Under The Poem Tree with Ron Purtlebaugh Meanderings

Meanderings

Under The Poem Tree With Ron Purtlebaugh

GOD BLESS AMERICA ST.AUGUSTINE NATURE LOVE & BEAUTY POEM TREE LEAVES NONSENSE & HUMOR WANDERING WORDS

INDEX TABLE OF CONTENTS COMMENTS & LINKS BRANCHES AND TWIGS ABOUT THE AUTHOR I''ve traversed the road that seems less traveled, At night time some, the most unnoticed way, Marvel, if you will, you reached before me, Marvel, if you choose, your ease of day, To marvel is for me, the things that I did see, The unseen things, I saw along the way. Ron Purtlebaugh

AND LOOKING TAKE THE TIME TO PEER Lost and found and still astounded sitting 'side an open door, persons pass and rather fast (seems they hate their being slowed). Homeless, toothless, aged poor, was a daughter, 'pon a time, walking streets a virgin whore. Lonely people tread the sidewalks, loitering to stop and sit, strangers passing, faceless loom, walking in their living rooms, parlors, lawns, kitchens, bath, all the while their searching for a place to eat or half a sandwich, dumpster dampened, flung half eaten, wet inside an inset door. Darkness falls, a place to sleep. Think you not, the answers here, only questions that appear and those who take the time to hear, and looking, take the time to peer, and seeing then, to understand the pain and tears that grip this land. For all we have, we save a whale, hundreds flock to unknown beaches, watered towels and pails in hand, passing by, in their resolve, hungry children, outstretched hands. Poor Darter Snails, oh my, oh me! Oh! My Lord, a Manatee! Someone in their powerboat has gone too fast and cut his tail! RON PURTLEBAUGH

"I love animals, but I love children, more." Ron Purtlebaugh

Another Round Passing on the springtime side the winter of my life when all the razor sharpened sides of youthful strife are passed away, the dull and blunted rounded corners seem to say, "Away, Away, slide on you free!" Uncaught by corners needlessly, unhampered by a will to flee, but more a will as solid as the stolid winter tree. "Go, you man, away, away!" Afforded freedoms, hidden words that now may say the things it could not tell. Now straight the words, throw wide the gate through which I'm pulled, the drawing plate of middle age, by heat of time annealed. Allows me now the freedom for my way to be my will. Burn, you fires of desire, wide but no more wild, spread with speed through leaves of fall, let the harvest be not dampened from the snows of winter's call. Upon the ground, throw not the towel but ready me to live and breathe and wide awake, to go the thirteenth round. 'Would that I could,' no more I shout but 'Can and Will,' my battle cry. My gaze is set in stony faith, so Ring, you bell, ring loudly ring! Bring on the round! Pity not to lay me down. Mercy! Shall I never cry, for on I fight to wear a crown or see another spring. Ron Purtlebaugh

MY CARDBOARD BOX The thick of night, bold black and froze, enfolded by these arms of mine, they hug to me the winter's eve, lulled, forgotten, all alone, on the sidewalk where they walk, huddled now I fight the cold, take me not to death's own gate, nor strange coldness take it's toll, where I sleep, my cardboard box, my house, my home, a rolled up cup is thrown within, home to me, trash bin to them. See they not what lies inside? Think they that I'm here to hide? Remember not, I lived with them? Know they not, I fought for them? And many of my brothers, friends, lived and fought and died for them? I am a man, a thing of worth, and far worse, think they more the less of me, for where I live, yet all I gave, there's no return, knowing they just walk on by, with one finger wouldn't try, if my home were now on fire, hoping me to burn. Walk on by and pity not, no mercy have you shown, no respect, for all my worth, living in a cardboard box. Go home! Go! You mister man, take your woman by the hand, to your home of concrete blocks, your landscaped yards, your cars, your plans, you leave me here. But know you this. If the whole world comes to naught, unseemly hordes with battle plans, invade your land, you come to me, I'll fight again, 'cause this is My America, My Home Sweet Home, though I sleep on concrete now, you hear me good, you freely walk because of me, and this is still my land. Ron Purtlebaugh 1974

GRAB THE RING Had I not left the part, the best of which for last and counted on in sterling faith that what I had, when seeing all the rest at last, and knew for fact, 'twas good enough, it passed the test, was up to snuff, it might have spoiled all the fun, the way they say "it only goes around but once, so grab the ring when it goes past," or, "have your fun, you're young but once," this do I take issue with, no stronger fallacy exists, on being young or what is passed, these two things I know for fact for I was young and now I'm old, I've seen it come, I've watched it go, like the circle hands of time, what has been returns again, being young is in the mind, relative to what has been, inasmuch it's let to be, this the part can set you free at least I know it has for me. Ron Purtlebaugh

MY TEARS THE SEA Rainy gray the cloudy skies fell beneath my eyes hardly could I even tell the place they hit the sand where the raindrops started, or my falling tears began. As one they ran into the sea, mingling there and leaving me alone upon the rocky shore to see the tide, my tears the sea. What of all of those before, standing crying on the shore all alone just like me, the ocean washed away their pain it took away the tears they cried into the tide, just like me. Husbands, wives, who lost their sweethearts, sisters losing brothers, and the Mothers gave their sons into the wars, the whores who walk the streets and shores, somewhere, somehow lost their plan, never knew a man like me, but still our tears together now, wash the sand, hand in hand filling all the oceans wide, with our tears the sea. And what of all the little children, 'thout a Mother or a Father 'cept the one we have above, to wipe away the tears, from the fears of being here, in this place all alone, their tears like mine, and the sisters and the brothers and the whores and the Fathers and the Mothers, fall like rain, into the tide then they're washed back home again, hand in hand with mine. How I pray it gives them strength, helping them along. Hoping they will find a story, or a poem, or a song, just like me, perhaps beneath a poem tree, grown from tears, born, baptized, by the cleansing of the waters, just like me, awash their pain into the sea, into the sea my tears. Ron Purtlebaugh

