Commodities

There is nothing concealed that will not be disclosed, or hidden that will not be made known. What you have said in the dark will be heard in the daylight, and what you have whispered in the inner rooms will be proclaimed from the roofs.

Luke 12:2-3

All kinds of animals, birds, reptiles and creatures of the sea are being tamed by man, but no man can tame the tongue. It is a restless evil,  full of deadly poison.

James 3:7-8 

Pride blinds the eyes of those it fills,

creating illusions and deceptions,

turning brother against brother,

sister against sister,

breaking friendships and bonds,

destroying everything in its path;

words spoken in the darkness

find their way into the light.

You choose your relationships

and friendships like commodities,

something to hold on too

when they are useful

and serve a purpose,

something to toss out

like the morning trash

when the usefulness and purpose

are gone.

We are all filthy rags,

we have all fallen short,

eventually we all fail,

no matter how many

positive thoughts we fill our minds with,

no matter what fantasies

we choose to live in,

no matter how much knowledge

we think we know,

no matter what bold words

our tongues spew forth;

in the end

truth is all that survives.

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Haves and Have Nots

Here's one for all you 'Republicans', 'Tea Partiers' and all the rest who can't understand how Barack Obama won the last election and why he's gonna win the next one by an even bigger margin. Instead of crying about his birth certificate and how he's trying to take away all your self-delusional 'rights', why don't you ask yourself why he won in the first place. You (me) are no longer the majority. The have-nots are tired of being second class citizens in this country. They're tired of the status-quo. So instead of running around like chickens with your heads cut off and being afraid of losing something that you never had in the first place, why don't you start thinking of this country in terms of what is best for everybody. Oh and I've got news for you, most of you were never in the club either, you have been fooled into thinking you were (remember that great American Dream?). Most of us are nothing but a buffer (a middle-class?) between the super 'haves' and the hopelessly 'have-nots'.     

It’s easy to turn your back

when you’re one of the haves;

have a job,

have a home,

have money,

have food;

have affordable health care.

Believing the lies,

giving into the fears,

buying into the stereotypes;

they’re all lazy,

they’re all immoral,

they’re all looking

for a free lunch;

they all get what they

deserve.

So afraid

they might take

something that belongs

to you,

some of your hard earned

treasure,

all the things

you sweated and slaved for,

all the idols you fall down before

and worship;

all the things you sold

your soul for.

The have-nots of the world

are beginning to rise,

they’re not going away quietly

anymore,

they’re tired of the abuse,

they’re no longer content

with the crumbs,

there are things

bigger than themselves;

things worth dying for.

The children of men hold their breath,

a final sigh before the meltdown,

a silent pause within the maelstrom,

hearts fail from fear,

meeting in secret places,

waiting for what is to come;

like a thief in the night

it sweeps them away.

Trees smolder and smoke,

bursting into flames as

tires begin to steam,

their rubber melting

to the highway surface;

no where to run,

no where to hide.

Like abandoned wells

their water runs dry,

they sit withering in the sun,

wandering through the wilderness,

lost and alone;

the day is here,

the time is now.

Your mercy endures

to the end,

but who shall hear the message?

who shall accept the grace?

when the Son of Man returns

will he find faith?

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Another Day in the Valley

The sky turns grey with

fiery streaks of red,
wood stoves fire up,
smoke rises from chimneys,
as the dawn of a new day
is ready to begin.

A train rumbles through the valley,
with the James flowing swiftly beside,
they come more frequently now,
pulling miles of coal cars packed to the brim,
on their way eastward
to Richmond and Washington,
replenishing stockpiles in
preparation for winter,
just as they have
for a hundred years;

it makes you wonder

how much can be left.

In the distance a hawk
soars above Gunter Ridge,
which stands exposed, naked and bare,
glistening in the early morning sun,
leaves, three times the size of a mans hand,
cover the nearby ground,
forming a blanket through which the squirrels
scamper to and fro,
deer hunters scour the surrounding forest,
searching for fresh meat and trophies,
hanging the morning kills upside down,
as the blood drips to the ground below;

talking about the ten pointer

that got away.

Everything remains the same,
just as it has for generations,
and you silently think;

why would anybody want it

any other way?
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If These Hills Could Talk

If these hills could talk,

what tales they might tell;

moonlit nights,

modified muscle cars,

racing down winding

mountain roads,

delivering fresh batches

of weekly ‘shine’

to bars and honky-tonks

across the Roanoke Valley,

missing revenuers,

never to be seen again,

tucked safely in isolated

gullies and ravines,

their rotting bones

all that is left,

camouflaged fields of

the new ‘cash crop’,

growing undisturbed until

ready for market,

the armies of Grant and Lee,

flanking and counter-flanking,

trying to gain the higher ground,

each seeking an advantage,

the dead from forays

and undocumented skirmishes,

slowly dissolving into the

rocks and clay,

providing food for scavengers

and worms;

ancient rock altars,

built upon solitary ridges,

overlooking the valley far below,

shameful family secrets,

locked away for more generations

than anyone can remember,

silence the unspoken code;

if these hills could only talk.

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The Hunger

The hunger gnaws;

this sickness,

this disease;

quickly trying

to catch the night,

before it flees

back from whence

it came.

Far off,

the lightning flashes,

the thunder rumbles,

shadows quietly slip away,

memories return like

messengers from the deep,

sending lesser men

packing;

then it is done,

as if it never

happened at all.

There are places

in this life

where no man goes,

hidden valleys

and lonesome ridges,

far beyond the imagination

and dreams,

it is here

that refuge is found,

a haven among the lost,

a resting place

within the storm;

out here

there are no promises,

no guarantees;

only silent desperation

and stolen expectations.

