America’s myths are  being exposed and run  through the ringer of public discourse.

America’s myths are
being exposed and run
through the ringer
of public discourse.

Dear America,

Keep trying to explain
your way out of this.

The more you talk,
the more you expose
your weakness.

You know you lied. 
You snuck out of the house
got drunk and wrecked the car
date raped the country
and someone caught
you on video.

You know slavery was a

labor policy called human trafficking.

A slave is a slave is a slave.

Like the workers who made your shirt.
Like the wage slave at a for
profit, who trades labor for love,
because they are part of the team.
Like the military protecting “Our”

oil interests in the region.

So, keep talking.

Your children are
getting the picture.

You can’t blame this
on commies and reds.
You cant blame this
on the media.

The issue is –

you lied about
what you did.

And now the children
of the social revolution
want your heroes gone.
They are seeking truth
and getting results.

So, fess up.
America …
the more you try
to lie and make
excuses –
the more you
dig your own grave.

The founding fathers
were just men.

Like all other.

They were
just men, protecting
their own ass.

They wanted
power, land
and money.

They made selfies
called dollars.

They prayed
to God that trust
wouldn’t find them
delusional.

Now, they
are being
crucified,
by their own
children.
Melted away
in a pot of
their own
creation.
John Paul

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.


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I am but a servant in this temple!

I am but a servant in this temple.

Like this ant, crawling up my arm.

The ant, is my servant yet – we

share the same body.

I think of the Buddhist monk –

and his straw broom.

Clearing the path for a Lama.

The broom may hurt the small

creature but …

Who is to say?

The ant has no intention

to leave a bite on my arm

and I have no want to

shoo it away!


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.


The Last Poem, At This Table

The last poem
at this table …

Twelve years ago …
this boy was two
and we
moved out
here
on old
plantation
land, close to
Berrytown –

Let us pray …

I sip this coffee
for the last time
rubbing tired hands
nursing a weary mind
looking into a future
out this back window
for the last time.
This place, where
I sat, wrapping boot
laces, worn down,
exhausted but,

proud
to be laboring,
in tradition,
proud to be
taking care of
family.

& now, careful to
not boast that I
am escaping the
plantation.

& like a field
slave, who knew
how to look to the

stars, could
read the code –
I break into the
masters house,
to take my woman
and son, away.

Yet, I wanted to
work here,
build dreams –

my
time,
body
& soul
was
almost
stolen
by
another
man’s
venture.

#railroaded

 

& this place,
fell apart, of
over a decade
not being
able to be here.

I could tell stories
of many a lashing –
isolated lonesome
feelings of being
used –
watching my
friends
raped.

so, what I am
doing –
at this table –
this morning –
is loading up
& taking
all i worked
for, to the
promised land.

The master is
sleeping,
& he will wake
up to find
my wife and
child,
gone!

& yes, i had to
convince
her …

sometimes
she listened to
the other house
slaves who told
of wild men and
woman, planning
an insurrection.
Told, “don’t go –
we have it so
good here.”

(and she,
is the wild one ???
Born of native
blood and spirited
like a wild horse
that has been
tamed by
the deep
dedication
of mothering.)

I, have been called
crazy before …
branded a
traitor …
yet,

(re-learned
the language
of the soil …
became fluent
playing and listening
to the drums speak
when the master
was not looking.
Secretly seeking
council with
elders,
some who
had tried to
leave before
and were to
old to escape
but had
a clear
picture of
where to
run.)
& now, i say
my peace, to
those afraid
to go!
My heart
will always
be with
them …
my work
now,
is to eventually

set them free …

peace be with you …

John Paul

Sunday, July 23rd 2017

Middletown, Kentucky



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Saturn’s Return for Donna

Saturn’s Return

for Donna.

 

In the greatness of this context

an out of this world strategy.

There is only so much one

can take it, knowingly – alert.

And like this, floods of coercion

laughter, disaster comes rewarding.

In the greatness of this shadow

light hidden from view – purpose.

There is only so much one

can take in, before – breaking.

Universally, it shall return

every cycle

and vision requires

rest.

Time relative to a nothing –

that is.

In the greatness of context

a wide brush covers wounds.

There is only so much a

a moral lashing, can do.

And like this, revolving

and solving can be

a result of a renewal review!

 

John Paul

07-21-2017