Sunday, June 28, 2020

Moon Amber Night

That moon-amber night
That we fell down in the field
We held on so tight
That our souls had to yield
You started to shiver
Like ripples on the river
But our hearts were full
And we were both so very warm
chorus
v2
The words that you breathed
Were works of passion I craved
Your lovely breast heaved
As grain stalks waved
The thrush barely sleeping
River warily seeping
Our hearts were beating
Like two boats in a storm
Chorus
We were
Brave summer lovers
Always off together
Scorning the others
Interlocked forever
We hid in the shadows
Made love 'neath the willows
Always riding the storm
The talk of her father's farm
v3
Yes we counted every star
Gathered 'em like fireflies
Stuffed inside a jar
Too in love to realize
Young hearts will be broken
Keep mine as a token
Tonight my love
We shall not be forlorn
chorus
v4
Those moon-amber nights
Can last into the winter
With all of our might
We continue to be tender
The cold makes us shiver
Burning now with fever
Our hearts grow dull
I'm to leave your father's farm
chorus

Sunday, June 14, 2020

Troublesome Journey

Ave Stuart, on a journey from his native Virginia, came into a small western town looking for a bed to spend the night in. He left his tired horse at the livery, with instructions it is fed, groomed, and stabled overnight. He mustered the energy to jump a muddy puddle on his way to the wooden walk on the far side and the Open Arms Hotel. Moving with slow deliberate steps, his weariness nearly overpowering him, Ave made it into the lobby and he dropped his saddlebags by his feet. The clerk was not in sight. “Hello,” he called out.

When nobody came, he pulled his saddlebags along and dropped into a lounge chair. He fell into an immediate deep sleep.

It was morning before he awoke. He moved stiffly in the chair before looking around, first at the full daylight out the window and door glass, then his glance sought out the clerk. A short man with a balding head and droopy mustache fit the description. The clerk looked up from the counter when he noticed that this stranger had begun stirring and seemed about to get up.

“Why didn’t you wake me?” Ave said. “I would‘ve took a room.”

“Tried. You were sleeping too good,” the clerk replied. “Anyway you saved yourself a quarter. You just owe me fifty cents.”

Ave felt enough rested to resume travel. He stood up tall in order to stretch a bit, then pushed his fingers in a pocket to fish out some coins. He approached the desk to hand the clerk his money.

“Where you coming from?” the clerk asked.

“Virginia,” Ave said.

The clerk squinted with weak eyes at the coins. “Ain’t that where they’re fightin’ a war?”

“There and other states,” he said as he again took up his saddlebags.

“What’s it all about? I don’t see the benefit of Americans killing themselves that way,” the clerk persisted.

Ave let down his bags and looked deep into himself. After a short pause, he spoke. “The issues are confused,” he said. “They been spoiling to have this fracas a lot of years. I won’t be conscripted to fight. Insane. My father put on a grey uniform to fight on one side, but my brother put on blue to fight for the other. Apart from I can’t see killing other Americans, I sure don’t want my bullets pointed at family.”

“Ain’t the big question about the slaves? Ain’t Lincoln about freeing those poor souls?”

“He didn’t seem to me to be about to do that. But, now they’re fighting, who knows?”  Ave said. “My mind was so troubled I didn’t know what to do, except move away from it. I could be a fugitive because I refused to be conscripted.”

“Well, good luck,” the clerk said, turning back to the paperwork on the desk, signaling his interest was ended.

Moments later, Ave found himself outside the hotel, back on the plank walkway, with a slanting sun on his face. He appreciated that his night was spent indoors for the first time in many days, even if in an uncomfortable chair. He slipped his hat on, tilted to shade his eyes.

There was a bustle of street activity, with random pedestrians and riders dotting the business area. At the end of the street, which was not far, he saw his first ever Indian. It was a brave of morose countenance, leading his pony, casting wary eyes at the citizens. His long strides bespoke some urgency.

The Indian paused at the center of the town and studied each building front. After an initial scan, he searched again, minutely examining every feature of each building. He heaved a sigh, then, and began looking into faces. It was obvious he hoped for someone approachable to ask questions of.

Ave also scanned the buildings until his gaze caught on the words DOCTOR’S OFFICE. He approached the native American and nodded. “Are you looking for a doctor?” he said.

The brave shook his head yes, vigorously.

“It’s right there,” he said, pointing.

The brave solemnly looked into Ave’s eyes and grunted his thank you, after which he tied his pony and went up the steps to the doctor’s office. Two bearded men watching hopped down from a freight wagon and followed him. Ave heard a tussle up there. He looked on as the brave came tumbling back down, rolling all the way into the street. The men hastened to the bottom to continue what was begun at the top.

The heavier man stomped the Indian’s leg as the other man sought a better angle from which to aim a heavy leather boot. Ave lost all caution, coming between the second man and his target. “Hold on,” Ave said. “This man’s my friend.”