YOU OR ME When you agree with me, I persevere, when you don't, you say I'm obstinate, the meanings aren't in vain, the answer's quite the game, it lies inside the one that calls the name. To divide is not to lose, as surely, both can tell, for sharing what another has, is giving, just as well. RON PURTLEBAUGH

DID I ASK WHY OR NOT? RECENTLY, IN A FRIENDLY CHAT ASKING WHY ABOUT THIS AND THAT NOTHING NOSEY, CURIOUS I GUESS WHEN SUDDENLY, WHY WAS UPSET I QUERIED WHY, "WAS IT SOMETHING I'D SAID?" ANSWERING, "I'D, HASN'T OFFENDED ME YET." "I GIVE UP! ARE YOU TELLING HOW?" "IT'S NONE OF HOW'S BUSINESS, THAT'S EASY TO TELL!" "OK, ALRIGHT, I CAN TELL THAT, BUT WHAT ABOUT THIS?" TAKEN ABACK, "ARE YOU ASKING ME ABOUT THIS AND THAT?" "THAT'S WHAT I SAID, NINE LINES BACK I WAS ASKING WHY ABOUT THIS AND THAT!" "WELL, THAT EXPLAINS IT, I'M NOT WHY, I'M NOT." "OH!" ron purtlebaugh

SOMETIMES SOMETIMES THE SWEETNESS ONLY COMES BEHIND THE BITTER SIP SOMETIMES YOU HAVE TO LET IT GO TO GET A BETTER GRIP SOMETIMES YOU LET YOUR HEARTS DESIRE, THINGS YOU WANT, GO FREE, YOU SOMETIMES LEAVE AND LOSE IT ALL TO HAVE THE THINGS YOU NEED YOU FIND SOMETIMES, YOU LOOK BELOW TO SEE WHAT'S UP ABOVE AND SOMETIMES LIFE WILL LAY YOU FLAT TO TEACH YOU WHICH IS UP YOU SOMETIMES FIND THAT GOING SLOW CAN MAKE YOUR REALLY FAST AND SOMETIMES FIND THAT LAST IS FIRST 'CAUSE FIRST AND BEST IS LAST ron purtlebaugh

PETER O'NEILL MELODIES IN CANVAS TIME

ST. AUGUSTINE, FLORIDA

HOW FREQUENTLY MY EYES DETOUR, AND YET I FIND ME OFTEN LURED, BY SIMPLE, CLEAR, UNCLUTTERED VIEWS, SO PASSING BY A WINDOW SAW, OLD BRUSHES LOITER IN A JAR, RETIRED FROM CHORES AND NEARBY STANDING, QUITE IGNORED, BENT SPENT CAP LESS TUBES OF PAINT, BID ME STOP AND LOOK SOME MORE.

THE SPARSITY, CREATIVELY, WELCOMED ME TO TAKE RETREAT, TO SEE WHAT PETER O'NEILL SEES, WHAT HE CAPTURED, HANGING IN HIS GALLERY, DOWN ON ST. GEORGE STREET. WHERE OPENED WIDE, BREATHTAKING VIEWS, IN OILS PLIED WITH STRONG BOLD STROKES, BROKE WITH STABS AND DABS AND FANS, AND RENDERED NEAR AS FAITHFUL, TOO, COLORS OF THE WATER'S EDGE,

AND HAD I BEEN ATTIRED FOR, A SWIM AT A-STREET BEACH, I WOULD HAVE STEPPED INTO A FRAME, TO LIE UPON THE SANDY BEACH, THAT CALLED ME TO, THAT PETER CAUGHT, IN A FIFTIES SORT OF WAY, (IN THIS UNLEARNED POET'S GAZE) REMINDING ME OF DAYS GONE BY, ON THE BEACH, A BOY PLAYS TOILING WITH HIS PAIL, SUMMER'S DAY, EVERYBOY, WITH EVERY NAME

OR SLIPPED INTO ANOTHER FRAME, A SUMMER'S EVE, LAMP POSTS LIT IN FAILING LIGHT, PINK BLUE SKIES AND WINDOW LIGHTS IN SILHOUETTE, AND NEARLY COULD I FEEL THE BREEZE, FLUTTERED, TURNING TINY LEAVES, WAFTING THROUGH THE LIMBS AND TREES, CANVAS CAPTURED, STILL IT BREATHES, THE ST. GEORGE STREET, THAT PETER SEES.

THE SIMPLE WELCOME AT THE DOOR, BELIES THE PASSION PETER CAUGHT, WITH SABLE ON HIS CANVAS RIGS, THE COLORS AND THE FEELINGS, HIS, AND BLESSED IN THIS, HE SHARES WITH US, FOR WHAT HE SEES, HE PAINTS AND GIVES.

IN MY LITERARY TASK, TO OPEN WIDE THE CITY GATES, TO USHER THOSE WHO MAY NOT KNOW, THE SIGHTS AND SMELLS AND OLD WORLD CHARM, ST. AUGUSTINE, THE PLACE WE LOVE, WE FEW CALL HOME, STILL DAILY FIND MYSELF AMAZED, AND BLESSED, ALLOWED TO SET MY GAZE, ON SUCH A TALENT, BLOOMING PASSION, THAT AT ONCE, DEFIES, DEFINES, FULL EMPTY SKIES, WARRING COLORS, SEVERED, CUT, UNBROKEN LINES, PETER'S POETRY IN OILS, MELODIES, IN CANVAS TIME. RON PURTLEBAUGH

