A correspondence began. Eventually many subjects came under discussion, including my own e-ncounter with Lew the previous year which is explained below.
Other issues discussed included correspondence on John Fund and Wendy McElroy, who is still an honored writer for lewrockwell.com., and more.
The material from the correspondence will be used for a series of article, and then a book, on values which support freedom.
The Lew
Encounter
Below are some poems and a few e-mails
I exchanged with Lew Rockwell in the early months of 2005. They are
laid out chronologically, interlaced so as to make sense. The
exchange was punctuated by phone conversations that fill in the gaps.
I am not going to try to reconstruct those.
I first got to know Lew while serving
on National Committee of the Libertarian Party around 1986 or
thereabouts. I saw him at NatCom meetings and our relationship was
casual and friendly. During the end of that period I remember one
incident that surprised me. Lew told me during a group walk from
meeting room to lunch that he was going to be in Los Angeles, where I
then lived, for a conference. I was then married and the very active
mother of five children, all at home. To his suggestion we get
together I responded that I would be happy to pick him up and take
him through the drive through at MacDonald's with the kids. I was
not interested in any extension of our relationship into other areas
but felt that passing this suggestion off as a joke was the best
idea. Nothing further was said.
Two months later during a horrible
bout of the flu I was sitting with the kids at the dining room table
drinking hot tea when the phone rang. The phone was set loud so
that, while not a speaker phone, it could be heard. If you have a
bunch of kids in primary school you understand why.
“Hello?” ( I sounded very
congested.)
“Hi, I'm in my hotel room and I am
naked.”
Sometimes it is just too much
information. The kids were staring at me; the ringing of the phone
had brought a pause in the conversation. It had been quiet for once.
“Oh hi, Lew....I have a terrible
flu. Hope the conference goes well. Bye.”
The kids asked questions. I think I
persuaded them they had misheard, but since they had grown up knowing
Libertarians this might not have seemed so odd to them. If you are a
Libertarian or know LP activists you will understand. Asocial
behavior is normal in the LP and the larger freedom movement. .
I left the LP before the next NatCom
Meeting and so consequently did not see Lew again for some time.
Subsequent terse encounters took place at conventions and Mises
events; there were no personal moments. Some things are better left
to gather dust in hopes they will be entirely forgotten – except by
the kids, as it turned out.
When lewrockwell.com came online it
was nearly 20 years later. We had all aged, gaining, I was sure,
personal insight. I had put together a discussion group to consider
issues and asked Lew to join. He accepted. We started talking and
e-mailing though Lew did not really participate with the group.
I was divorced and did not know Lew
was married. I had never known much about his personal life before
we started talking in 2005. We talked for some months, I several
times refused to meet him at conferences. When he had broached the
subject of a romantic involvement I had responded with a poem. I was
not interested in an affair; really, at this age the idea seemed
absurd. This is the time of life when romance is more like a good
science fiction story than an entry into reality.
But I confess to a nasty habit. I
write poetry. My poetry is a form of journaling.
Those that involved this ongoing
dialog with Lew are mostly addressed to Roses because Lew sent me a
bouquet of roses in the summer of 2005 and I started calling him
Roses after that.
I learned he was married in early
2006. He slipped and mentioned his wife, nearly choking on the words.
That changed things.
The correspondence included here
came right after that. He had agreed to stop the overt flirtation
and go back to being 'friends.' That did not happen and eventually
the correspondence stopped entirely.
Later, when asked, I went back to look
for more e-mails but these were all I found. I am writing this
explanation because this became known through a curious set of
circumstances and I was then asked to produce the letters for his
wife. By then I had discovered that the behavior exhibited with me
had also been experienced by other women, including Cindy Sheehan.
As you may know, the relationship with Sheehan broke up her marriage.
I now understand that Lew had disrupted several marriages and lives
with his faux on line romances.
Lew and I have not communicated since
late spring 2006. The poems are from the Rose Series. I include all
that were written during that period.
No. 4
The Tones of Love
The sound of tones forgotten; and the
taste of hope renewed.
The nearness of a rapture that both
captures and eludes.
The melodies remembered that race the
heart and mind
These the soul borne fibers that weave
love in the Design.
Associated fragrance; the rose pressed
on the page.
The letter kept and cherished 'til it
crumbles, brown with age.
We cling to those illusions and ignore
what can be real
As we taste the vast profusion, the
universal meal.
Beyond digestive moments when the soul
can pause to hear.
When all the past pretensions leave us
nothing more to fear.
Untrammeled by the baggage carried with
us from the womb.
Is the truth we all came searching for,
if ego with make room.
In momentary insights, in the clearing
of debris
The time proved truth of loving awaits
for eyes that see.
Lew loved the poem and encouraged me
to write more. Since being encouraged to engage in your secret vice
is irresistible, I did just that.
No. 5
In Contemplation of Chocolate – Written for Roses
In waking need and memory the mind
reminds the tongue.
The nose evokes that heady scent;
incitement has begun.
The silky sheen of perfect shell; the
berried glaze inside.
The thirst for chocolate ecstasy, a
hungry heart beguiled.
The sight and touch reminds us of times
now passed away.
Magnificent experience; enchantment
long delayed.
The fingers touch the surface, so
smooth and sharp the edge.
The scent so rich and eloquent; an
object and a pledge.
The fullness of experience; the lips
caress and probe.
The tongue explodes, sensation bound,
each nibble so extols.
That tasted edges beckon us to sate our
inner greeds.
And lead us on to avenues that ease our
other needs.
A chocolate form perfected is worth the
price it cost.
Eaten and remembered; that pleasure
can't be lost.
We were discussing issues and some
of these worked into the poetry.
No. 6
The Tools of Humanity – A series within a series.
For Roses, who thought it would be a
good idea.
Into the mind of woman from her
desperation born
Came the use of hair and
fibers to tie and weave what's worn.
Her need
arose from circumstance, her arms must hold her child.
Ideas
made into matter were necessity compiled.
The
babe she bore and suckled brought love and desperate need.
The eye locked needs of mother, child, evoked a
better breed.
The mind of woman understood
what only women know.
The fear and awe that
men expressed became both faith and goad.
Original
of family, her whose children lived to breed
Original
of commerce, cooperation born through need.
Original
of churching, the awe that incites fear
Original
of everything, came from babe held near.
Original
transition from animal to now.
Ideas the
means appointed to create and to endow.
The
awe of birth and bleeding, creating fear in eyes of men
Became the lever needed to survive, again, again.
The rise of nation's power that deified men's
gods
Ignored the source devoured that had
shortened all our odds.
