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 knew that it was soon to be as o'er time her old eyes witnessed, generations pass away, away, his old wings come, his new wings hard and shiny once again and with new strength countenance furrowed, once again, new Battle ways. Once again, he chased the young girls dragged them to his old bat cave. Near the village, down the mountain in the valley, wild and free, grew the slender young Lalana of her daughter's daughter's seed. Waxing bold, her father taught her, fought the betters of the men, learned of tools and arms and weapons, trained in combat, hand to hand. Came Balboa, brave the young man, working iron with his hands, smithy trained and man of metals, cast the ironworks for her hand. Fashioned mail, a suit to fit her, light the weapons for her hands, strong a shield for which to guard her, shining sword, the Bat to end. When Orion reached the zenith and the moon was round and full in the early days of winter, when the nights were clear and cool. Up, Lalana, took her weapons, to her hand, her sword and shield, girded loins and dressed as warrior, to the cave, the Bat to kill. Little's spoken of the magic reigned that night up in the hill, how the hand of young Lalana set about the Bat to kill. How her arm, the bat had shredded, came to be so quickly healed. Or the old one, aged and feeble, won back years the Bat did steal, two young girls came down the mountain, singing songs with blooded steel. Gone, the years and fears of Bomen, and their ugly Battle steers, Gone the Bat, the old Bat Master, happiness came to the hill. Now they sing the songs of battle, how Lalana saved their land, cleared the mountain of the demon, with her hand, the Bat she killed. Ron Purtlebaugh

CARRY THE LIGHT SIR, ARE YOU AWAKE SIR, ARE YOU....COME QUICKLY IT'S THE HIGH COURTS DECISION! NOW, GET A HOLD'A YOURSELF, BOY DON'T BE IMPERTINENT, COURSE I KNOW DIVISION! I'M GETTIN' MY SPECKS ON, NO SIR, IT'S THE DECISION! NOT ANOTHER WORD, BOY, I KNOW MY OWN VISION. WHAT'S IT ALL COMING TO, I'LL TELL YOU, COLLISION! A SMART-ALEC YOUNG PUP TELLIN' ME ABOUT VISION. NOSIREE, DON'T TAKE NO GENIUS BOY PUTTIN' YOUR FINGER ON THE START STAMPIN' THE STREETS CARRYING SIGNS,,, WANTIN' PART! BUT SIR, THE MISSES SENT ME! NOT A WORD BOY, OLD GOATS, UP AND DOWN, CLAMORIN' AND YAMMERIN', WITH THOSE SIGNS, FOR A START! THEM IN THEIR PETTICOATS STOMPIN' THROUGH TOWN... PETTICOATS INDEED....SHAME ON YOU SENATOR, NOT ANOTHER WORD!!! THIS IS JIMMY, REMEMBER? HE DOES THE FRONT YARD? I APOLOGIZE FOR HIM JIMMY, HE DON'T MEAN NO HARM WHY, LAST YEAR IN CONGRESS HE SLEPT THROUGH TWO TERMS REMEMBER, YOU SAID WAKE ME, WHEN SHE CAME ON THE SCREEN? IT'S PRESIDENT MARJORIE, THE SUPREME COURT'S CONVENED! THEY SAID, BUYING IS OWNING, AND SELLING IS SOLD, THEY CAN'T SELL IT, TAKE THE MONEY AND CONTINUE TO HOLD, IF YOU BUY IT, YOU OWN IT, IT ENDS UP RIGHT THERE, OH YES! YOU CAN'T OWN THE WAVES THAT ARE PUT IN THE AIR.! SEE BOY! I TOLD YOU, I KNEW THEY'D GET IT RIGHT! JUST NEEDED THE RIGHT PERSON TO CARRY THE LIGHT. RON PURTLEBAUGH

Sect Begets Sect Persecution of the persons, does inject, Humanity prefers to term the sect, Persecution in the sect begets an action, Humanity prefers to term the faction, The factions persecution forces individuality, To guard their sounding flute, Who band to form a group, Who troop to persecute, Where persons revolute, Expectedly, then band to form a sect. Ron Purtlebaugh

Along the Way

I've traversed the road

that seems less traveled, At nighttime 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