TRUTHS AND UNTRUTH EVALUATE ANALYSIS, CONTAMINATE A BOMB, DEHYDRATE A CONCRETE BLOCK, SEE THE VIRGIN MOM. TALK ABOUT THE SILENCE, THINK WITHOUT A THOUGHT, "YOU SEE," EVEN THOUGHT YOU'RE BLIND, INSTRUCTORS NEVER TAUGHT. SEGREGATE DISCRIMINATION, NO BIASED PREJUDICE, HATING THOSE WHO LOVE TO HATE, SOLVE IT ALL BY BUS. A WAR, A WAR, TO END ALL WARS, KILL THE KILLERS NOW, ATHEISTIC PANTHEISTS, I HEARD A PRIEST SAY "WOW." COAGULATED H2O, SEE THE CARROT TREE, WHAT'S YOUR NUMBER, WHAT'S YOUR NAME, WHO SAYS YOU'RE NOT FREE? OH! A GIANT PYGMY, ENUNCIATED LISP, HYPOTHETICAL TRUTH IN FACT, BOILED CHICKEN CRISP. GLASSES MADE OF PLASTIC, A HORSE FROM POPPY SEED, ELBOW ON A JOINT, BLOW A BENDING WEED. SADISTIC MASOCHISTS, FATE IS NEVER LATE, VOLUMETRIC PERIPHERY, ONE ANOTHER'S BAIT. WAIT AWHILE TO CATCH UP, AN OLD BIRD HAS FLOWN, OLD WITH MY FIRST BIRTHDAY, NOW THIS SCENE IS BLOWN. RON PURTLEBAUGH 1966

WHO WILL FEED THE GULLS TODAY? EVERYDAY I ASK MYSELF, AND STILL THERE'S NOTHING I CAN SAY, WILL THE GULLS BE FED TODAY? WHO WILL FEED THE GULLS TODAY? LOOKING THROUGH MY DANGLING FEET AT THE GLISTENING GRANITE BOULDERS WHERE THE IN TIDE NOW COMES FLOWING WAITING FOR IT SOON TO STOP, TO FIND ITSELF, IT'S HARSHNESS SMOOTHLY CHANGING WAYS WHERE IT WAS GOING, THEN BACK OUT, BUT NOT TO STAY, SIX HOURS HENCE, THEN BACK AGAIN, THE PELICANS, ATOP THE PIER, ON BOARDS AWAITING MULLET HORDES. EVERYDAY WE COME TO EAT, AND WATCH YOU SIT WITH DANGLING FEET, ON YOUR MANMADE GRANITE BEACH, WATCHING GULLS THAT DIVE AND PLAY AND GATHER, ASKING, DID YOU COME WITH LOADED HANDS, BRINGING SOMETHING WE MIGHT EAT. AND AGAIN, LIKE YESTERDAY AS WE AWAIT THE MULLETS RUNNING, NO, IS ALL YOU HAVE TO SAY. LIKE YOU TOLD THEM YESTERDAY. THEN OFF TO ASK IT OF ANOTHER DO YOU KNOW, OR CAN YOU SAY, WILL THE GULLS BE FED TODAY? WHO WILL FEED THE GULLS TODAY? THEN THE TERNS THAT GATHER NEAR, AND FEED BELOW MY DANGLING FEET, ON THE SHORE AND GRANITE BOULDERS AND THE TIDE POOLS 'LONG THE WAY, LOOK AT ME AS IF TO SAY, WE SEE THE SAME THING EVERYDAY YOU SIT THERE ON YOUR GRANITE SEAT, AND LOOKING UP, WE SEE THE BOTTOM OF YOUR DANGLING FEET, AND WONDER HAVE YOU COME, THAT THEY MIGHT EAT, CAN YOU GIVE AN ANSWER HERE, IF NOT YOU, THEN WHO, WE WONDER, WHO WILL FEED THE GULLS TODAY, WILL THEY GO A DAY WITHOUT, WILL THE GULLS BE FED TODAY? AS I FLEE MY GRANITE PERCH AND STEAL AWAY, THOSE WHISPERED WORDS, THAT LINGERED THERE, LEAP MY LIPS, OUT LOUD TO SAY, WILL THE GULLS BE FED TODAY? IF NOT I, THEN WHO WILL FEED THE GULLS TODAY? WILL THE GULLS BE FED TODAY? RON PURTLEBAUGH

JORKEN'S BOOKS ST. AUGUSTINE, FLORIDA USED WELL USED AND BROKEN BOOKS JORKEN TOOK THE TIME TO SAY, THESE BOOKS WERE TREASURED TIME AFORE, FORSOOK THEY SHANT BE, HAPS ANOTHER COMES A DAY SEEKING WORDS WELL READ, AND SHOULD, THEY STOOD AGAINST THE SANDS OF TIME, THE ELVES, THE HELPS, ROMANCE AND LONG FORGOTTEN TIMES. RHYMING LINES AND DICTIONARIES ROW ON ROW, WHERE HISTORY KEEPS IT'S FAMILY TREE LINED AS CHILDREN, KEPT WELL CARED, WAITING FOR A CHANCE TO LIVE AGAIN, AGAIN TO LIVE AGAIN, AND BREATHE TO SHARE ANOTHER'S HANDS AND WAITS IT'S TURN UPON THE SHELF. WERE IT SOMEHOW GIV'N TO ME, CHANCE TO BE A WRITTEN WORD NO GAUDY PERFUMED TRAVEL GUIDE, NO PEDESTAL, IN A LIMESTONE EDIFICE, BUT IN THE SERFDOM OF THE SHELVES OF JORKEN'S BOOKS, SO MARK ME LIGHTLY, BEND ME NOT MY BACK AND EARS, I LONG TO LIVE ANOTHER DAY, LIKE WORDS INSPIRED GIVEN HERE, WATERED WELL, A THOUSAND TEARS, IN MY HEART, GROWN AND NURTURED, TENDED TO, IN SAVING WORDS, THAT YOU MIGHT KNOW FROM WHENCE IT CAME, THE BEAUTY OF THE WRITTEN WORD. RON PURTLEBAUGH

