Doomed To Fall

 


I’ve had my Black Elk moment at age 47.

The tree of my people is on fire!

I am dressed in red,

all my prayers have been said

and it seems we are doomed to fall.

 

The masters of war

on the eve of destruction

playing with their battle toys!

The masters of war

on the eve of destruction

boys will be boys.

 

That’s a Bob Dylan and a PF Sloan tune.

Our lessons have not been learned.

My folk music ways, are dying today

and it seems they are going to brand us all.

 

With hell fire like we have never seen!

My, my generation knows not of Japan!

Who against who, in this media zoo?

This land was never our land.


20767755_10214375684610132_197468167127573766_n

New Song – I’m Gonna Die

They say that writers should be

isolated – by a certain degree.

They say a rhyme should be

tied – to some sort of scheme.

They say you can’t do that

and this is how it’s done.

They seem to hide when the

collection plate comes.

 

Chorus

 

I’m gonna die!

I just might lose my voice.

I’m gonna die!

This life was not my choice.

I’m gonna die from a lack

of common decency.

I’m gonna die.

 

They said fill out these forms.

Ask, who do you know?

They wanna make sure

you won’t steal the show.

They wanna see ya suffer.

Ask for your membership dues.

They don’t care if your limping

all about in your walking shoes.

 

Chorus

 

They seem to have deep pockets

so deep – they can’t reach the funds.

They want you a beggin’ for a life

of peace, solitude and fun.

They live in glass houses – have

all the answers for you.

They can’t understand how a good

man could ever get the blues!

I spoke to a rock

Enjoy this poem, and if you can, please consider supporting my work. My new poetry book is here, and my music can be purchased from Bandcamp or CDbaby

Thanks y’all! Have a Goodin’

jP


 

I spoke to a rock

sitting in the mountain

stream.

 

Introduced myself.

 

I asked if it had ever

heard the metaphor

 

about its role

in the family.

 

It said no.

 

The rock told about rushing

waters, gully washers

and slowly being pushed

downstream.

 

The rock told of

how it used to

be way up the hill

and how one day –

it hopes to see the river.

 

It asked why I was

visiting, and I told about

my son, who was afraid

to move, about my wife

scared and determined.

 

I told about the railroad

and how my family, mind

and body suffered.

 

The rock told of how

it misses the greater

mountain that

it was a

part of –

 

and how once it fell

down a steep slope

and broke off from

a boulder &

how its edges used

to be pointed and sharp.

 

I told the rock –

I play music and write

about where I used

to work.

 

It asked

about that locomotive

whistle it hears

in the night –

echoing in the hills.

 

I told the rock

that haunting –

eerie, lonesome

sound is an old

tired, worn out

metaphor greatly

used by poets,

writers

and musicians.

 

We sat

quietly

together.

 

I listened to the

waters gently

trickling over

the rocks.

 

When I got up

to leave, the rock

said,

 

come back

someday –

I’ll still be here.

Maybe just a little

further downhill

and a slight bit

smoother.