This Could Be Your Child Suffer not the tattered sleeve, the coin-of-mint of poverty to birth a line upon your lips, that slips and drips of snobbery. Suffer not the ragged child, of tender heart and sweet, naive, a wayward glance belie your stance, of pity, save the parents leave. Who but child, knows the pain the rain of life, that lonely brings, left without a Mother's arrows sling, instead the hornets sting Who but homeless, suffer stain, dumpster meals, cardboard stalls, suffer not the loosened lips of hatred, on the ragged, fall. Suffer not, for all the while, perchance another circumstance, perhaps it's long forgotten now, what's the cost, a simple smile, another time, another place, this could be your child. Ron Purtlebaugh

A TOWN SO SMALL I LIKE TO LIVE IN A TOWN SO SMALL, THE ATHEIST'S NAME IS KNOWN BY ALL THE DRUNKARD THAT RAMBLES THE COURTHOUSE SQUARE, TALKS TO HIMSELF WITH EVERYONE THERE THE DEMOCRATS HAVE A PLACE TO GO 'STEAD OF WORRYIN' FOLKS THE GOVERNMENTS BROKE WITH A LITTLE BOOTH AT THE COUNTY FAIR PARADES ARE OK, KEEPS 'EM OUT OF OUR HAIR, PASSIN' OUT BUTTONS AND CARRYIN' SIGNS AND RULERS FOR ALL, A YARD AT A TIME. OBITUARIES, IN THE COUNTY RAG TAKE AS MUCH SPACE AS THE CLASSIFIED ADS THE FOURTH OF JULY IS A BIG WHOOP-DE-DO AND LITTLE LEAGUE GAMES ARE THE THING TO DO ON SATURDAY NIGHT, KIDS CIRCLE THE SQUARE IN HOPPED UP MACHINES, AND EVERYONE'S THERE MAYBE IT'S NOT SO MUCH A PLACE BUT A TIME THAT WAS, I LIKED LIVING THERE. RON PURTLEBAUGH

Just A Cup Of Coffee Looking past my coffee as it's vaporized to air, the twirling smoke, my cigarette, fights to join it there. Seems they get along so well, talk and play and circle round and then they're gone, together found, a place to be I cannot see, but taking 'long with each of them a little part of me. My thoughts I send along with them, I know not where they go, but still, I have assurance in their freed invisibility and somehow wish they travel well, perhaps to someone else who sees, that sameness clearly that I see, clarity in plumes of smoke that travels in their little cloak and takes a part of me. Ron Purtlebaugh

Time Enough, Not Nearly Blacken not, my memories door, your cannon of exactitude, you seem to fire most regularly, 'he did this,' 'she said that,' 'I know, what they meant by that', your attitude of self- delusions, misconclusions, self- induced dichotomy, virulent, always with your finger pointing, still the question's begging, asking, don't you think perchance, somehow, likely should be, is it me? Ron Purtlebaugh

THE STAR POST I would a simple postman be, if the route's left up to me, happy with my bag of mail, posting stars, galacticly, from The Swan to Orion's belt, far out past M333. If Cepheus, by The Little Dipper posts a letter to Canis Major, or Pegasus of western skies sent a package to Gemini, or Perseus, in need of funds billed Cassiopeia, once each month, I would, upon a great winged horse deliver mail, each night of course and glide upon the Milky Way to bring the stars their mail each day. If Aries thought to have a sale, or Aquila chose to sell it's tail, or Hercules decided to move, a flyer then to Leo hailed, I'd head right out past M61, (The Autumnal Equinox, Ecliptic Run) through comet tails and dark of night I'd be there with my bag held tight and count myself a lucky man to post the stars, each hand by hand. RON PURTLEBAUGH

Just Got Dark The birth of evening, daylight's doom that floods and creeps to corners deep and throws last rays sweet silouette to juxtapose a windows ledge or slashing hash mark shades of gray across the boarding of the floor, to tiny places hid between the cracks and spaces dabs of light might never seen, or if it has, has never gone, at least in strength. The stabs of light they hug to me, in their ever changing gloom, passing o'er me, silently. I count the ticks, the tocking clock, but lose inside the shadows time, it's strength in slowness, numbers seem to go away between the coming of the eve, ray's last passage of the day. I look, a'sudden! Day has left! The clock hands gone, the ticking, tocking, heavy, lay, I start, with an uneasy feel, as if a friend just by my side has disappeared, and gone away. Ron Purtlebaugh