ENGINE, ENGINE ENGINE, ENGINE, ONE WHO CARRIES, WESTBOUND DREAMS AND EASTBOUND TREASURES COAL FIRED METTLE FROM IT'S KETTLE, PUSHING POWER TO THE TRACK PUFFY LARGE AND BLACKENED BILLOWS, EMANATING FROM THE COAL FIRE ROARING HOT WITHIN THE BOILER, CONSTANT FED A BLACK FACE MAN LEAN AND TAWNY, SHINY SWEATING, SHOVELS COAL WITH CALLOUSED HANDS BOILING WATER IN IT'S BELLY, SUPERHEATED STEAM POWERED CAN TRAVELING O'ER IT'S IRON WOOD HIGHWAY, DOUBLE BANDED JUXTAPOSED PARALLEL AND SPIKED TOGETHER, MAN MADE LAID ACROSS THE SAND WITH THE SWEAT AND BLOOD OF YELLOWS, BLACKS AND UNDERPRIVILEGED FELLOWS THROUGH THE NATIONS, EAST TO WEST, OUT ACROSS THE RED MAN'S LAND HORSE OF IRON, MADE TO CARRY, WESTBOUND EAST BORN INDUSTRY, SETTLERS AND FAMILIES SEEKING, NEW LIFE AND THE WESTWARD FREEDOMS, OPEN SPACES HIDDEN TREASURES, OFFERED IN THIS NEW LAND PLEADING, TO BE SETTLED AND UNCOVERED, SPACIOUS BEAUTY, MOST ENTREATING TAMING, CAPTURING, THE IRON HORSE, SPITTING SPARKS IN RHYTHMIC FORCE DRINKING WATER OFT' REPLENISHED, FROM THE TANKS ALONG THE COURSE CHUGGING, CHUGGING, AS IT CARRIES, NIGHT AND DAY BUT EVER WESTWARD DREAMS AND SCHEMES AND WIRES AND THINGS, FOLKS TO HOOK THEM ALL TOGETHER SEES THE COAST OF CALIFORNIA AND THE EASTERN SEABOARD MARRIED ENGINE, ENGINE, ONE WHO CARRIES, EASTBOUND DREAMS AND WESTBOUND TREASURES. RON PURTLEBAUGH

OH, PRECIOUS TEARS OH, PRECIOUS TEARS, WHAT PRICE, SO DEAR AT ONCE AND THEN THEY'RE GONE I ASK MYSELF, IS THERE A WAY, SOMEHOW, TO SAVE JUST ONE ARE WE RICHER FOR THE ONE'S WE FREE, OR THOSE WE BID, HOLD ON? I'VE HEARD IT SAID, "THE TEARS WELLED UP" AND THAT WOULD SEEM TO SAY A TEAR'S A TEAR IF LET TO FALL, OR TIGHTLY HELD AWAY BUT TEARS THE ASTRINGENT KILLS THE SELF POISONS, AND WASHES THE GRAY CLOUDS AWAY. BATTLESHIPS AND WAR MACHINES RUN ON LOST TEARS OF FATHERS AND MOTHERS, SONS AND LOST BROTHERS, WHILE TEARS AND BLOOD MAKE CEMENT FROM MUD DEEP IN THE TRENCHES WHERE BRAVE MEN HUDDLE IN FEAR, STILL, ON THAT DAY WHEN TEARS FELL AS RAIN ON A HILL NEAR THE OLD POTTERS FIELD THE GRAVES WERE ALL OPENED AND BLACK WAS THE SUN AND WHETHER THEY FELL OR CLUNG TO HIS EYE, I'M SURE THAT INSIDE, GOD SHED A TEAR, WHEN HE SAW WHAT WE DID TO HIS SON. RON PURTLEBAUGH

ANOTHER THOUGHT TREADING SODDEN LEAVES OF GRASS MY DEW WET TOES REACH OUT TO MEET, THE STABS OF LIGHT THAT SPARKLE, SHINE, IN BEAMS THAT FALL ACROSS MY PATH SENT BY MOON TO LIGHT MY DREAMS GLISTENING, THEY MAKE THEIR WAY INTO MY ROOM, MY MIND, AT LAST BRINGING FORTH FOR ME TO SEE, PERHAPS THAT THEY MIGHT LIVE AGAIN BEING LIT, THEY'LL COME TO BE ALIVE AT LAST, FREE AGAIN, INSIDE OF ME, WITHIN THEIR HOST, YET MOSTLY FOR THE AWFUL COST, IT CANNOT BE, I CANNOT LET IT COME TO PASS, RELIVING WHAT I THOUGHT WAS LOST, OR EVEN AT THE VERY LEAST, I HOPED IT SO BUT FIND AT LAST, THOUGH HIDDEN WELL, IT LIVED INSIDE, ALTHOUGH I TRIED, LABELED TO PROTECT ME SO, AS OTHERS DO, WITH A KINDNESS, MEMORIES, HOPED FOR DREAMS OF LONG AGO, THIS THING UNCHAINED, THIS THING CALLED PAST. AND NOW THE LITTLE STABS OF LIGHT, RENEW MY PLIGHT AND IN MY FEAR, RETURNS AGAIN, THE THOUGHTS I HAD SO LONG AGO, CONSIDER FLIGHT AS IF THERE IS AN ANSWER THERE, THOUGH I LEARNED SO LONG AGO NEVER COULD IT BE THAT WAY, MUCH OLDER NOW, TOO OLD TO PLAY I SURELY KNOW, IF NOTHING ELSE, THAT I MUST STAY. SO STAYING, I DO BRACE MYSELF HOPING I HAVE CHOSEN WELL FOR TIME ITSELF CAN ONLY TELL, SO I TAKE ANOTHER STEP, THIS I MUST WITHOUT RELENT, THE DARKNESS, THEN THE STABS OF LIGHT, ANOTHER THOUGHT, ENLIGHTENMENT. RON PURTLEBAUGH