The commerce grown
from weavings that only women made
Consumed
by rampant needings that made all women slaves.
The
world in forward motion, forgetting whence it came
Creates
in place of history men's fantasies of fame.
No. 7
Loving and Being Loved
In momentary increments like beads that
tell our faith.
The moments of a love well tried brings
solace and true grace.
The blending and contentment designs a
place apart.
The changing tones of mind and skin
seep in to touch the heart.
Through all the parts of loving, thin
and tempered steel.
The truth of love patinaed lend us ease
most real.
Through anguish and through anger,
through vanity and age
The truth of love instructs us as life
turns every page.
All disappointments mellow because of
eyes that see
Accepting imperfections that bind and
leave us free.
The rapture and rejections that love
can meet and mend
Teach us that for loving we first must
find a friend.
The sweetness of full trusting; a place
I've yearned to know.
The place that still eludes me where I
most want to go.
No. 8
A Prayer for the Children of Iraq and America
who have tasted the dust of death
in the womb.
Born from trauma; wounded by their time
within the womb.
They want the arms of loving while truth spells
out their doom.
They struggle to see beauty through eyes boiled
red by war
They're here for us to cherish because that's what
babes are for.
When the sight of them revolts us;
we turn so not to see
But these babies born to suffer speak our
own destines.
Our leaders stole their future that profits
might accrue
Those of us who care enough must give them what is
due.
These babies soft and needing, who
survived the dust of death
Deformed, their mothers grieving, bear
the cost of this excess.
Truncated lives of struggle their faces
shock our eyes
This truth must be examined; it cannot be denied.
The Geiger counter clatters instead
of rattled toys
The burning pain envelopes them and cancels out
all joy.
And still our leaders posture, lie and bumble right
along
Because the profits counted cannot possibly be wrong.
Our weapons scored their chances to
live the lives we know.
Our leaders eyes on profit dismissed their
right to grow.
From nuclear waste recycled into weapons aimed both
ways
It's generations still unborn who'll know the real price
paid.
A poison lives among us in souls
well steeped in greed
All of us their victims, ground up that they
might feed.
The appetites of NeoCons grow without an end
Consuming
all Earth's children, so Earth might start again.
Humankind is fragile and the lesson
from Earth's school
May cancel all our future lives, all hope for
our renewal.
The justice unremitted to these, the most in
need
Could spell the loss of every life that fails to hear or
heed.
Justice now for all the babes to
make the world more sane.
A promise for the future that ends the
right to maim.
Justice for the Earth herself, for all of us are
One
One people on one globe of life beneath one pulsing sun.
The time is past for waiting; the
dust of death arrives.
It settles on our nationhood with all its
sheaths of lies.
It cloaks our every action with disrepute and
fear
And stark will be the future if the least are not held dear.
10,000 generations, uncounted lives
destroyed
Will pass to find this dust of death still active and
deployed.
Our babies still will struggle to see and breathe and
be
As Earth, the first born mother, rethinks our destiny.
.
A di Lorenzo article was responsible
for this one. I had a cat named Lorenzo da Medici who was smarter
than the present version.
No. 9
To the Ill Fame of both sides in the Civil War
The South would rise with sabers and
take up speech of rights
Lincoln, mad oppressor, would be shown
that they could fight.
But America's Revolution, now lost and
passed away
Had left a clear foundation that still had much to
say.
It's words of honored mention affirmed all Man to be
free
The capital that bought the chance affirmed that destiny.
No
state has rights to limit; no state may this amend.
So Southern
rights were hollow, infirm at every end.
So Lincoln
used the flower of a serfdom ill devised.
From England's dour
history, in the South is still survived.
To reinvent a kinghood that stays with
us today.
And the words of freedom lingered, not
knowing what to say.
With manifest assertions,
flawed with greeds and power
Lincoln took our Nation to Freedom's
darkest hour.
His help meets were all Southern
because they failed to see.
That freedom isn't given through any
state or fee.
So cry for banners lifted to a State
built on a lie
And cringe for all the might have beens
that Southerners deny.
From the one Eternal, residing in the
soul
Freedom still is sacred – and
Freedom's still the goal.
No.
10 Sophia Coming from the Shadows
Emerging from long silence, ages long,
that stilled her voice
Comes the image of a woman who gives
form to the Design
Her lengthy absence anguished, it
killed our forward choice.
Condemning all to interregnum of the
feminine sublime.
The birthing of all children viewed as
wage of sinful act.
The very truth of generation seen as
ugly and obscene.
The coursing of her body became a
shameful monthly fact.
Her truths were changed and altered to
own her and demean.
Her gifts that made us human, that set
this course through time
The weavings and the makings that
became our wealth of mind.
Converted to men's erections; their
possession reassigned
But the truth, though long evaded,
still awaited those inclined.
Now Sophia is emerging into minds that
can't forget.
Her presence forging hope anew beyond
the grave of years.
The blending of the Consciousness that
now we can't reject.
Holds place for all of humankind who
move beyond their fears.
Anointing true awaking She who
launched us into time
Comes Sophia, Ancient Mother, who sets
our course divine.
No.
11 The Mind of Mother
No. 2, Series with a Series
Gathered by the handfuls the grain
would fill their need
The children, gaunt and hungry, they
clung and asked to feed.
Her baby's whimpers moved her to see
all things anew
From pounded grains made into paste the
babe survived and grew.
The residue of pounded grains fell on
heated rocks
The woman touched its brown tinged
crust, and tasted what heat brought..
The grains of gathered wheat and rye,
the seeds of barley, corn
From all the seeds she gathered the
baking bread was born.
The labor of the making, devising
better tools
These the truth of woman-world that
forged all human rules.
No.
12 The Summoning of Vision
His hands extended raptures that I have
never known
His face alive with vital thought and
glowing, pulsing tones.
He locked my eyes in visions that
reached beyond today
And drew me into Love again without a
word to say.
All the distant journeys now gone and
passed away
All the anguished moments past,
extinguished in today
All the deaths and destiny that cost us
each so dear
All for Him before me who I can almost
hear.
His arms upreaching tell me of further
work to do
The joyous challenge in His face makes
all experience new.
And in that Face, so perfect another,
One is born
A Face that holds summations,
beginnings lightly worn.
The silent face of futures already made
and and come
Reprove my doubt and fearing and leave
me still and numb.
To do the work still promised; to live
within the pledge
The brotherhood that draws me on to
life's most holy edge.
And from the Face that drew me another
One comes forth
Her beauty soft and vibrant, alive with
truth and force.
The hands and arms uprising now reach
out to embrace
The cost of love is knowing; the gift
of truth is Grace.
