A Man is a Man by His Actions

[Another contribution by JW; this one shows more similarities between us, since we both grew up in bad areas, went to the military, and were wounded.]

I’m a boy from the slums where livin’ is rough
Fought daily for survival, you’ve got to be tough
One on one is expected, but one against many is too
Arise and keep swingin’ or they’ll walk all over you

If you can’t take a fall and quickly bounce back
You’ll never earn respect, and they’ll never cut you slack
You learn to be ruthless, when ruthless is called for
But don’t let it change you, not deep in your core

Being ruthless is not the same as being mean
It’s taking others down, but keepin’ it clean
Purely for self-defense or in defense of others
Continue to respect life: fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers

From slums to foreign soil when fightin’ for “Uncle Sam”
For freedom and G.I. brothers… screw the political flim-flam
Busted and bloody, but I returned standing tall
But don’t give me no praise, give it to those who gave all

Dad said, “A man is a man by his actions
not from his years on Earth;
he sweats courage and bleeds honor
and guards integrity for all it’s worth.”

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Fashionable or not

[Another contribution by JW: poetry and art.]

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Fashionable or not,
faith in beauty remains as fickle
as the ever-changing fads it inspires.
After all, fashion is merely another persons
opinion of how you should look or act.
Find what makes you happy
and ditch the rest.
Outside or inside,
if your reflection isn’t perfection
you’ve got no right to judge.
And what good is a high IQ
to anyone dumb enough to judge others
by the way they look?
Condemnation of another person’s
imperfections has always been
a sign of simpletons,
no matter how richly they’re adorned.
To those unable to see the beauty here,
come back when you mature.
To iterate; it’s overlooking imperfections
which draws us closer to perfection.
Especially since no one honestly relates
to Madison Avenue:
scars are the “Real Thing”.
Our differences make us special: unique.
Not our similarities, but our differences
which perfectly distinguish us.
Hate me for my differences
and you hate yourself.
Condemn me for my imperfections
and you condemn yourself.
Only by accepting me
can you truly accept yourself

 

Ballad of J-Bear

[Another contribution by JW, and it shows another similarity we share: we’re both metis’, mixed breeds, part Native American. And we bring it out in some of our creative work, like he does here and I did with the Black Wolf writings (that are still a work in progress).]

 

Plenty Horses tried to stampede over J-Bear with Mad Dog 20/20 instigating fluid reasons for drunken nonsense.

All present not stupefied or catatonic had to marvel at the audacity to bust a move on the soberest among us, and the only one who has been more than a weekend warrior and survived.

Bird Man tells the tale of J-Bear’s first encounter with Spirit Guide within the magic flames of the elusive fire dance from the bowels of Alaskan tundra… and again on the Midwest plains in the eye of Twister.

Born beyond the captivity of the rez’, yet still a prisoner of poverty in the land of the greed giants.

We have witnessed his ability to soar; his talents are worthy of the one-percent realm, but he is of the Earth and has no stomach to dishonor his Mother for filthy lucre.

J-Bear found humor in the equine invasion of privacy – as did we all who watched the scene unfold through glassy eyes, clouded vision, and lost or forgotten dreams.

We saw a bruin bask in utter confidence, toying with prey at will – with a hearty laugh and joyful smile – we became further intoxicated on the after-glow; that is, all but Plenty Horses.

Salivation over stallion status proved too much to carry when confronted with pony presence at pow-wow.

Viewed with jest by J-Bear and us all was burr under saddle, prickly pear, and thorn bush to Plenty Horses: who bid hasty retreat from long-house, good sense, and sanity.

Celebration complete, sobriety ensues, First People renewed, and lookie-loos slither back to city-scapes, penthouses, townhomes, beach-front property and a life of lies as “real” Americans.

Unknown to all, the sliver of shame planted deep in the heart of Plenty Horses festers and putrefies.

Day-to-day binge nourished with Mad Dog, moonshine, and home-grown reservation rot-gut.

Sleepless nights, passed-out mornings, restless slumber in the land of forgotten memories and faceless ancestors doomed to wander the spirit world in constant agony over life-long humiliation and senseless slaughter; with no burial rites, in mass graves or no graves, and nothing to prove that life once inhabited their flesh.

Disembodied, dis-spirited, despairing soul-filled torment – and Plenty Horses claimed the old tales as his own.

Lost in the lore and loco weed; lost to us… and to himself.

Plenty Horses packed pistol and hatchet.

He wore war paint and breech-cloth and hid in hedges awaiting the cloak of darkness.

The un-brave warrior wannabe; he is one of many in descending generations of reservation bound natives never taught the warrior way.

Those who saw say J-Bear sensed danger just prior to Plenty Horse’s attack.