Oh Micro glass of Life Oh, micro glass of life, pane of recognition, though through you I do look, seeking a decision my reflection back at me laughs in self derision could it be that what I see, isn't me or what I seek could it be the knowledge that, having looked there once before a picture of the things I want, the things I need something I have painted there, knowing I would look again thinking then, I would believe, in the future that I see things that were, not what shall be. but more of what I wanted then, rather than the things I need? Shall I then, fling this thing, this eyepiece fooling me, shall my eyes be wider then, shall I see more clearly? Shall I shade me and my view away from brightened sun does the glare impair me here, am I the blinded one? Shall I seek a vantage point, to anoint my view? Shall I seek another glass to find anew a view? Oh micro glass of life, help me my decision help me see what I should see, restore my recognition, help me to acknowledge that what I feel I too can see, and what I see I too can feel, keeping all the hidden things out of view and the real things real to me Oh micro glass of life, who are you, but me? Ron Purtlebaugh

No, I Don't Think So Ten seconds run the child is formed and storms into a life of harm, a soul brought forth and enters war for life and breath and worried health to live for what, he knows not then and sure as not, and just as well, best of guesses, no one does and all because a moments heat a passions flower quick unsheathed, and hope beyond all distant hope the best of life is somehow his. A debt is owed, it seems to be not one whit less that he or she should have a better place to be, a reason to be setting free happy from pure happiness, free from free where free was free, but, I don't think could ever be. No, I don't think could ever be. Ron Purtlebaugh

STEER WRESTLING BLOWING SNORTS ANTICIPATING, FLARING NOSTRILS WIDE, EYES AGLARE, A LOOK OF FEAR, TRUSTING ONE ATOP. WELL SETTLED IN AND TO THE DIN, OBLIVIOUS, PREPARES THE PAIR TO ACT AS ONE, HIS LEAN AND BONY RIDE. PATIENT, BACKING, WAITS THE MOMENT... SUDDENLY...HE NODS. THE TAPE! THE TAPE! DON'T BREAK TOO SOON! IN THE SUNDOWN PRACTICING, DAY BY DAY, THE LESSONS LEARNED, GIVE THE STEER A CHANCE TO RUN, IN HEADLONG FLIGHT, A CHANCE TO FEEL THE FREEDOM OF THE SANDY OVAL RING, BROKEN TAPE! NOW GO, AND QUICKLY, CLOSE BESIDE THE HORNY THING. FLANK HIS NOSE AND HOLD THERE BOLDLY...HOLD THERE.... ...HOLD THERE.. 'TIL HIS RIDE HAS DROPPED UPON THE HORNY MOVING THING. NOW IT'S DONE, HIS JOB COMPLETE, TO DO IT ALL AGAIN. RON PURTLEBAUGH

A BULL RIDE SITTING 'TOP A SINEW MOUNTAIN, PULL THE BULL ROPE, TIGHTER, HARDER, WRAP IT 'ROUND AND THROUGH THE BOTTOM MUSCLES FLEXING, STEPPING, SNORTING BANGING LEGS AGAINST THE BOARDING, WAITING 'TIL THE GATE IGNITES HIM, ONE MORE TUG THE RIDER'S NODDING, SLIP THE LATCH, THEY'RE IN AIR, MARKING OUT, WITH LEGS UP HIGHER, SQUEEZING, FOCUS, TURNING, FLEXING, BULL EXPLODING, ONE HAND CLEAR, CENTERING, THE WELL DRAWS NEAR, FEEL THE FEAR, HIS SHOULDERS FOLDING, HEAD GOES DOWN, THE HIND REBOUNDS, AND WITH A CRASHING, JARRING SMASH, INTO THE GROUND, THE HORNS APPEAR, LEANING, LEANING, LEGS UP HIGHER LYING BACK, THIS ONE'S A FLYER, STEADY...BALANCE...LEGS SQUEEZE TIGHTER, GONE.........THE RIDER DISAPPEARS. RON PURTLEBAUGH

Next Time You're Driving Past I'm doing more than that, when you see me standing there, garden side, my trees nearby, nozzle pointed to the ground, hose full on, a gentle spray, prism cut, the rainbow droplets, mockingbirds, and robins sounds, sweetly fill the morning air. It wasn't quite so long ago, while driving past you had a laugh, saw me with my hose in hand, watering two lonely sticks, with a solitary leaf, must have thought some crazy man with just a hose, without a plan, had wandered off the path. Now you have to peek around, to see me watering and weeding, back behind my bushy trees, standing four feet high at least, peppers hanging near the sage, basil 'round, rosemary plays, where the sand was, trees grow from the healthy seedlings. So if you wonder, if you care, next time you look while driving past, and see me watering two sticks, before you guess remember this, time it was, when grass was sand, my wished for garden, just a list, when you see me standing there, I'm doing more than that, Ron Purtlebaugh

DISCRIMINATING SHADE A POEM TREES MAJESTIC LIMBS REACH OUT FAR AND WIDE THERE'S NO PLACE HERE FOR HATERS, BIGOTS, RACISM TO HIDE E'EN THE FURTHEST REACHING LIMB'S A MILLION MILES SHY IN FACT, IT REALLY HAS NO PLACE, IN THIS SKY OF MINE TO AFFIRM MY READS BEFORE, ON SUNDRY OTHER DAYS, I GRABBED A DICTIONARY TO SEE, WHAT NOAH WEBSTER SAID A NIGGER'S A PERSON OF LOW MORAL WORTH, SO RACISTS, FACE YOUR FEARS YOU 'RE EXACTLY WHAT YOU'VE CALLED GOOD FOLKS, FOR YEARS, AND YEARS AND YEARS. IT'S NOTHING WITH THE COLOR OF SKIN, BUT THE MIND AND HEART THAT LIES WITHIN. RON PURTLEBAUGH

