimmers when the world grows dim.
When lovers and friends abandon their post
Or family pass beyond that starry veil,
And stricken by that realization:
You have but one life...half over...half failed...
Who is it that rushes to fight your blues?
Your old and unfailing friend, Mr. Booze.

An age old musing

King of Ephyra, you clever old fool...
How could you expect a happy ending
After betraying the trust of Lord Zeus,
Trading the location of Aegina
In return for a spring from Asopus?

When Lord Zeus decided to punish you
You refused to accept what you were due...
With your deceitful wit, you chained Hades
(or Thanatos, depending on the tale)
And thus mortal man became immortal.

You deprived Ares of Wartime fun,
And all the Gods of their sacrifices
Which they are much deserving from all men,
All so you could try to escape your fate.
Until they convinced you to unchain him.

And when you finally were called to death
You couldn't help but try just one more trick.
Escorted by the fleet footed Hermes
To the Underworld, the realm of the dead,
You Dishonored Hades' beautiful queen.

With aid of your wife, who left you to rot
Without burial at your own request,
You lamented to Queen Persephone
Who, moved to great compassion and pity
Allowed your return to the mortal realm.

When your vile trickery was found out,
And  you were ordered to return, you fought,
Forcing Hermes to once again find you
And drag you back down to the Underworld
Before the thrones of Hades and his queen.

But Zeus, in his fury at your deceit,
And the dishonor you came to display
In the selfish quest to avoid your fate
Brought you a fate more terrible than death,
A lesson for all mortal men to see...

He gave you a stone, stood you on a hill,
And then gave you what you desired most:
Lord Zeus blessed you with immortality.
Though given an eternal life, it was cursed.
You were cursed. Eternal struggle your fate.

Though...I can't help but to wonder something:
Are you a lesson to all mortal men
To the rewards of misused cleverness?
Or are you a reflection of mankind
And our fight against our impermanence?

Though I don't pity you, King Sisyphus,
I can not deny that I sympathize.
For all men struggle and scheme to outlast
The years they were given upon birth
And to be ourselves like the Gods we serve.

The Human race struggles to rise above
our station, using our cleverest minds.
We push the boundaries of what we know
Like you push that burdensome stone of yours,
Wondering just how much further we have...

Before we reach the summit of our hill,
Or before our stone begins rolling down...

When is the last time I cried?

When was the last time I cried?

It wasn’t when I was in sixth grade,
and I ripped the flesh from my knees
when I crashed my bike going downhill
on broken asphalt.
I cried after that.

It wasn’t junior year of high school
when I thought I knew heartbreak
long before I ever truly understood
what actual love was.
I didn’t think it possible, but I cried after that.

It wasn’t the day I was married,
nor the birth of my children
though I was moved to tears of joy,
and I thought nothing could make me cry again.
Like a bad habit I couldn’t kick,
I would cry after that.

Nor when I fell on a catwalk
and injured my back at a merciless company,
Who fired me to be rid
Of an injured man,
While the pain and degradation was unbearable…
No, I cried after this.

When Was the last time I cried?

It was today.

Today was the last time that I have cried,
when I was told my son’s highest potential
would be a Walmart greeter, or cart gatherer.
That he would be lucky to have a job
that almost everyone else is overqualified for.

Today, I wept.

In the quiet of my office,
in the darkest corner I could find,
I wept until my eyes were dry and burning,
my throat was hoarse from sobbing,
and my lungs felt like they were on fire.
Today, a father wept like a child,
and I do not think I will ever cry again…

Until tomorrow…

…and the days after…
when I wake up,
when I go about my day,
and when I drift off to sleep…
           …thinking only of today.

A Lesson From Covington

Banging his drum, and chanting at the sky,

Like a bastardized version of Moses,
He parted them as he walked in their midst,
In their confusion, they moved to the side.
Having just moments before been attacked
By the self described 'Black Israelites'
For their terrible sin of being white,
They stared at him, not sure how to react.

They parted before him, and he walked on
Till he came across a boy, tall and proud,
Who refused to step back, as had the crowd.
The man beat his drum, the boy smiled on...
Though spat on and cursed, the boy stood his ground.
Giving each other  a defiant stare,
Hatred and anger swirling through the air,
From the crowd of adults now gathered 'round.

The media, doing what it does best,
Portrayed this boy and his friends as villains,
As bigots and racists to the millions
Of it's base who thrive on social unrest.
Blue checks of Twitter, they answered the call:
Threatening the boy with their violence
A grand display of left wing tolerance...
But the truth came out, and outrage was stalled.

Dear reader,  I'm certain with your own eyes
That you've seen what really happened that day:
A boy condemned for not backing away,
Condemnation fueled by media lies.
The lesson from this event is too clear:
When the media comes for you or me,
Let us pray that we should be so lucky
As to have the proof to survive the smear!

Deplorable

Defying the agenda of traitors,
Embracing our traditional ideals
Pushing back on 'America Haters'
Loving the fight, and refusing to yield.
Organizing against the insurgence
Respondong to the call of our nation
Ascending to our great culture's defense
Bowing to none, fight without cessation
Leading the charge to keep our nation free
Enacting new Manifest Destiny.

                                          

A simple question

I am a fool, I'll not deny,
My actions speak louder than words
And all the improvements that I try,
They every one crash hard and burn.
To fault me for the wrong I've done,
With no words for the right I've thought
Ignores the race I've thus far run,
And every last battle I've fought.
And though I'm not a perfect man...
Romantic, proud, and bellicose...
I strive to be the best I can,
Does that not make me more than most?
So then to what must I appeal
To prove to you I'm your ideal?

Focus!

Wake,
Jump up!
Grab my clothes,
Run down the stairs
Into my garage.
There, my weights are waiting
For a 'Clang and bang' session
As Dwayne 'the Rock' Johnson calls it.
My equipment is subpar at best
But I try to make do, and that's what counts.
Every minute I spend lifting today
Is an investment in tomorrow's
Happiness and my confidence,
Making me a better man
Than the one I am now.
Until tomorrow,
I have today.
Make it count:
Focus!
Lift...