The sight of golden glories that burn
into my eyes
Subsume the Truth oncoming; without the
least disguise.
No.
13 Dance of Reckoning –
for the cessation of fear
Sequestered in the silence that is deep
and ages long
Is the requiem of innocence that buries
all my songs.
Within that cup of bitterness that
stings my every draught
Resides the dregs of my salvation, all
made of right and wrong.
Upturned the cup of rapture, to drain
out every drop
Consumed the savor and the sanity
without the time to stop.
My anguish and my ecstasies both
canceled out through time
And me, I am so glad of it, I've
finished the Design.
The ages and the wages and the untold
lives between
Compiled every minute, every thread of
thought I'd seen.
And the missteps mark my passing from
the form and flow of truth
From age evolving innocence, the larval
form of youth.
The reckoning is coming through the
darkened caul of years
I stand right here to meet in, wrapped
in all my fears.
No.
14 What if? Written to a a small group of women
friends.
What if I hadn't told you before you
left today
How very much I love you; how glad you
came my way.
What if I hadn't told you, hadn't had
you in my life?
My life would have been different,
emptier of cheer.
Without that special feeling of knowing
you are near.
My life would be vacant of your
intriguing bent of mind.
shallower and thinner, and probably
less kind.
I am very glad I know you, very glad me
met
And no matter what may happen now, that
I'll not regret.
No.
15 Connecting Time and Minds
In the intercourse of moment when eyes
and minds are one.
Are the places where connections are
forged beneath this sun.
Invisible the interface, behind where
no one sees
There the quantum interlaces, binds
yet leaves us free.
In communion Earth elected long before
the thought was born
In the silence soul elected from a past
both raw and torn.
Came the longing and desire to return
to something new.
The question poised in contemplation so
that thought could then ensue.
Here we pause in fear and longing to
hear and still our needs
That the follies of the ages might be
healed, our anguish eased.
And the intellect that drew us can
amend the broken dream
Of a joining and a rapture that incites
and so redeems.
The connections weave our spirits and
design a world not seen
As we explore reflections without
knowing what they mean.
No.
16 Velvet Roses – for
Roses
My lips embraced its essence as its
scent caressed my mind
I remember roses that entice and so
remind.
The velvet of its petals were a riot
most sublime
I drown in convolutions that invite and
lend me time.
The rapture found in roses on an early
morning walk
Remain the place inside my memory that
does not need to talk
For the touch and taste of roses, long
dead, still live in me
This the sure reflection that restates
my destiny.
I remember roses and I hunger for the
mist
That glaze their unfurled colors when
blue tones still persist.
And I wished to stop the moment, to
extend the cusp of joy
because the fiercest pleasures should
never be alloyed.
The few, the sharp, the insights that
redeem the time misspent
All for me hold memories that tie them
fast to scents.
No.
17 Cascades of Light
The mottling of forest shifts the
leaves above my head.
The light, a motley harbor that eases
every dread
I swim in eddied fragrance hearing
symphonies of life.
Catch the errant flurries turning each
to sheer delight.
Time suspending problems that sent my
soul to Earth
Tortured hope had filled me; I hungered
for rebirth
I walk the paths of needled pine and
pray to be renewed.
The sound and scent of living things
still tells me what is true.
Cascades of light divining that kiss my
hair and eyes
Remind me of reflected thought from
which the mind grows wise.
Cascades within the fall of forest sent
by distant sun.
Incite the thoughts from ages borne to
see all life as One.
In cascades made of photons to cascades
made of thought
From all and each is life compiled and
forward progress wrought.
No.
18 Connecting to Tomorrow
A passage to the future that eases
every grief
Arms that squeeze out every fear that
challenge my belief
Echoes of another Love, One that held
me near
A space for this remembering is every
day more clear.
The destiny of fortune remits my
forward rush
The agony revisited is pain and also
just.
Ownership admitted to life too lightly
lived
Still holds all the promise that One
came here to give.
Inside the folds of folly, outside the
throb of need
Is every right intention that leave me
free to grieve.
Acceptance that the struggle may kill
my dearest hope.
And cut off all the promises that gave
me larger scope.
Acceptance of potential; acceptance of
the loss
Both inherent certainties that blend
the promised Cross.
No. 19 More Roses for Roses
Its coiled petals murmur of the scent
that draws me in.
Its memory will linger when life is
harsh and thin.
I'll taste recalled renewal from its
fragrance and its touch
Glad a rose's essence can't lie or kill
my trust.
The memory of roses that linger in my
mind
Recall interludes of rapture, neither
harsh nor kind.
These pauses in life's flowing are
grace points for the soul
Neither need nor pain there touches me
beyond a need for goals.
The rapture of the roses; their scent
reminds and heals.
They ask no price, extract no strife,
no part of me need yield.
My pleasure from the roses won't take
their scent away
My memory remains with me; they wither
undismayed.
So life extends and nurtures, not all
exchanges take
And roses bloom and die unplucked,
ignoring all my thanks.
No. 20 The Confusion of Roses
The convoluted petals, like bouquets of ripened
thought
Dispel the empty detritus that time and pain have
wrought
A morning full of dreaming gleams, the shadows all are
gone.
Untasted possibilities, all poised like unsung song.
The bud becomes the flower arching out to bring renewal.
The
stamen and the pistil don't think about the rules.
Their drive to
live and multiply appoints their short lived need.
A failure to
perpetuate would cancel out their breed.
The flower and the
primate live to cast their seed
But in the time allotted us is
also time to grieve.
For moments missed and muddled,
untasted joys of soul
These cadenced delectations remain each
spirit's goal.
The rapture of the roses meet in minds that
reach through pain
To teach your soul the unseen truth and make
this living sane.
No. 21 The Arrival of Roses –
for Roses
Kissed with misted memories that linger
in the mind
The roses came with greetings to tell
me life is kind.
They set up place of honor on the table
by my bed
Their fragrance touched on all the
things that we have never said.
The roses of reflection coddle dreams
we have not shared
Connections that are fragile, never
spoken, never dared.
They remain in introspection, safe
inside the head
Never spoken, never followed, because
of where they lead.
But roses bloom unfrightened, hours
measure out their time.
Their blooming: its own purpose;
outside of our designs.
The fragrance so evoking of dreams that
burn and ache
Remain when bed is empty and no one can
partake.
So thank you for the roses, they linger
in my mind.
As do your words and wicked wit,
outside this cusp of time.
No. 22 To Roses
Linking pinkies binds a friendship with
no limits and no end
The pledge abides vicissitudes of time
and place and kin.