MAKE ME SMALL THOU DARK OF NIGHT COME CAPTURE ME I IN NEED, A SECRET HAVE, TO GO UNKNOWN A TINY PLACE ALONE, UNSEEN, WHERE ONLY THOSE, WHO LIVE IN DREAMS AND WALK THE ROAD OF TAUT HEART STRINGS, PLY US, PLEADING, RIGHT FROM WRONG, AND LISTEN NOT THEY WHISPER OVER ONCE AGAIN, 'TIL GUILT ADMITTING BRINGS US SHAME, THIS TINY PLACE I NEED TO BE ONE SINGLE HEART, THAT I MIGHT SEE, FOR KNOW I MUST WHAT LIES WITHIN, COME TAKE ME IN, THAT I MIGHT BE AS ONE OF THEM, LIVING 'TWEEN THE SECOND HAND, JUST BEYOND THE EDGE OF AFTER, RIGHT BEFORE IT ALL BEGAN WHERE THE INSIDE MEETS THE OUTSIDE, IN THAT EVER CHANGING PLACE THAT PLACE OF CHANGE, THAT STAYS THE SAME WHEN THE BOY BECOMES THE MAN, THAT CERTAIN PLACE WHERE WHEN AND WHERE, BECOME THE SAME OH, COVER ME, AND TAKE ME IN AND HEAR MY PLEAS, PLEASE SUCCOR ME THIS LIFE, IF THAT IS WHAT IT IS A THING TO MAKE ME SEE, BELIEVE THAT WHAT I SEE, IS WHAT IT IS AND NOT FOR WHAT IT REALLY IS A SHADE, A BLIND, TO COMFORT ME IF HAVING COMFORT, CAN INDEED BE HAD WHEN HAVING PROVES A NEED, A NEED TO SEE, WHEN SEEING SEEMS AND OF ITSELF IS SEEING THAT YOU'RE BLIND INDEED AND JUDGE ME NOT A RIGHTEOUS MAN IF RIGHTEOUS BE A THING OF PRIDE, OR UNMANLY CURSE TO BRAG AND SING, ABOUT THIS PLACE I STAND AND NOT THE MAN I REALLY AM FOR THIS, AND THIS ONE THING ALONE KNOWING AS A SIMPLE MAN, OF WHO AND WHAT AND WHERE I AM, IS, IN AND OF ITSELF ENOUGH, ENOUGH TO MAKE ME WANT TO ASK, NO, ENOUGH TO MAKE ME KNOW, I WANT TO, NEED TO, SURELY MUST KNOW OF TRUTH, BORN IN DUST, RETURNS TO DUST, THAT PLACE AND TIME THAT'S IN BETWEEN THE DUST AND DUST, 'FORE GOING FORTH EVEN IF IT'S JUST IN ME, AND WHAT I SEE IS ONLY TRUE, HAS WORTH FOR ME, TO BE A GUIDE, I DO NOT SEEK A 'GURU' OR A LORDLY HOST TO BE MY POST, I DON'T ASPIRE OR HIGHER FOR THE COMMON GOOD NO MAGNIFIER, TESTIFIER, APPERCEIVED IDENTIFIER GRANT ME THIS ONE SMALL REPRIEVE AND COUNT TO ME AS MERE RELIEF TO BE AND SEE, FROM WHERE I WAS TO WHAT AND WHEN AND WHERE I'LL BE. RON PURTLEBAUGH

OF KNIVES AND TONGUES A HAIR-BREADTH OF TIME, THE HONED BLADE SLICES DEEP YET QUICKLY THE HEALING, COMPLETELY QUITE NEATLY, WHILE JAGGED AND RIPPED, AN EVERLASTING SCAR THE SORROW AND PAIN, SEEN FROM AFAR, A WOUND SLICED AND CUT FROM THE SHARPEST OF TONGUES WHEN WIELDED BY SOMEONE WE CHERISHED SO SWEETLY HUMILITY SPARKS, ACCUSATIONS AND BLAME EVEN THE HURTING MUST SHOULDER SOME SHAME NOT OF THEIR PERSON OR EVEN THEIR NAME BUT SHAME OF JUST BEING THERE , HURTS ALL THE SAME SHADOWY, THEIR IMAGE IS CAUGHT IN THE FRAME ASKS, HOW AM I, WHY AM I, IN THIS REFRAIN, A WEAPON OF IMPORT, THE UNCONTROLLED TONGUE POISON IT SPEWS, FROM THE HEART, IF THERE'S ONE CUTS EQUALLY THE WIELDER AND OFFENDED AS ONE BUT A CANCER DOWN DEEP IS LEFT WHEN IT'S DONE. RON PURTLEBAUGH

SPRINGTIME GONE IS BACK AGAIN THIS THE TIME OF JOY AND LOVE THE MOCKINGBIRDS DO SING ABOVE SOME THINGS ALWAYS STAY THE SAME GIRLS AND BOYS ENJOYING SPRING IGNITE A FLING, READY FOR A SUMMER THING BEACHES, BATHING SUITS AND CARS LONG GONE NOW THE DRIVE-IN WARS GAS AT TWENTY-FOUR AND NINE DRAGGING DOWN THE DOTTED LINE PLAIN WHITE T'S WITH DUNGAREES CUFFS AND CORDS, ANGORA'D RINGS STILL THRU ALL THE PASSING TIME SIXTY'S DYLAN'S LIVING RHYMES ELVIS PRESLEY GONE, AND DIED COLD KOOL-ADE IN SUMMERTIME BOYS STILL USE THEIR FAVORITE LINES SLIDIN' NOW IS HANGIN' OUT RAPPIN'S CHANGED, OF THAT NO DOUBT, MURKY NOW, WHO'S IN AND OUT IT'S STILL A TIME OF JOY AND LOVE GOD BLESS THE MOCKINGBIRDS ABOVE. RON PURTLEBAUGH

"When your Daemon is in charge, do not try to think consciously. Drift, wait, and obey." Rudyard Kipling 1937 A.D.