The second bearded man paused, as though slapped upside the head, on hearing a white speaking up for what to him was a vile animal deserving of torture and possibly death. It was enough distraction to allow the Indian to leap to his feet and pull his knife. He slashed the air, following around as the men circled, looking for an opening. Ave pulled a pistol from his pants and stepped up. “You two need to back off,” he said. “This man did nothing to you.”

The teamsters turned their attention to the gun and halted. “Mister, what’s it to you? We just hurrahing an Injun,” said the first man. “You got no right to stop us. It ain’t illegal what we’re doing.”

“This man has trouble; looking for a doctor. Why is he of offense to you?” Ave said.

“He is an Indian. That’s enough.” the first man snarled.

So intense was the confrontation between the white men that the Indian took advantage of their inattention by lunging at the second man, slashing him across the breast before sprinting to his pony and getting away.

“Shoot him,” the first man shouted.

But Ave just watched him ride away.

As he stuffed the pistol back in his pants, he was turning to go, when a group of bystanders that had begun to gather and grow during the confrontation surrounded him. They all looked on while the first teamster helped his friend up the steps to the doctor’s office. Ave tried stepping around some men, but he was blocked from leaving. “Mister,” said the self-appointed leader, Ed Straight, “you caused a man to get injured by interfering when it was none of your business. Now, we have let those savages camp near our town much too long. We are going to get every man living here and we are going to wipe out that village. Don’t expect to go nowhere. You are riding with us to solve the problem you created. Get your horse.”

Ed Straight and another of the townsmen accompanied Ave to the livery. Then they made him sit in the saloon while the town organized to attack the Indians. Ed ushered him to a table. “Drink?” he said

Ave was no drinker, but he requested and was brought a tall glass of water.

“Have you spent time around Indians?” Ed asked. “I have. They took my friend’s father and staked him to the ground on an anthill. They slit his eyelids to let the ants get in. Then they left him alone in the hundred-degree sun. I could tell you a hundred such stories.”

Ave acted on evidence, not hearsay. He didn’t know if the story was true, embellished, or the hundredth repeat of a lie. “What was the friend’s father up to in the minutes before the Indians took him?” he said.

Ed reacted with anger, to be doubted by a likely sympathizer. “Just sit there and be quiet,” he demanded.

It was no more than a half-hour until the town was ready. The three trod into the street and took up their ponies. Ave’s reluctance to get mounted was met with half a dozen riders, each one prepared to deal with him in the harshest manner necessary. In the end, he left the town with them, each rider bearing a rifle, a pistol, and a sword.

The Indian camp was two miles off, consisting of buffalo hide teepees and a corral on one side. A short distance beyond sparkled a small stream of water. A patch of woods filled the territory beyond. There were perhaps sixty residents, including men, women, and children.

The townsmen topped a rise that looked down on the camp. They paused to check their weapons and to await Ed’s call to attack. Ave had been forced into the middle and a sword insinuated into his hand. Ed held up a hand. When he let it down, saying, “Go,” Ave saw one of the braves look up and sound the alarm. Indian warriors swarmed into the open.

Ave’s eyes were drawn to the same Indian he had helped out in the town, as bullets went flying and the townsmen rode down. They went among the teepees, hacking and clubbing the disorganized Indians, most of whom could not even reach their weapons before getting killed. Because the townsmen had been expecting him to take part in the massacre, Ave shot his gun high over the camp and pretended an accident that caused his loss of the sword. He watched the Indian from town go down, hacked at the neck by a sword. The townsmen went inside, from tent to tent, slaughtering the children and the women.

At last, their lust for blood satisfied, the men gathered for the return home. “Not a man lost,“ an exultant townsman was heard to brag.

As they prepared to move out, Ed pushed his pony near Ave. “Ride on, mister,” he commanded. “Count yourself lucky you ain’t one of them.”

Ave sat stationary, unable to turn his eyes away from the field of bloody corpses. He figured the Indian from town had gone there to seek help for his wife or perhaps child. He thought of the war he had been running away from, comparing it to the war he now was aware of that was being made on the Indian nations. He understood that there is no escaping brutality among men. When he moved, he set his course northward, for he had heard of places like Montana, where one might go for years without encountering a single human being.

                 

Friday, June 12, 2020

Little Songs

Channeling Bobby Darin

When the world runs out of wrongs
I’ll be writing no more songs
But for now
I say wow
Business is very good
I’ll keep writing little songs
‘Til there’s peace in battle zones
‘Til congress notes
The change with votes
Until then I must conclude
When a child’s peaceful at night
When love’s a symbol not might
No hunger
No danger
Until then I’ll just be rude
I’ll keep writing little songs
Loud enough to rattle bones
To spit it out
In one big shout
Until then I must conclude
When folks die of poverty
The wrong ideology
Jealousy
Notoriety
Until then I’ll just be crude
I’ll keep writing little songs
Its my way to battle wrongs
To spit it out
In one big shout
Spit it out
One big shout
Spit it out
One big shout
Spit it out

INDEX OF THIS BLOG

INDEX OF STORIES AND VERSES

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