Instead of seeking safety or defending himself, he chose to shield two children in the path of Plenty Horses.

No bullet found child flesh that day; no hatchet tore youthful skin.

J-Bear was their body armor; he held them close and tight till tribal law reined-in the loco cayuse… but gave up his ghost that night.

No grave to mark his passing; a simple plaque by choice – for his deeds prove immortal and a lasting testament to his mortal days.

Ashes scattered – carried on the breath of Sky Father to rest on the breast of Mother Earth.

His spirit soars like Hawk in the land of no more sorrow, in the woods of plenty game, and the sparkling waters of enlightenment and ecstasy, while Plenty Horses is a shell of a man; no longer part of a proud clan, clothed in prison garb, eternally tainted, blood-stained, with ominous odor of choice – doomed to hear the perpetual cries of children and the lament of nations over the waste of a clan warrior through the actions of a coward.

His day of expiration is forthcoming.

There will be no community drum.

It will be a solemn… but tearless day.

 

Who am I?

[Another contribution from JW: both art and poem.]

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Who am I?
I am the interpretation of my scars – seen and unseen.
I’m told everyone has a story.
I do not know but mine.
The beauty of youth once graced the cover,
but scars have always been the text.
Twas’ once… and only once… I bore no scars.
That was the time I had yet to live.
The first scar to my name
came at the point of birth.
Had I known what was coming
I might’ve curled back up inside.
I have several scars through child’s play.
Then another here, and two more there,
from adults who misbehaved.
With skin to asphalt I learned
that road, like skin, does have a rash.
O’ fighting scars, my history holds,
three-hundredfold, no jest partake:
though more within than out remain.
Till off I’m sent for our common uncle,
signed-up five days past seventeen.
I’m told adventure will be mine,
a man I will become.

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Stepped on soil in foreign places:
learned a truth I want to forget,
a truth no recruiter will tell a child.
In order to put away childish things,
a step taken to manhood,
it merely cost the lives of others –
and my blood staining the sand.
My skin did part like the Red Sea
as Moses held hands high.
First once… twice… than twice again,
so many surgeries past.
Uncle Sam, he did disown me.
His promises were dust.
Though it was he who set the policy,
it was I who paid with pain.
Pain to me is life…
my daily diet.
Scars now live… inside and out,
these scars I know so well.
The unseen ones are just as real,
and oft-times they bear more honor.
I pity those whose visible scars
were self-inflicted.
All beauty is not appealing.
All scars are not unappealing.
Beauty forges vanity,
scars forge character.
It is the “beautiful” people who shun me the most.
Their character has never been tempered.
My scars testify to my courage.
Scars from heroism trump the beauty
so common on the model runway.
I’ll take my battle scars
over your beauty awards – any day.
Maturity understands
why battle scars are beauty marks.
There’s a reason pretty boys die in battle,
while this junkyard dog survived.
Beauty on the battlefield is merely cannon fodder.
Battle scars: a clearer fashion statement
than scarification, body piercing, or tattoos.

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Every masterpiece appears scarred
when still a work in progress.
Yet when it scars with age
it becomes no less a masterpiece.
Society urges me to bare my medals,
yet hide my scars.
While shunned by others
I’ve learned to cherish myself – scars and all.
“Vet” now rolls off my tongue,
no longer caught in my throat.
I am scarred for life,
yet feel no shame.
Who am I?
I am the interpretation of my scars – seen and unseen.

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[JW has become closer than a brother. We’re both disabled Vets and compatible in many other ways. And kat and I wish to thank him again for all he’s done during this bad period we’re going thru.— AJT]

Alpha’s Bawdy Word Play: No# 16

[Alpha’s modern version of bawdy rhymes and erotica from the vaudeville and burlesque periods.]

Heavenly Host
For once, dear Anna met a heavenly host
A man of many talents, but never did boast
Come meet him, she said
Pay no mind that he’s dead
The sex may be kinky, but he’s a gentlemanly ghost

For Profit
You’re not that kind of mistress, now come to my bed
You’ve taken the diamonds, now give me some head
My money’s like clay
Sculpt’s this slut day-to-day
Profit is her master, best made when clothes are all shed

Spanking
Off with those panties, show your naughty zone glistering
It’s time for a spanking, a leather belt blistering
First comes the warm-up, skin-upon-skin
Preparing your ass for some strict discipline
With a smack and a whack on your fleshy sweet spot
Your ass cheeks are burning, arousingly hot
Caressing your flesh makes you whimper and moan
Then smack with a paddle and you utter a groan
When the spanking is over and tears are all shed
You cuddle beside me; in my lap rests your head
It’s time for some lovin’, some sweet after-care
And contemplate why you sass me, then utter a dare