Some Poetry

                                                 AMERICAN COWBOY LEGEND
                                                                     by
                                                               Pearl Gin


He walks into the saloon, with his hat tipped low.
He orders a whiskey and picks it up slow.
He looks across the room, with that one-eyed squint. 
He hears the sound of a gun hammer click.

He draws his pistol in the blink of an eye,
And sure enough, two or three have to die.

He holsters his gun, empties his glass,
Walks slowly to the door and never looks back.

He's a quiet cool, and you can bet,
He's as bad as a good guy can get.

When you are as bad as a good guy can get,
Your last name must be Eastwood, your first name Clint.



                                                                  ODE TO PD

He's short and powerful, arm-wrestles for money,
Says, "Got them muscles curling shovel heads, honey."
Wing-wheel wrist bands, belt buckle and tattoo.
Jacket, cap and boots - nothing looks new.
PD is H-D., through and through.

Ever see him set the idle way low,
Then dance his "love strut," sexy and slow,
And say, "Low-maintenance bikes are obscene,
Let's see some fucker boogie with a Jap machine!"

Yet, the flash of chrome in that Toledo mart
Caused his head to deal away his heart.
He straddled the show bike, electric start;
Harley for Honda, title for title, even trade.
The new owner's next ride was the last one he made.

This Nomad from the Buckeye State
Met a biker's common fate,
When a senile citizen closed the gate
In a four-door sedan with a big V-8;
PD was ejected from his motor-mate.

He ate the rain gutter,
360'd over the roof and seemed to flutter
Just before his crash-landing fall
Ended at the base of a concrete wall;
Three cracked ribs, two busted legs, one teeth-removing fractured jaw.


                                                 MANNISH DEPRESSION

Hey, wait, don't walk away while I'm still tied of tongue at seeing you again.
(You look so appealing to me)  Listen, try to hear my heartbeat,
Try to look past my cool, polite manner.  Try to get a picture in your mind
That I'm most glad to see you here.  Hesitate, delay until I can recover
And remember what I intended to say.  I want to talk to you.


Is there nothing left between us but the nearly twenty years?
Must I once again be burdened by my too timorous fears?
Are meager memories all that remain, a return to places we went yesterday,
To feel the sadness of not having you along, again?

Last night, I lay in bed, trying to still my racing brain,
Attempting to slow my thoughts of you and where you fit into my need
To speed into the future.   You are all I desire and I want to be
Something of a joy for you; freedom, fun, an intensity
To live beyond the images others see for us.

I want to make love to you - slightly askew, a tad ajar,
Challenging and enticing -consuming all the cake and savoring the icing.
You are the bread of a sensual feast,
The leavening agent, the catalyst, the yeast.


             WRONG RIGHTS
What happened to my mountains?
What happened to my view?
It's loaded up with houses,
The trees are all down, too!

Who spoiled the paths with rubbish?
Who soiled the springs with waste?
It isn't home to wild creatures
And the air has a definite taste.

How could I have stopped it?
How much can one person do?
I certainly can't reverse my life...
I see little hope for you.

Why try to survive on memories?
Why nurture sadness for what's gone?
It's the present that needs the energy
For the young to continue on.

When the old men ride to glory
And their women pass from sight,
It isn't important that they did wrong
But that most all those wrongs seemed right.

          OF MEN AND MICE

The night crosses the sun, the dawn breaks the light.
I'm trying to run, but my left is tied to my right.
I'm trying to dig from this hole I'm in,
Each reach near the top, another cave-in begins.

I'm swinging a pan to cook up some fight,
I'll be swinging the bat 'til there's no more mice
To nibble and squeal and call me bad names.
It just rolls off my back, their life's still the same.

                   RAISE THE BAR

The middle is higher than it used to be,
Between rich and poor, I mean.
Poor people buy things middle class people have,
Like cosmetics and magazines.
Those whose income lasts through the month,
Buy things rich people have, like big stereos and all- power machines.

The only real way to know where you fit
Is by the way you look at it,
Which is  "I'm as good as you are!"
Your social class means not a twit.