And Roses hear the music of a dance
that has begun
A dance that weaves its magic in
melodies of tongue.
In wakings and in makings that remind
us life is dear
The nuance of a friendship is always
light and clear
A voice that asks and pauses, ears that
wait to hear
The links of common thinking find the
icons both revere.
And the music of the moment wafts like
seas of rippled light
That gleam with conversations that
promise new delights
New insights spark and hold us in the
dance of human need
That nurture and sustain us, entice and
leave us free.
The linking of the pinkies and ideas
that light the dark
Pledges of a friendship that
enraptures mind and heart.
No. 23 Points of Funny
The touch of truth relieves us of the
pain we cannot shed
Laughter is the instrument that eases
heart and head.
Connecting us to anguish while anguish
trickles out.
Laughter is the medium through which we
lose our doubts.
The convoluted raptures that remind us
we are odd
The insights that redeem us and point
us back to God
The closeness of a sharing where we
acknowledge fear
All, the stuff of humor that help our
minds grow clear.
The spark of light that ripples in
laughter that extols
The end of life and fervor that is
every soul's real goal.
Allows the closest blending of mind and
heart and touch
That honor and extend us, showing life
is just.
Laughter lights the fires of worlds
still hid from sight
That deliver our redemption and the
substance of delight.
No.
24 On Dying Roses
Their
petals curl and darken from red to russet tones
Its scent
condensed turns inward and reminds me I'm alone
The magic and the
moment are paused in cusp of life
And roses turn towards dying,
leaving my delight.
A symbol speaking loving, to human eyes
and minds
The rose itself the organ for making its own kind.
The
petals beckon breeding, continuance through time
Never thinking
or debating its place in the design.
Man's endorphined haze
of rapture is foreign and absurd
The rose accepts its dying with
neither cry nor word.
Small deaths of hope and honor are human
kinds of thoughts
The rose curls in, extinguished, its petals
bend and drop.
Between the death of roses and the hope that
makes life whole
Are promises of loving that remain my human
goal.
No.
25 Islands
in the Desert
Islands in the desert reaching up into
the sky
Cloaked with pine and cedar they stand
three miles high
The desert down below them holds a
different kind of life
The distance is deceptive; each a
gradient of strife
The struggle to continue; in each a
single song
The cactus and the cedar, neither right
or wrong.
The life that time unfolded from the
sea, an age away
Is still the Mother of the future; the
source of yesterday.
An Island in the desert and an Island
cloaked in space
Both the product of Creation that
brings both life and grace.
The flow and form confirming that
living tells its truth
Survival is the eloquence that gives us
place on Earth
Islands rise up joyous to meet the
clouds above
Testaments
to powers who speak to us with love.
No. 26 Echoes of Laughter –
For Roses
The moments never mentioned are filled
with focused thought
Internal tools drive us with all those
insights bought.
Hours deep and coddled by the raptures
of the mind
Still leave an empty aching when
thoughts are so inclined.
The hungered need of laughter has place
in these designs.
Laughter heals and captures and tries
to make us kind.
Outside the drives of intellect are
other human needs
Fulfillment is the condiment that
confines and leaves us free.
With laughter scented moments that
issue magic in
The touch of our emotions builds bonds
that make us friends.
That place of human needing that
quenched can make us whole
Laughter stills that anguish when
living takes its toll.
So pause to laugh and wonder, listen
and reflect.
The touch we leave unsavored is waiting
for us yet.
No.
27 Cadence - For
Roses
In laughter scented nuance that abides
when voices still
I find the best and gladdest of my
hopes to be fulfilled
Reflections of the mystery that contain
the choice of thought
The sequence of the hours bring their
lessons truly taught.
Illusions that beguiled in the
callowness now past
Have lost their force and hunger;
leaving place for what will last
The touch and scent of roses and the
voice that speaks delight
Both promise a redemption that restores
my faith in light.
Outside the caul of reason, inside the
human soul
Are all the wisps of passion that are
remain the inward goal
To touch and blend the laughter, to
bind the mind and heart
To rub smooth the flaws of pain and
fear that shattered every part
Illusions no more comfort, the truth
the cup I sip
To taste the grace of passion and drink
love from your lips.
No. 28 Hunger – Written
for Roses
In the silent introspection that holds
me through the night
I give space to all the shadows that
disturb my forward flight
Illusions stilled in midnight seep out
and leave me peace
As what remains inside me kindles
mindward course into belief
In the muted blue of shadows I test
these new edged thoughts
Compiling and excising mistakes my life
had taught.
I touch the raw and troubled,
remembered times of shame
Expunging mismade connections leave me
eased of pain.
The scent of roses lingers through the
houred course of night
Its promise is the misting that veils
the morning light.
Cascades of time and passion fill out a
past removed
As sweated, shaking, anguish drains the
harsh and crude.
I thank the night for silence, for the
place where lies can die.
Moving into sunrise, that heals that
child's cries.
No. 29 Freedom - written to
Roses
An anguish and a hunger that invades my
sleep and dreams
A thirst that's always present to parch
my very being.
Every breath a labor, and every thought
a wound
My soul would savor freedom, my body
sees its tomb.
I've built and framed the future, lived
on hope and will
But the takers always find me and so
the dreams are stilled.
The child of my body and the milk
within my breast
All turned to acid burning that shatter
home and rest.
But scent and taste of freedom still
beckons from afar
Its light on the horizon is like one
dying star.
Through ages gone uncounted, through
years and anguished trial
My heart and soul have hungered,
rejecting fates denial.
The firm hard edge of freedom that
makes the world anew.
The vision from the cradle that your
soul still knows as true.
The only harbor calling from beyond the
silent grave.
Freedom is the rapture that only we can
save.
It calls and you can hear it, if you
can lose your fear
Freedom is God speaking that all of us
might hear.
No.
30 Struggles that make us whole
- To Roses
I found the thoughts reflected from a
window glazed with gold
The thoughts curled in, enticing me, my
grave seemed far less cold.
The struggle with my anguish scored
both mind and heart
I rose, rejecting torment, forgave that
life restart.
The struggle carved my future and the
future lets me see
The fullness of the intellect, the
truths that make us free
The road is long and lonely and no one
knows my pain
But the Struggle is companion who asks
no price or gain.
I fill the mornings moments with the
tapping out of thought
I read the words I've written and see
the image caught
I feel the blood still pumping and
smile out through tears
Because the cost of breathing was
conquering my fears.
The first and last of intellect that
blend to make me whole
To pay the price of conscience and
light the future's goals.
No.
31 The NeoCons
They make war on rights and freedom,
undeclared but finely planned
They size up all possessions, to hone
their false demands.