The Preacher, The Soldier, And The Poet Crowded caverns, passing thoughts rub shoulders long the way, with others of the one's most sought missed from yonder days, fights to breathe sweet freedom's air speaks each it's differed say, In search of truth and wondering why, a one to other says: The Preacher, Soldier and Poet walk, a path 'long wooded hill, the Preacher bends to touch the ground, extended hand well filled, in this, says he, is God and life, the Is, the Was, the All. In death, the Soldier sees it freed, a glancing blow, it's spilled. The Poet, witnessing the scene, in air a prism looms, and contemplating life and God, and freedom's death in being free in scattered bits of earth, in his heart he feels the loss, an epitaph, he plumes. Ron Purtlebaugh

In A Pondering Crawling through the crevices of ponderings, this early morn, spied a transport, bid me ride clearly marked in letters high, The Imagination of Travel. By it's side and marked as well, going where, I could not tell, quite the same, but clearly not, a companion, quiet, waiting, Travel the Imagination. Contemplating boarding, which, a conflation so confounding, began, by sounding to myself confluent words, this riddle rhyme, this conflux, ride, which to take, which one was right. Then cross a cavern, I surmised, excogitated, neither state might ne'er abate, nay, never leave, and just as surely, ruminated, neither which might never be, though I viewed them, semblably, share their niche, if a view can e're be had in a pondering, Then seemingly, the semblance plain, a rivulet of realization, to bestride the either one, whichever chose, would be to board the twain, so by this time in pondering, I surely rode the both. Ron Purtlebaugh

UNTHINKABLY SMALL Unthinkably small, but appalling, the gall, tell me the reason, tell me the rhyme, to my mind, a sign of the times. I once knew a young man from Texas, a pensioner, because he was blind, buying glasses and tags, packing his bags to Indiana, where he studies and drives. As a lover of words, not hate, this offends, on awaking one day, nineteen sixty-eight, finding "gay," just stolen away! Plain stolen away, no longer meant joy, but a boy, making love to a boy. But surely, most ignorant, am I. Not alone, as example, I ply. Shakespeare, to me, of the brightest that lived, and biology, of his time was quite void, went to his grave, ignorance in hand, believing, that all bees were boys. Commensurably, Darwin, thought all men were apes, while Freud, with his id, speaks to this, U.S. lawmakers, back in seventy-eight, said, one single man, with strength still in hand, by an unarmed woman, was raped. The unthinkability of it all, to me, appears rather small, but still quite appalling, the gall. Ron Purtlebaugh

Free The Beach Patient fishers wait ashore, stoic pelicans, as well, no one tells them where to sit, or the surf, where it may swell, turtles where to lay their eggs, busy crabs, to do their chores. Out come pylons, Out come signs, "Don't Drive Here, This Beach Is Mine! I'm the turtle, scared of lights, you scare me off, your drives at night, forget I have the whole vast sea, or the coastline's unused beach. Now your leaders, past their prime forget the joy and happy times, their youthful flings upon the shore, they don't need it anymore, night beach drives in summertime, you're a kid, this beach is mine!" Pelicans, still stay their mount, fishermen are all fished out. The turtles may, or may not come, kids are young, but only once. Ron Purtlebaugh

Night Wedding The close of night tight weds to me, and hugs the darkness round about, where lies the start, I cannot tell or where the end begins to be, at once the darkness seems to meld and holding to a place not seen, it frees me with it's emptiness and stealthily, I hug as well the closeness of it's nothingness, is everything that I can tell. Ron Purtlebaugh

The Old Man And The Bird On chance alone, a rambling walk down ocean side this morn, the bier of night had gently closed, birthing dawn, without travail. I spied forlorn upon the pier a man alone, a stubbly beard, unkempt, unshorn, indisposed, not terribly ill, more out of sorts, courting on his hand, outstretched of warts and papery wrinkled skin, just below the eyes of age, 'Bojangles look', might be mistook as one who thwarted years with gin, a tiny bird, feathers flurried, the old man kindly tucking in. Petting, as he spoke to him. I overheard, "My little friend, wish you hadn't hurried so to leave your nest, maybe Mother pushed you out, I doubt it though, perhaps the rest had sooner left and just like me, you little cared to be alone." And then it shone in morning's sun. I saw him cry, upon his cheek a single tear had torn itself, escaping from his eye, then fell between the boarded pier to join the ocean's tide. Ron Purtlebaugh