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Saturday Morning Biscuits

The day begins with biscuits,

sausage and egg,

bacon egg and cheese,

it has become Saturday

morning ritual,

part of the routine.

Looking up,

the mountains call,

standing like ancient sentinels,

whispering like lovers

in the fading, forgotten mist,

beckoning you to travel

along their hidden trails,

a secret society,

a forbidden mystery,

but the growing pain

within your gut

says not today;

perhaps never again.

Below the James

gurgles and flows,

steady and rhythmic,

the frogs creak,

the daffodils bloom,

another spring awaits.

You think about

the people and places

you have known,

you wonder within;

does a lifetime of

mediocrity and underachievement,

lessen moments of greatness?

does not light shine

through the darkness no matter

where or when it shines?

do careless words speak forever?

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From the Heights to the Depths

I die a thousand deaths with you,

falling 2000 ft past

roles and rules of

dubious impropriety,

beyond decency

and molds of

sacred sobriety,

into far-off rolling hills,

gently beckoning,

softly cajoling,

whispering for more,

as reflected changes fade,

and tomorrow blends into today;

together we have faced

the best,

escaped the worst,

survived with all

the rest,

becoming something new,

something else;

something unknown.

Distant guns blaze away,

smoking and smoldering,

pounding and hammering,

swirling inside forgotten

and forlorn tempests,

drifting without a home,

floating on the breeze;

out here there are no

agendas,

no pre-determined

destinations,

out here there is only

this and that,

here and now,

closely followed by

felonious miscreants,

sacred imposters,

intent upon perpetrations

of questionable valor,

plundering and pillaging,

falling down before

the dawn,

replacing methods of madness,

silently drowning out

the moment;

this love is like layers,

peeling back one

only reveals another,

quietly hidden

within the depths

of this empty fortress.

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What Cost?

Your humanity,

your life,

your soul;

what cost this freedom?

Broken bodies,

broken promises,

broken lives,

broken dreams;

what price to be

a man?

Life is but moments,

moments of laughter,

moments of joy,

moments of sorrow,

moments of suffering,

every minute a struggle,

every second another

missed opportunity;

in the end they fade.

I wish I could

have been better;

a better father,

a better husband,

a better brother,

a better son,

a better friend;

that somehow

I could have been

more than what

I was.

For now we say goodbye,

yet still it does

not end,

this too is just

another moment,

fading like the evening sun.

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They Always Know

Somehow,

the experts always know,

they know the when,

they know the how,

they know the why,

they make knowing their

life ambition.

They know why Sylvia put

her head in the oven,

they know better

than friends and family,

they know long after

knowing has ceased to matter.

Like egotistical bags of pus,

charlatans of the deep,

keepers of destructive dust,

purveyors of lost lust,

grubby little cock roaches

grasping at forgotten fables,

they know it all;

they know nothing.

Just one clear breath,

sensitive and deep,

truth beyond the

know-it-alls and

self-imposed experts,

just a small glimpse

past the illusion,

no reasoning without honor,

no philosophical babble

rising from the decay,

no self-righteous

self-serving

bullshit,

no how,

no why,

no when,

no knowing;

only cool, quiet thought

within the madness.

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Last Call

This morning darkness does roll,

these gentle waves do wash,

melodic rhythms continue to flow,

despite the insidious rush

of left handed breaks;

who does know?

who can tell?

who will stop the tide?

Inside we are all the same,

lost and afraid,

isolated and alone,

searching for a refuge,

trying to find a home;

no matter who we are,

no matter what we say,

no matter how hard

we pretend otherwise;

somehow,

someway,

somewhere;

there must be more.

Wasted words once again,

lost within the echoes

of ancient memories,

lying just a touch beyond hope,

drowning on distant shores

of foreign intervention,

drifting upon forgotten

platitudes of empty fires,

blazing wildly out of control,

burning with the stench

of a thousand voices

pleading for death,

this too shall pass;

what else is left?

Enlightened intelligence,

such a wasteful resource

in the hands of crazed madmen,

passionate informants full of

useless information,

inside traders

selling stolen dreams,

former raiders of excessive

corporate greed,

dancing on the backs of

down trodden masses,

sharing forbidden fruit destined

for leftover dumpsters of

recycled trash,

destroying the will,

removing the innocence;

exchanging profit for turpitude.

More Than I Deserve

She’s more than I deserve,

better than I could ever hope for,

a companion through times both

good and bad,

a friend until the end,

standing by my side

when no else will,

a sounding board

for the madness,

a shelter from the wind,

a sexual fantasy,

a warm summer’s dream.

Riding out the storm

in Calera, Alabama,

surviving the threats

of a dark future,

always there,

overcoming fears and barriers

to be by my side;

more than I deserve.

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Calera, Alabama

Sitting in Calera, Alabama,

the temperature outside is 17 degrees,

supposed to get down to 0 tonight,

we came south to escape the cold,

now I’m trying not to freeze to death,

hoping I can hold on until next week;

when the arctic blast

is supposed to lift.

We traveled from New Jersey

to Pensacola in December,

didn’t want to deal with

the cold and snow,

spent a month visiting

our youngest daughter

and son-in-law,

we left Pensacola

to do volunteer work

in a Nazarene district camp,

January in Calera, Alabama,

in a travel trailer;

probably not the smartest move

huh?

Of course everybody says

this isn’t ‘normal’,

doesn’t usually get this cold

in the Birmingham area,

but that doesn’t help much,

as I sit here worrying

whether my water lines

are going to freeze up and break,

or whether my propane bottles

need filling,

or whether my feet are going to

get feeling back into them;

or whether Petey,

my Jack Russell Terrier,

is ever gonna take a shit again.

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