Laid out in detailed memos their bank
accounts await.
But no amount of taking can satisfy or
sate.
The NeoCons are coming to take both
life and hope.
Liberty and honor, concepts beyond
their scope.
The grasping and the appetites consume
our very lives.
Their greeds and needs consume the
Earth; excess their only guide.
The NeoCons are coming to take what is
not earned
This the lesson taught them, by a past
that never learned.
Dividing up the living into those with
rights and not.
Destroyed the very future that our
Founders lives had bought.
The human rights of women, ignored has
done us in
The NeoCons are coming to punish that
first sin.
No.
32 Sharp Shadows
The languid ease of autumn with harvest
taken in
reminds me life has slumbered, still
waiting to begin.
A glow and gaud redeem me, the leaves
hold heart and eyes
The crimson flush of color speaks in
tones I once despised.
The lungs can ache with needing for air
to heat the blood
The mind can hunger also, for hands
both wise and rough
Within the soul immortal the beat of
both pulse on
The mind and heart communicate, neither
right nor wrong.
And the shadows, sharp and savage,
remind me life will end
Within the cusp of living the will must
learn and bend.
And canopies of autumn spread out
across the lawn
Their colors gold and wanton, their
life is nearly gone
I welcome fall and shadows the harvest
gold and true.
As symbols and intentions their message
still is you.
No.
33 Coalition
Ideas that drive our actions and
disguise our common dreams
A chasm dredged and widened through the
cleverest of schemes.
Ideas, the human tooling for structures
of the mind
Translated into factions they steal and
kill and blind.
Ideas from minds forgotten, ideas that
linger on
Ideas that ooze with power even when
they're wrong.
Ideas have maimed and murdered through
every human state
Ideas have stolen freedom with deceits
that feed a false debate.
To see the truth behind them,
rebuilding human dreams
Accepting each as equal rejecting what
demeans.
Filling in the chasms that divide all
kinds of men.
The vision of a future that freedom
must demand.
A coalition meeting to hear and think
and see
Ideas of common future that serve to
make us free.
No. 34 The Metronome of Houred
Time – for Roses
The pulsing beat of minutes, number out
my life
limits and a liberty that speak of love
and strife
And lips unkissed reproach me for all I
have not done
The slow dried petals slumber, each
touched by perfect sun.
Life stretches out and slumbers,
remitting misspent dreams
And moments filled with silence both
promise and demean.
The petals smell of passion and promise
an embrace
While moments die untasted and leave no
touch or trace.
For I remember laughter and the nuance
of your hand
As moments pass untasted because of
life's demands.
Ideas that fill and sate me still leave
my flesh in need
You, the pleasure beckons to hold or
only tease?
The days of life hold anguish but also
seeds of hope
That passion soar and blossom,
fulfilling both our scopes.
No.
35 The Subtleties of Silver; the Intricacies of Gold
Their sheen reflects our passions and
the greeds of human need
Inciting love and hatred they hold and
always tease.
The Noble metals harbored within the
Earth, our home
Reflect us, great and vile, a mirror
stark and dumb.
The noble and the common within each
human heart
Find the place eternal from which all
moments start
They struggle for survival; they chart
the futured past
Repeating all the conflicts they forge
our living last.
On footed souls were seek them; we
struggle to possess
The metals test our mettle until the
moment we divest.
Through intellect and hungers we
justify our goals
While fulfillment slips through fingers
and fails to make us whole.
True metals in the moment when heart
and soul are one
The Earth the place of testing, a
testing just begun.
No.
36 The Glaze of Thought
In twists and turns of turbulence that
stretch my very seams
The fabric of reality converges with my
dreams
And the glaze of thought awakens and
the future rushes in
The endings and beginnings, in thought,
are closest kin.
The rapture of remembering, the hot
sharp touch of mind
Each component to assemble the final
phase of every kind.
In the birth of morning silence and the
death of scented rose
Are the elements eternal that no one
can ever know.
As the shadows bend oncoming every
nuance, every truth
Votes its echoed coming from
decrepitude to youth
The first and last reversal that laughs
at dreams undone
Remembers the renewal when all of us
were One.
Out of many splintered moments in
orgasmic rush to Mind.
The weaving threads in each of us
converge as the Design.
No.
37 A Christmas Wish for Roses
The echoed light of laughter,
The heart-held peace that lasts
The glaze of hope unsullied
Holding futures and our past.
A smile lit with trusting
A home that draws love in
Gifts extending and adjusting
That invite us to be kin.
A world of balanced yearnings
A world that makes us one
Unnumbered threads a-weaving
Around one living sun.
The cycled year recalls us to view our
lives anew
To speak our hopes most private and
make those visions true.
No.
37 Christmas Memory of early February
His Presence felt for ages before the
Birth Divine
His summoning of sages compelled both love and
crimes
His Spirit drove and forged us
His Plan to make us
One
Became the underscore oncoming
Its chorus still unsung.
The Rapture still invoking
Both tears and heady sight
A
throughline of becoming
Bringing fear and rare delight.
His Smile lit the ages with a Love that never dies
That
remains the wages that sustains us through the lies.
His
Birth to Mary called us to know the harshest grief
But dying
within his holding is the first and perfect peace.
No.
38 Self Discovery
To see the past as present in the
shadow of your soul
To know the truth repugnant and change
your furthest goal
To ache with tears unsummoned and
accept your desperate fear
Life's challenge and the ravaging are
what you should hold dear.
The anguishes of failure and the pain
of misspent love
The spirit bound in flesh and mind; the
hand within the glove.
Reproofs unearned and wrenching, the
loss of every hope
Fractures on the glaze of trust with
which you cannot cope.
All tempering and burning; the fire
burns out dross
In the crucible of living nothings
really lost.
So take my hand, I'll lead you into the
molten core
The burning is not pleasant but it must
not be ignored.
On the journey made internal is the
battle to be won
To the place where the eternal, in
peace, will make us One.
No.
39 The Flavors of Reality
The languid mood of winter, releasing
me from fear
Excites the premonitions that excises
hope most dear.
I do not trust your fervor and I doubt
that love is real.
Your eyes look past my needing, and
glint with tones of steel.
My skin remembers passion; my mind
reproves my need
The eloquence excepting, releasing me
to grieve.
For trust is never useful in
relationships of love
The needing and the seeking makes
squabs of every dove.
I've felt your fingers fondle me in
mind and bodied place
I've steeped myself in passion and
extolled your every grace
In mind our lovings happened while in
truth its my disgrace
Behind the shield of inference, we
never did embrace.