Runs On Four of Catchee Coulee Steep the walls of Catchee Coulee flows the canyon's river bend, deep into the hard rock mountains where the white man's never been. High upon the red faced granite's headlong drop to river's edge, 'cross the face of Blind Rock Morning course a path, the sheerest ledge. Caverns deep abides an Indian known by all as Runs On Four with his woman, Light Of Linda, daily mines the blue green ore. Cool of day, the labyrinth cave home, warm of night, a slow fire burns, Runs On scratches words in murals on the wall, each day's return. This he does to tell the story, family history passed along painted with the blue green grindings Light Of Linda sings in song. To the child within her belly for the day he makes his way to the home of Light and Runs On, joy to fill their cavern stay. Early springtime brought their baby heralding a dreadful end, for the illness was to take them brought to Coulee, white man's hand. Bringing beads and threads of color. medicines of patent mix, with the ague that did befall them, soon the family fell to sick. Now the herbs that Light used always, nor the roots she daily dug, mixed with fish oil from the river helped the ague that now had struck. Gone the days of happy singing, night times found them cold, alone, when the sickness took their baby darkness fell upon their home. Runs On saw the life light fading from the eyes, his Linda love, took her to his arms, he held her crying to Great All above, striding to the mouth of cavern, Linda tight within his arms flung he both them, to the canyon, that his love would know no harm. Testifying murals standing, telling all the life that was, but the part so grossly missing, how the white man shattered love. Ron Purtlebaugh

Bottle, Rocks, Pebbles, Sand A Lesson From My Father's Hand Dedicated to Darci A man's own man, my father's hand outstretching reached to me, aged gruffness in his voice a strength so gentle, sweet. "Come here my son, a lesson from this bottle in my hand, you see the rocks up to the top, in fact, the very brim, if one tries with all his might, another won't fit in. Some might think this bottle full," his eyes, so full of life, in his loving, teaching me, he poured some pebbles in. The pebbles quickly joined the cracks between the larger rounder rocks, and stepping back he spoke aloud, "Perhaps it's full this time?" His wrinkled hands then scooping sand, sifting through his weathered hands he filled it up again. While looking deep into my eyes he spoke these words of light, "You see, this bottle is your life, the larger, you and me, all the most important things, your health and family, God above, your partner's love, the things you cherish sweet, the things destroyed or finding lost, your life so incomplete. The pebbles are the other things with which we have to deal, the house and car, the job you lose, where comes another meal. The sand that's sifting through my hand, the troubles, woes and cares, the little things when finding harm you quickly seek repair. If sand and pebbles firstly put, you have no room for rocks, you've filled your life with woes and cares no room for life's rootstock. Attend your life, your partner, kids, you'll find it's time well spent, take them out or read aloud, spend your time where love does count, tomorrow's time, sufficiently to fix the dryer vent. Ron Purtlebaugh

Sounds The Same And Rhymes With Rop My sentience allowing me seeing through your gobbly geek, your deictic phraseology, sententious amorality, when all I asked, a simple thought, "what is it that you might believe?" You run and hide in answering, "anything, quite possibly." As if in some way this might say, "my latitude is broad, you see, I can see it every way, to have beliefs might well as say, I've made my mind and narrowly, but no, I see it every way, anything, quite possibly." This the stuff a bull bestows a grazing meadow flower's nose, four letters landing in the lap, sounds the same and rhymes with rap. Ron Purtlebaugh

A Minute In The Life Of A Light Bulb The hazy snow round bulb's aglow, midwinter's chilling rain, the stringent light strikes out to fight a path beneath my pane. It stains the night that dark before implores to live again, the wind breaks in, inserts a leaf to see it dies in vain. A shingle loose has slipped it's noose a broken rooftop nail, flaps the breeze to leave a crease that dims the cement trail. Up the walk the dead leaves stalk and swirling single file, one jumps up to talk, then balks... and joins them in a pile. All the while, the bulb aglow, takes it all in style. Ron Purtlebaugh