NET OF FLIGHT DEDICATED TO MY BROTHER CURT AND BLOOMINGTON COMPUTING IN HER NET OF BITS AND BYTES AND LONG GONE NEED OF TURBO LIGHTS WHERE FLOPPY DRIVES ARE KNOWN TO READ AND BURNERS READ BUT ALSO WRITE WHILE FATAL ERRORS LIVELY BLUE, THE SCREEN OF DEATH, IS OFTEN KNEW TO LIVE AGAIN, POR TODO PARTE AND REBOOTING MEANS RESTART BUSSES, CLOCKS AND ROMS AND RAMS WHERE JUMPERS JUMPED BUT NEVER RAN AND STAND OFFS AREN'T THE CLIQUISH KIND AS DRIVERS CHANGE FROM TIME TO TIME ONCE YOU FIND THEM FIRST, THAT IS WHERE IRQ'S CONFLICT AND FIZZ ELECTRONIC MAIL AND HOTMAIL TOO EUDORA SHARES THE ETHER VIEW THERE'S DSL'S AND CABLE, TOO, A UNIVERSAL SERIAL BUS THAT DOESN'T CROSS THE WATERLOO HARD DRIVES HEADS AND CYLINDERS CPU FANS SANS A PURR TUNER CARDS AND VGA COLORS TRUE THAT BEG DISPLAY MOTHER BOARDS AND BLASTER SOUND DOT COMS WHERE THE URLS ARE FOUND CAPTURE CARDS AND ROOT HUBS TOO ALL ALIGNED AND HELD WITH SCREWS JUST OUTSIDE THIS LITTLE HOUSE SITS A KEYBOARD AND A MOUSE IF EVERYTHING'S IN PROPER SCHEME CONNECT AND BROWSE TO FIND YOUR DREAM. THIS INTERNET OF BITS AND BYTES IMAGINATION TURNS TO FLIGHT. RON PURTLEBAUGH

RATIONALIZATIONS AND RECOLLECTIONS SURFING THE NET, FLITTING AWAY GOING THROUGH Rs, TO SEE WHAT THEY SAY BLACK WENT MY SCREEN AND ATOP A BIG DOOR IN DAY-GLO GREEN LETTERS, I SAW A SIGN SAY RESOLUTIONS RESOLVED LIKE THE CURIOUS CAT, AND THE SPONGE, I'M AKIN MY MOUSE ON THE "ENTER", I CLICKED MY WAY IN IN FRONT OF ME NOW, TWO MORE LARGE DOORS EACH WITH A SIGN, TO BE HARDLY IGNORED THE RIGHT ONE SAID, RECOLLECTIONS REPAIRED THE LEFT ONE READ, RATIONALIZATIONS RESTORED A SIGN OVER EACH. ONCE YOU GO THROUGH THIS DOOR YOU CAN ENTER NO MORE AND THE OTHER ONE'S CLOSED, EVERMORE WHILE STANDING AND STARING, DECIDING MY CHOICE LOOKING AT THE DOOR, I'D WALKED MYSELF THROUGH ON THE INSIDE, OF THE BACKSIDE, OF THE OUTDOOR, I READ WHERE DISPLAYING A SIGN OF IT'S OWN, PLAINLY SAID BY LEAVING THIS INSTANT, YOUR CHOICE YOU WON'T LOSE BUT YOU MUST DEPART NOW, AND CHOOSE NOT TO CHOOSE I DON'T REMEMBER WHY, BUT THAT MOMENT I LEFT, AND THOUGH I HAVE SEARCHED, I HAVE NO EXCUSE. RON PURTLEBAUGH

DREAMS THE PLIGHT OF MAN HAVE YOU EVER LONGED TO BE A SIMPLE LITTLE TREE, OR A FLOWER IN A FIELD, TICKLED BY A BREEZE? HAVE YOU EVER LONGED TO BE A QUIET LITTLE STREAM, OR A DUCK UPON A POND, WHO GLIDES WITHOUT A DREAM? HAVE YOU EVER LONGED TO BE A WISPY LITTLE CLOUD, OR A STAR, WAY OFF FAR, BRIGHT, BUT NEVER PROUD? HAVE YOU EVER LONGED TO BE A NOTE UPON A SCALE, OR A FALLING DROP OF RAIN, LIVE ONLY AS YOU FELL? HAVE YOU EVER LONGED TO BE A SPARROW AS IT FLEW, OR A CHIPMUNK, IN THE GRASS, SCAMPER THROUGH THE DEW? HAVE YOU EVER LONGED TO BE TO REALIZE AS MAN, IF YOU EVER GOT YOUR WISH YOU NEVER WOULD AGAIN. RON PURTLEBAUGH

Me Neither! D'yever have five children clamoring for ice cream enough for four, no sooner scooped 'em into the cones, 'Kersplatt!' goes one on the floor? D'yever rinse an ice cream ball to keep the kids from war? Me Neither! Were 'yever lost vacationing and your loved one's beginning to wonder?" Then make an excuse, "I need coffee or juice" to stop to recover your blunder? Then later, "Were we Lost?" you answer, "No Way!" "Then, how many Mississippi's did we go under?" Me Neither! Ron Purtlebaugh

DEW, ME TOO Blowing o'er the blades of grass breezes rustle every page, near my ear an open book 'neath my poem tree of shade. Considering this morning come, as if a cloak, renewed, meanders through the morning dew, breaks to sight and well displayed the dawning sun to light my page and creeping o'er, the finest fog, more the wisp a lowly cloud, forgot to go away. And takes with it for other days, the morning dew, thinking, wishing, wondering, would that I could be as light might it take me. Ron Purtlebaugh