I've loved an age in waiting and I've
known your lips as mine
But in the clutch of winter I've found
you less than kind.
Because I want that closeness I step
back and then I sneer.
Passions cup is waning and every day
less dear.
I love the patterned thinking that
traces mind in you
But I doubt its couraged content having
found you less that true.
No.
40 Cascades of Truth
In the silence of the night time when
the soul is free to see
I taste the past-made corridors that
forged my destiny.
Like torrents unrelenting they bring
both truth and grief
Clarify and sanctify what time has made
of me.
In the place of honor, where all my
lives are one.
I see the real beginnings where
assumptions are undone.
And I laugh as tears undo me, I grieve
for what is known
As Time still makes and so infuses me
with what I did not own.
The love of him who touched me with
ideas that sealed my fate
Leaving to the dust bin other courses
that elate.
For him, the source of thinking, for
him the source of lies
I find the cause and sacrament that
only Gods despise.
The laughter and the longing remain
with me through time
And change the course of thinking, all
human and divine.
No. 41 Listen to Me
Divided
by the lies and greeds of them who grasp at power
Our lives and
love divided to grieve the fall of towers.
I've missed the
referenced moment when you spoke your best belief
And wandered in
the desert, weighted down with soul torn grief.
I'm woken in
the night time, wanting your lost touch
I've anguished for the
moments that felt might lead to lust.
I need the skin close nuance
that stops the flow of time
And known in those sparse moments your
place in my designs.
The flow of raptured memories will never
wait or grieve.
The moments are for taking, fulfilling all our
needs.
I wakened to the closeness of one whose really there
And
cancels out the anguish of lives filled with despair.
This
night is arching onward towards reunion with the light
And only
you and I will know if its arching brings delights.
No.
42 Out of Many, One
Out of choices made in passion and from
thoughts distilled in time
Come the weavings that define us and
determine the Design.
For us to set the boundaries of the
world where humans live
For us to mark our roles with thought;
determine what we give.
The forward thrust of living, the
actions humans take
Determine lives unstarted beyond the
last debate.
And the many go on weaving through the
choices each will make
Affirming or revoking the structures of
the State.
And from that vast profusion writ in
blood, and living will
Shall echo out our future action, to
survive or maybe kill.
The structures we have fashioned from
our needs and appetites
Will speak our timetold truthing, both
to shame and to delight.
And from this sea of savagery, from
survival and through grief
All will come together, made as One
through shared beliefs.
An e-mail......
On
2/7/06 5:26 PM, "Melinda Pillsbury-Foster"
wrote:
Hi
Lew,
You really need to talk to ?? about the
wifi project. This thing with aol means a slow shutting down of
our present mediums for communication and ??'s corporation takes this
away from the dinosaurs in a way they cannot oppose.
On
2/7/06 5:26 PM, "Melinda Pillsbury-Foster"
wrote:
Hi
Lew,
You really need to talk to ?? about the
wifi project. This thing with aol means a slow shutting down of
our present mediums for communication and ??'s corporation takes this
away from the dinosaurs in a way they cannot oppose. Again,
his numbr is ?????????.
Wrote another poem Cheers,
Melinda
Out
of Many, One (actually 42.)
Out
of choices made in passion and from thoughts distilled in time
Come
the weavings that define us and determine the Design.
For us to
set the boundaries of the world where humans live
For us to mark
our roles with thought; determine what we give.
The
forward thrust of living, the actions humans take
Determine lives
unstarted beyond the last debate.
And the many go on weaving
through the choices each will make
Affirming or revoking the
structures of the State.
And from that vast profusion
writ in blood, and living will
Shall echo out our future action,
to survive or maybe kill.
The structures we have fashioned from
our needs and appetites
Will speak our timetold truthing, both to
shame and to delight.
And from this sea of savagery,
from survival and through grief
All will come together, made as
One through shared beliefs.
That
is beautiful!
No. 43 For Roses wondering, the
delights of passion
The choices made in passion touch the
tenderest resort
Where each of us is singular, confronting life's
first torts.
Our passions will define us to the farthest edge of
life
And passion is the lever point; conjoining all our
sight.
Through mind and through emotion to a place we've never
been
We strain to see the outline, discerning closest kin
The
interface uniting us in spirit, body, mind
Tells the anguish and
the raptures, making up our own design.
I tell you of the
passions that continue all our lives
The pulse of hope and anguish
that considered make us wise
The conduit for intellect; the voice
that speaks our needs
The insight that accepted bring us up and to
our knees.
I'll tell you of the passions that may start
on naked skin
But when truist simmer through us lending strength
to make amends.
Another e-mail – this was a
reaction to the poem above which went out to my poetry list. All of
these went out to my poetry list. Lew might not have realized that.
| Wed, 08 Feb 2006 12:54:16 -0600 |
|
| Subject: |
Re: ?? (Individual referred to removed)
|
| From: |
"Lew Rockwell" <lhrockwell@hotmail.com> |
| To: |
"Melinda Pillsbury-Foster" |
Tell me about
choices made in passion.
On
2/8/06 8:01 AM, "Melinda Pillsbury-Foster"
wrote:
Wow, and you
haven't even talked to him yet. Actually, I thought he was kind of
ordinary looking.
No, I know you mean the poem. Thanks, glad
you liked it. Right now he is preparing for his next negotiation with
that major who wants in. 10% for 25 million. But call him. I want you
to get to know him and hear about the technology. It is amazing both
in concept and where it takes the market in terms of individual
control. Hugs, Melinda
No.
44 For Roses – Caught
in Thought
Through the shadows on the spirit that
send anguish through the spine
The paths that weave life's magic also
lend their flow to minds
And minds fracture and refine us
producing worlds of many kinds
To beckon and extend us as we seek the
source sublime.
The journey of an hour that extends to
ages long
Our life, a blink of moment, stilled
inside a note of song
Extensions of the power and the rapture
of our need
Each a true expression that each spirit
learns to heed.
Our passions weave in wonder to the
pulsing that is life
They merge our thoughts and hungers,
elemental in device.
Our passions sate and fill us, staving
off the touch of death
And grant us glad delections with a
touch that spans life's breadth.
The truist of our passions merge the
mind and give us scope
To move beyond the anguish that
extinguished lesser hope.
No. 45 Assumptions and the State
where I met Roses
Lew
asked me to write a poem about the conference were we first met. I
obliged. This was the first poem I wrote after discovering he was
married.
In an effluence of comments on the
markets never free
Discourse rising and reacting to the tones of
miseries
Invoked by fraud and violence from those trusted with all
power
At a conference of the intellect, attendees sad and dour.