Just A Little Girl Saw her leaning on the post tattered shirt and shoes all scuffed, a paddleball, nonchalantly, softly tossing toward the walk. watching all the traffic by, looked at home though rather lonely, ignoring those who stopped to talk. A man stopped by, she shook him, "No!" I wondered what he had to say, where he asked her, she might go. She was waiting, there and plainly for someone, and keenly so. for every now and then turn slowly toward a door marked, 'Hotel Rooms'. My waiting brought me no surprise, I saw her eyes, the look of love, for shoving to her on the walk through the dregs of humankind, six inch heels, a skirt so high the men would stop as she walked by, smiling each, but not too long, for if they did, she'd sing her song, "Wanna' date? It's not too late?" But most would only pass her by. "Darling," to her daughter there, "Someone s'posed to meet me here, would you mind a little while?" A forlorn smile, another, "No," tears began to shrink her eyes, "Ok, Mommy," Mommy didn't hear her though She'd turned to see her walking off, to the arms another man in the door marked "Hotel Rooms." I took a step...then sat me down. I wanted so, to hold her now, instead I sat and cried aloud. "Damn you man, Damn you man! look and see what you've done now." Ron Purtlebaugh

November, December, January O' winter of mine discontent long sorrow over three months spent, seems, perchance, you may be gone, another child has left my lawn, a brother once, has passed along, a love held dear continues on, perhaps I've made it after all, if luck holds out another morn perhaps the birds of springtime, warm will once again adorn my wall, perhaps I'll hear the robin sing, perhaps my flowers once again will bloom and bring a new spring dawn, perhaps my child will visit me and once again walk on my lawn. Ron Purtlebaugh

Thank You, Lord, For Poets God, Oh God, how I love, the poet's poetic words, I know sometimes it seems absurd, but Lord, they mean so much to me, they calm me when the storms of life are filled with worry, hate, and strife, they warm me when the nights are cold, and in those times, I think I'm broke, they bring to me, a richness Lord, more bright than all the diamonds, Lord, in words that glint of finest gold, Thank you, Lord, for giving me a gift I'll never worthy be, and thank you Lord for those who share these sentiments with me. Ron Purtlebaugh

Look Into Your Mirror, Boy You cry in your reflections, boy, the mirror on your wall, it seems to cry so well for you, can't you see at all? Can't you tell your poet, boy, your bright reflective glass? He kicks you, boy, most mentally, why must you be so crass? You looking for a mentor, boy? To put up on a shelf? First, you have to move the one you know so well as self. And, keep in mind, the very one, upon your pedestal, will some day like other things, must to, have to fall. And I suppose, when passing prose, as poetry that sings, remember please that poetry, gives of finer things. Ron Purtlebaugh

And Now I Write As Mother prays, her tiny child, for small to her he'll ever be, cascades gently down the side, this rocky mountain known as life, so with a smile, a wonderment, of life with all it's special charms, wishes him, as birds, and free, to fly and see the other side, to climb the highest peaks it holds and be the best that he can be, it brings a pain and grief to see, for her, the son that doesn't see, but Mother most, and first of all, must remember nature's call, a child, though she may want the best is on his own when leaves the nest, and these the choices made when young, for children learn at early age, remembering the songs well sung, that Mother is his truest sage, and when a child lets this to go, to travel on his own paved road, though he be blessed with tenderness, the stones he dropped along the way, are his to travel, his to test, his to walk again some day. So, Mother, hold your head up high and know of strictest surety that you have done your very best, and what he'll be, is what he'll be. This I know, for fact and true, for I was once like your son too. Ron Purtlebaugh

Shame, Broken Hearts And Blame

                                          Time was, broken hearts were scarce,
                                                                                  learned too late, faults come in pairs,
                                                          something strange to run across,
                                                                                  a one-sided internet love lost,
                                                          now it seems they're each the next,
                                                                                  a couple finds that love's not sex,
                                                          but still they singly seek repairs,
                                                                                  proclaiming, "he just did not care,"
                                                          seeking first to place the blame,
                                                                                 perhaps he's feeling quite the same,
                                                          when blame itself lies in the name,
                                                                                 for blame when placed, to all is shame.

Ron Purtlebaugh

I've Seen I've seen the nakedness of woman and knew the work as God's, I've seen the righteous man forsaken, and thought it nothing odd, I've seen death's shadow at the door, and watched it pass me by, I've seen grief heaped and sorrow weep, and cried, and cried, and cried, I've seen excesses turn to naught, and plenty turn to waste, I've seen the honey drips of life and stayed too long to taste, I've seen the jealous emptiness that came not from above, I've trod the hidden paths of life, the darker shores of love, I've heard the mockingbird at sing enjoyed his wondrous songs, I've tempted fate, and stayed too late, and kept the drink too long, I've listened with an earnestness, and kept my tongue as well, I've seen the fool that taught the wise, and walked the roads of hell, I've penned the line and made up rhyme and watched them grow and bloom, I've felt the ocean's loneliness, the same a crowded room, I've pitied the forgotten child, showed mercy as I could, I've waited when I should have not, and traveled, should have stood, I've worked 'til I was weary, tired, and laughed while others cried, I've seen the troubles mount so high, I rather would have died, I've seen the loneliness take hold, and wondered at it's grip, I've seen the time I'd rather sit than take another step, But through it all, there's been a joy that words cannot describe, I'll celebrate this life and write, as long as God decides. Ron Purtlebaugh