WHAT'AYA SAY YA' DONE TODAY? WHAT'CHA DOIN', JUST SITTIN' THERE, A'LOOKIN' OFF THAT WAY? I'M CLEANING THE SHELVES OF HATRED AND MEAN WHERE RACISM USED TO PLAY. YOU WERE NOT, I SAW YOU THERE! I WAS SWEEPING THE CORNERS, OF APATHY, INDIFFERENCE, THAT GATHER LIKE WEBS AND HANG IN THE AIR. BALONEY, MARONEY, YOU WERE LOLLIGAGGIN', YOU AIN'T DOING NO CHORES! I WAS MAKING A PLACE, CLEARING THE WAY FOR NEW IDEAS TO SOAR. YOU'RE DOIN' CHORES, SWEEPIN' N' CLEANIN', THAT'S WHAT YOU'D HAVE ME TELL? TELL WHAT YOU WILL, OR WILL WHAT I TELL, CLEAR A SPACE, AND MAKE A PLACE, FOR HARMONY, LOVE AND PEACE TAKE ALL THE DIRTY, THE STUPID AND USELESS, THE TRASH YOU'VE SAVED UP ABOVE, PUT 'EM WITH HATE, RACISM AND MEAN, AND SEND 'EM ALL STRAIGHT TO HELL. THAT'S WHAT I'D SAY, I'VE DONE TODAY, AND YOU CAN DO IT AS WELL. RON PURTLEBAUGH

AND...SO YOU CAN'T DEDICATED TO JENNIFER AND GREGORY I THINK, MORE OFTEN WE THINK, THAN THINK NOT, AS STUDENTS, WE'RE TEACHERS, AS TEACHERS, WE'RE TAUGHT. A SIMPLE SAMPLE, PERHAPS, TO MAKE IT QUITE CLEAR I RENDER EXAMPLE. I THINK IT QUITE AMPLE. A PARTICULAR DAY, IN RAN OUR SON FROM CHILD'S WORK, WE LIKE TO CALL PLAY, BLURTING, NO BREATH, FOR OUR HOME'S ON A HILL, "MOM, NEED AN ASHTRAY FOR THE TREE HOUSE WE BUILT." A QUESTION OF SUCH, WHO COULD SAY YES! SETTLE IN, STUDENT, THE TEACHER'S TO TEST. STRAIGHT-AWAY THE QUERY PUT THE TEACHER TO TASK NO MANIPULATION ALLOWED TEACHERS TURN TO ASK. SO POINTEDLY, YET THOUGHTFULLY, STRICT FOCUS MAINTAINED, "ARE YOU ASKING FOR AN ASHTRAY TO NAIL IN THE TREE, TO GO THERE AND SMOKE, WITHOUT BEING SEEN?" IN A HEARTBEAT, LIKE HIS BREATH, WITH NARY ONE MISS, HIS RETORT, IN CONSTERNATION, "MOM...YOU CAN'T NAIL GLASS!" RON PURTLEBAUGH

The Legend Of Bat Mountain Dedicated to my sons Mathias and Josiah Battlers of Demons and Dragons The Bat bled breath far down the cave and save for those hid quite aside or askew for centuries o'er, or sightless round a cornered bend, blackened, deformed, crystallized, every bare rock, every stone, every pock marked, burned stalagmite, carbonized on caverns floor to the door that opened widely, where no green would grow again, 'side a rill now long since dried by the old Bat's appetite, 'neath a dirty ragged snow line far up on the mountainside. Herded Battle gathered nearby outcrop rocks and jutting stumps, Bat raped cattle grazed a grove where trees and grass could never grow. Through the years, where villagers had sought dissuading, burned and oiled, living things, the grass and flowers, just to see the Battle go. Guarding Bomen, armed and closely, Bat raped women, that survived, guarded to protect and save them for the milk, from Battle flowed. Used in worship, their Bat Master, daily saved, they brought his fill carried high up on the mountain, deep into his cave strewn hill. Tears, and fears o'er sleepless years, what seeming now for eons past, nigh on eighty years or longer mountain folk were terrorized. Set apart this tiny country on the verge, unstoppable, stole the hearts, the minds and souls of generations, to the third. Sons of sons and daughter's daughters watched the Bomen multiply, riding 'long the mountain's valleys some, 'twas said, were better dead, on their ugly armored Battle Battle furs and Battle dress. The Bomen were a horrid race, with haunting looks and thin of face, trees they hung in, sleeping daily, full webbed arms and razor teeth, features said, looked much the same the dirty Battle that they rode, a thinnish nose and brows that rose a center bone along their head, thick protruding, down along their chin near hid, flap like ears stood short and pointy on the side, their flat like head. Never seen, 'til dusk drew nearer, children in the village close, though they saw the Battle herd heard the stories old one's told, feared their eyes to fall upon the face of those the Bomen rode, even where a shadow fell of the Bomen, thing from hell. Ran headlong into their homes, at a glance or smelled the smell or upon their ears, the screeches, eerie whining sound far reaching of the Bomen's Battle yell. Quiet whispered, rightly so, Bat that lived deep in the cave, size of man with talon hands more the match for any man. Though nearly blind, or so was said, could hear a flea and often did snatching off a Battle's head, brought as feed by Bomen hands, Battle milk in skull bone pans, mixed with blood and fluids well drained by the Bomen from the Battle, served with pains, by servants trained, Bomen born with bat size brains. Legend had the first took Bomen, pregnant full when dragged to cave, made a slave, but in her madness slid her newborn in a pail. Flinging, hurtled down the mountain, rolled to hunters, to be saved, scratched in letters, "save my daughter, take her far and stay away, time will come, my daughter's daughter, on a far and distant day, she will come then, armed and ready, with my bones the Bat to slay, 'til that day I'll save and sharpen, go now, take her far away." True to word, the Bomen slave, through her madness all the same, saved and sharpened all the bones that Bat brought to his cave each day, from the feed he nightly gathered pillaged village cattle herds, always leaving after slaughter, some twice raped and left to grazing harvested a different way, another day, or night the rather, newborn Battle brought to cave. Breaking bones and sinew gristle with her teeth to pull apart, saving, hiding sharpened pieces, morning times when she would start, grinding, scraping 'gainst the cave walls making weapons, for the day, for to conquer her Bat master, hated captor, drive into his bat size heart. knowing well, this would elude her nevermore, would come the day but the bones she saved and sharpened, generations passed away. Ninety-five and old and feeble still she waited for the day, 'gain the bat was growing younger