In a place of academics living in a sheltered place of
mind
The discourse never reaches, never bends the State's
design.
For the human action pulses with the weaving lives and
wills
Of people who will never read the Austrian appeals.
Be cautious of the structures that you build inside the
State
Be careful to remember that assumptions steal and
take
Remake your own conclusions, never questioned, that
enslave
All structures of exclusion dig Liberty's last grave.
Free the choices stricken from a world bound up with
lies
Unchain the mind and spirit so our choices aren't denied.
No. 46 Meetings
in the Mind and Heart A
- Warning for Roses
A
place for meeting focuses, we see our future dreams
We
pause to reconnoiter, to consider errant schemes.
The
searing touches rendered, the gasp of pulsing skin,
Sensations
to remember, delights that lead us in.
A
million places beckon us, to sate our hidden needs
Question
what your needs demand and what those yearnings breed.
A
cause, a quest, that calls us to a life in human form
Emancipating
human hopes; from this a future born.
Weight
the full course beckoning and count off hidden costs
The
consequence of harbored hopes can also carry loss.
Temptations of the body; hungers
of the soul,
Justify those ugly acts
that leave us less than whole.
The
hardest and most precious gift, the only one that lasts
We
bring its print along with us, engraved in soul made pasts.
To
live a life of honor; to keep the record clean
To
stand before the the One Who Knows, proud of every scene.
The
dross of life is counted in deceit and misspent hours.
The
forge of living burns out dross; leaving our true power.
The
satin touch of passion, sensations that most please.
The
cost in honor lost to us could leave our souls to freeze.
| Thu, 09 Feb 2006 16:33:34 -0600 |
|
| Subject: |
Re: No. 44 Meetings in the Mind and Heart |
| From: |
"Lew Rockwell" <lhrockwell@hotmail.com> |
| To: |
"Melinda Pillsbury-Foster" |
You are
wonderful, and I take your warning to heart.
No.
47 The Playground
On the playground of their childhoods,
where they struggled to fit in
The men we know as NeoCons faced
derision without end.
Asocial and too clumsy to excel at any
sport.
They learned to use deception to
survive and to extort.
Feel pity for their anguish, they
trembled with that pain
And swore to change their status; it
left them less than sane.
They lost themselves in fancy; they
lived on dreams of power
They studied all the rule books and
deception left them sour.
Through the angst of viewing what other
men could do.
Building edifice most dour to make
their dreams come true
Assembling their tools with persuasion
and with guile
Philosophy and policy converted to
beguile
Grasping and consuming; their souls
without a song
Arrested in their boyhoods, unable to
move on
Their stunted souls inform us if we
take time to see
The fate of all such takers, their ugly
destiny.
See beyond the glitter as they putrefy
within
All tyrants throughout history
recognize their kin.
On
2/ 14/06 11:33 AM, "Melinda Pillsbury-Foster"
wrote:
| Tue, 14 Feb 2006 14:43:37 -0600 |
|
| Subject: |
Re: A Note to brighten your Valentine Day! |
| From: |
"Lew Rockwell" <lhrockwell@hotmail.com> |
| To: |
"Melinda Pillsbury-Foster" |
What
costume do you want to wear?
On
2/14/06 3:07 PM, "?????????????@???????????"
wrote:
Zorro.
But I don't have my cape anymore.
| Tue, 14 Feb 2006 16:19:47 -0600 |
|
| Subject: |
Re: A Note to brighten your Valentine Day! |
| From: |
"Lew Rockwell" <lhrockwell@hotmail.com> |
| To: |
???????????????@?????????????? |
What
about me?
On
2/14/06 5:05 PM, "themelinda@pillsbury-foster.us"
<themelinda@pillsbury-foster.us>
wrote:
What
was the name of Zorro's sidekick? We can go out and fight for
justice, freedom and anarchy! It will be fun.
| Wed, 15 Feb 2006 09:52:37 -0600 |
|
| Subject: |
Re: A Note to brighten your Valentine Day! |
| From: |
"Lew Rockwell" <lhrockwell@hotmail.com> |
| To: |
Melinda ??????????@??????????????? |
Bernardo.
But wasn’t he a mute?
No. 48 Love and Need
The ripples of your laughter, the
insights that inform
The touch of thoughts inciting, ideas
beyond the norms.
The shape of worlds oncoming from
thoughts that make us kin
These, the magic interludes that
differences amend.
Excitement sealing happiness that
carries me through time
The smiles, these evoking, that embrace
our whole design
As thoughts sublime and pungent, change
the landscape of the mind
You, the one who shares these things,
underscores each line.
The world of mind is opened through
touches that delight
Bringing peace and promise to extend
the edge of sight.
And the rapture and the inferences
embrace of whole of life
To know and to remember, rejecting what
is strife.
The love of cherished honor, the tones
of life lived right
Remain the choice of passion that
flourishes in light.
| Melinda Pillsbury-Foster" |
|
| From: |
"Lew Rockwell" <lewrockwell@mac.com> |
| Subject: |
welcome back |
| Date: |
Mon, 10 Apr 2006 10:27:40 -0700 |
Sorry,
darling, not to have anything from the Clark campaign.
On Apr
10, 2006, at 10:35 AM, M. P.F. wrote:
But
I am sure you have something else just as interesting to auction with
a fascinating story to go with it! Think about what that might
be!
| "Lew Rockwell" <lewrockwell@mac.com> |
|
| Subject: |
Re: welcome back |
| Date: |
Mon, 10 Apr 2006 10:37:23 -0700 |
| To: |
"M. P.F." |
A
date with you? But then I would have to be the winning bidder.
| "Lew Rockwell" <lewrockwell@mac.com> |
|
| Subject: |
really? |
| Date: |
Mon, 10 Apr 2006 12:51:51 -0700 |
| To: |
"M. P.F." |
A
love poem?
No.
49 Human Action, Warping
Passions - for
Roses cause he asked
In
digs through human detritus from events removed in time
Reassembled
like the pottery, that shattered, conceal design.
The hungers and
the urges that decided what has been
Also serve to show and tell
us; to speak the souls of men.
Their greeds drove them to
hunger and their greeds determined lives
Their greeds reached out
to ravish as conquest fed their drives.
The base, the ugly
lustings to acquire what is not earned
Deceit and base coercion
was the lesson they best learned.
With blandished words, well
monied, from the well-heeled halls of power
Came Cato and Ed's
cabal to grasp and to devour.
The tools of oppression Crane would
see arrayed
So Rothbard was ejected and the Milton card was
played.
Ideas affirming freedom could not be left in play
So
the Austrians were muted, their force of truth delayed.