Darkness Come To Light Answers sought from early age that gathered 'bout me still, of darkness and the fear it lets, urging me most endlessly, appointing portions, quotas set, journal neatly filled, best foot forward to my quest, paused at second thoughts behest, asking could I, might I be up to this task yet? Could I find the edge of night where looms the half light wilderness, where dusk to dawn in twilight's name, do meet the very crest? Where dwells the harbingers of fate for those who fear the light less place, perceiving evil in the eve, to bring to me the very sight, mechanics both of fear and fright, that train and strain to break the peace of leery mid half light? Who is this thing, this thing that brings unsettled nerve, unfounded verve to nothingness, when nothingness is no more than a half lit curve? A place that can't be seen around, breeds the most profounding dirge, brings a fear and deathly sound to silence, man's best friend, let's the sightless blinded man know what's on the ground. Set to task, to answer this, investigating all that stands 'tween peace of mind and darkness' hand, to know of truth and surety just what is that breaks the bliss, in this, of all the time's of man. Deciding on an action's plan my notes and pen in hand, brought me to a place well known, where I would know if any man, spirit, monster, boogie man, might enter to this place secured, unbeknownst, and bringing fear, there to let the darkness meet receding light, as I endured. Settling about me, still, darkness quickly quiet filled emptiness, that 'round me sat, as I witnessed daylight pass, in evidence the fading light aware awaiting fall of night, for anything within it's grasp that sought to harm or even kill. In the darkness, close and near a peace began to settle there, as realizations entered, filled, wiped away all vestiges of insecurity, despair. I realized that only me, things that I could feel or see, in the quiet reigning there, the tiny sounds that I could hear were all a friend and known to me, nothing in the solitude was there to harm or bring me fear. So I sat it on a shelf this fear of darkness in the heart causing man, unreasoning, conjuring to fear and start, this thing that most decidedly was born a child of hell, knowing I had passed the test, this task that I had set me to I sent it home to rest. Ron Purtlebaugh

A Winter Morn I found the winter of my soul one early April morn, the grayness of her matted words befell me with her scorn. She spoke of love, of days gone by, discretion thown aside, tormenting spitting words of hate admitting that she lied. In childish rationale concern explaining not a thing, sought to bring the blame to lie in hollow words and rings. 'I gave my love, and still I do,' my single lone reply, 'But I need more, one single man is not enough for I.' I dropped me down in crying pleas, 'Can you not feel as I, Can you not see the wastefulness, for loss, a love as I?' 'Can you alone, one single time, not see the loss as same, for who could change a man for two, and sacrifice their name, not any name, but one who loves and shares a life with you, can you not see the hopelessness, to spite a love so true?' No good my words, with wasted breath, I watched her walk away, the winter winds, one April morn had come to blow my way. Ron Purtlebaugh

Come, Take A Walk With Me Oh wanderer of the mind, as me where do we grow from here? To sip the nectar of the soul that bids us tenderly? To seek the childish innocence that grows, the knowledge tree, or play among the ornaments of night's serenity, to dance in heaven's wilderness that to us nightly calls? Shall we delve in ocean's deep dark green that creeps the floor and languish in the ebb and flow of tides that rush to shore? Or frolic in the pastures scent where poppies bloom and flower, or mountain tops of melting snow, tumbling down through aspens 'side the crystal streams that roar. Perhaps explore a thought escaped or 'cross a feeling, lightly traipse and gather in the wonderment, imaginations place. Oh wanderer of the mind, come see, come take a walk with me. Ron Purtlebaugh

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TABLE OF CONTENTS INDEX BACK TO TOP These are my poems, you can use or reprint them only with easily granted permission ©copyright 2001 by Ron Purtlebaugh all rights reserved UNDER THE POEM TREE© IS A REGISTERED TRADEMARK OF I02NODESIGNS ron@underthepoemtree.com