And who
will count the losses, and who will pay the cost?
And who is left
to understand the bottom line of loss?
Debasing words of
honor used to mean the soul inborn
The freedoms we all cherished,
converted, burned with scorn.
Autonomy indwelling in each denied
by law
To profit cancered egos that demanded wealth by claw.
The
list of ugly takers, writ long, remember well
Their names defamed
the Vision that condemns their souls to hell.
Rare Delight
Micro motion mending our divides of
thought and peace
Actions weave in wonders from lives both spare
and brief.
A billion thoughts refining; one man will never see
A
wave both deep and arching directs our destiny.
Tectonic
shifts that echo; change that moves towards hope
Tiny fractures
that bring healing, enlarging promised scope.
Reflecting light
and darkness, catching half built dreams.
The futures still for
making and forsaking what demeans.
The onward rush of
passion and the subtle lines of time
All of these are written in
the frame of the design.
All of us now living, and all of us to
be
All of us now dead and gone within the frame of WE.
In
incremental anguish and through the pall of night.
Each of
us makes choices, bringing grief and rare delight.
From Shards to Light - for
the honest man who asked if I could write a poem about the origin of
money in twenty minutes.
From an insight of convenience they
drew marks on shards of clay
The goats and sheep and cheeses thus
were counted up each day.
And trader's lives were better, as
barter was replaced.
With mites of fired pottery that bore each
items face.
The marks and shards were money; more
fungible to hold
So trade and space were easier; what was owned
was sold.
But then a cunning taker thought to make his own
The
shards went out of favor, replacing coin wrot gold
Issued first by temple and then
anointed King
So fungible the medium it built a wealth in
things.
Accumulation beckoned the greedy onto thrones.
Through money all were shackled, the people could be owned.
A flow of current holdings, in
increments of gold
Created flow of currency, and ever more was
sold.
Price now marked in shiny bits they trusted not to lie.
But men saw ways of stealing from weight the coins would
buy.
So England then
replaced them, their coins had reeded edge.
Clipping and the shaving, made obvious instead.
Money called and promised, so fluid in its scope.
Kings and those in power wrote promises on notes.
Temptations to debasement, temptations to inflate.
Became the real foundation of the governmental state.
And money still enticed us, and draws in those who steal.
Finessing, redefining, the units once were real.
Now with no
foundation in sheep or even cheese
The
money is all funny, and only Kings are pleased.
The
flow of human commerce, so easy to abuse.
Is still the form adopted, that all of us must use.
We count up
paper icons, inscribed with those now gone.
We trust in those who make them, despite the fact their wrong.
We need the
fluid functions that money can provide.
While all
the self anointed kings, count, and so decide.
Magic Money Written
for one of my partners in revolution.
With opinings and definings the presses
clack and run
The FED announces numbers that make our
minds grow numb.
The complexities of money make thievery
a joy
Alan loved the power, Ayn's first money
boy.
Its owners, all so nameless, ensure
they pump us dry.
By transfers and with interest that
makes the widows cry.
And marks on pages tally the figures
that expand
As “available for loaning” reaches
to the most demand.
From banks and institutions that
conspire with the FED
The piles of the dollars shrink and
leave us fully bled.
Expanded to a magnitude that boggles
those who see
The FED prints funny money, and
consumes lives yet to be.
A con game still ongoing, rapacious to
consume
Expand supply, disguise the lie, and
lead us on to doom.
The flow and flux of money, that eats
the truth and land
A set up for a taking we all will
understand.
The sound of tiny popping, as price
makes its decline
Shrinking all horizons, as interest
rates still climb.
A future of our choosing?
A con game finally done?
The final trump infusing
The truth we've been so dumb?
The money game is reaching its final
stage of life
Leaving in its passing a people locked
in strife.
No. 53 Tension and Ease
The tempo and the tension envelopes
every thought
Sound and seething interruptions leave you empty and
distraught
The surging tide of living that leaves us less than
sane
While we forget to find the silence that cancels out our
pain.
The silence caught and carried in the place behind the
wind
Excises all the tensions, the place where peace begins
Always
there awaiting our need to draw it in.
The Silence, heals us
inward, the first and perfect Friend.
When cacaphonies
uprising rend the inner peace
In the silence of the windward I go
to take my ease.
There, I touch the surety that we will never
die.
And shrug off the assumptions that carry fear and lies.
In
the Silent place of meeting, behind the sound of Wind.
I wrap
myself in raptures that speak the truth of Him.
- Fortress Lew –
Written for a wilted Rose
Inside the vault of thinking that
tightens every day
The buttressing of intellect constricts, its
price unpaid.
Providing moat and monolith, outside the world
careens
And greyness coalesces bringing fear to inner being.
Inside the Fortress Rockwell, ideas
grow sparse and thin
The Giants have receded, new chapters can't
begin.
The easy way that beckoned was a cul de sac of
time
Delightful in its resonance, it justified old crimes.
Inside the sad and lonely, outside the
core of truth
Stark and hard the pathway that now his mind must
rue.
Evasions come with price tags; demand to be made whole
Count
out that truth in coinage that leaves gouges in the soul.
The gold of truth still beckons, to
eyes that dare to see
Remember in life's winter you chose this
destiny.
Like Lemmings flooding onwards to
a chasm miles deep
Their scarecrow of devising smiles, seeing the
tails of fleeing sheep
The nightmare that compels us to the death
of every hope:
The fantasy of NeoCons that greed alone evoked.
Stay the course to poverty, to want and desperate need
Stay
the course as every dream dies as lies deceive.
Stay the course
together, no need to question lies
Stay the course laid out for
us? America will die.
The Founders stir and tremble at
a course so gone astray
The courage of its people tried, found
wanting, washed away.
The boogeymen constructed from what
was never real
Dictates the course of destiny that soon will be
revealed.
Stay the course to serfdom, stay to bitter
truth
Stay and know your masters, that chickenhawking crew
Stay
on course elected by what you would not see
This, the just
conclusion of Freedom's destiny?
Within that fold of cowards
are a few who will not run
They know the truth of courage and
reach for truth and guns
Hearing age old lessons that informed us
long ago.
The shackles will not hold them, freedom is their goal.
They stay the course to honor
Stay the course to hope
Stay
the course to courage, they will see and cope.
Stay the course to
justice because they understand
God gave life for lessons; to live
and die as Man.
Post
Script.
And
that is the story as it was lived on the phone and Internet for about
a year. I do not regret the poems. In fact, for me the poems made
it worth the chagrin of finding I had been slightly deceived.
When
life offers wilted roses make potpourri.
