My Final Nightmare

My Final Nightmare

Written by Jonathan Henderson

January 31, 2014 @ 8:59 PM

Daytime sight is always frightening to me,

Like the nip of Winter's sickle killing us all.

I prayed to God for a reprieve for a second,

But He didn't respond, stating this and that.

I pray upon night fall's ambivalent eyesight

In darkening mine for day's bleakest hours.

My dreams, come what may, speak to me,

And if I'm executed in accord to the Huns,

I'll greet my fate, have a Coke and a smile.

Oh, I ask to anyone who'll hear of my plight

When my last nightmare shall commence?

What I dream by twilight to my darkest day

Will never fail me as will my awakened hours.

They say sleep upon the bed of one's choice

Will always trump the one six-feet beneath,

And I wonder and wander sans any direction

As I seek to grasp the Gestapo's announcing

To one and all for my requiem bleed me dry.

I wish for those few who love me do to allow

The days go by without a hitch nor any cries.

If it's meant for me to cross over River Jordan,

The Lord will have called my journey complete.

Southbound and Down

Southbound and Down

Written by Jonathan Henderson

January 31, 2014 @ 7:17 AM

Driving this freeway nowhere fast,

I'll be gone two damn weeks hence.

I see mile upon mile of barren land,

And I wonder how the cattle'll feed.

The snow dumps her artisan troops

As Jack Frost invades the fair South,

And when he builds his miles-wide

Temples in tribute: oh, what a fiend!
 His arrogance precedes his trumpets!

Sliding around Interstate I-Don't-Care,

And the shadows creep overhead of me,

I trail his surly beltway, yet I still don't

See the sun, and though I reach the city

Highs, that snow makes for such slick

Asides, and because I opted to sojourn

Southbound and down, the city hates

Little old me, but if I had remained at

My hellish-flamed fire-ridden abode, I'd

Vacate to a dream and a covered shield.

I'd still consume my RC and Moon Pie

At the crack of dawn till day end's dusk.

The Death of My Soul

The Death of My Soul

Written by Jonathan Henderson

January 31, 2014 @ 7:02 PM

My shell reeks of rotten eggs,

And they tell me it is my sulfur,  

For my fate is sealed at his call

And my hated body lies in state.

And yet, this tells of nothing true,

As my soul is on fire, the smoke

Screams, and the flames dance

To the tune of a fiendish waltz,

And I have no means of escape.

'Tis the death of my soul, and I

Don't know down which road, so

I lie down, relax, as I descend

To ashes, and the fiery embers of

My funeral pyre will not bear the

Phoenix's skills... and upon my

Soul reaching my Jolly Roger of

Hell, I will sail fair Hades' rolling

River Styx.

A Lonely Place for Dying

A Lonely Place for Dying

Written by Jonathan Henderson

January 31, 2014 @ 7:59 AM

If my life meant anything to you,

I'd surely shed a tear or two in joy.

You appear to have abandoned me:

My faith has run dry, and I shall

Always look begat with despair, for

My soul, tortured, has died at heart.

Once, she called upon my crazy heart,

But now she drives daggers through.

And I see I'm amid a lonely place, as

Dying never ceases to still my void.

A daily reminder to all who awaken

How the West was won upon her dawn.

And I see broken glass that surrounds:

The witch's brew must've overflown.

The day is done, the cold night is hot.

I am just a vagabond, a lingering sot.

Asleep, some say 'tis a lonely place

For dying, as the militia ahead seeks

Me, and I seek the light only darkness

Provides, to live my final freedom flying

To Heaven or Hell... but if I state to you

How I escape through, the lone manner

Is the Eternal Sleep across sandy seas

As the boiling day leads to a cold night,

The militia shall capture me once at day,

And thrice upon a seven year's hell's itch.

Jonathan Henderson

dagan81@aol.com

Sent from my Sprint phone

Take Me Home to My Southland

Take Me Home to My Southland

Written by Jonathan Henderson

January 27, 2014 @ 1:59 AM

'Tis Winter up North in Chicago,

And the blizzard is just a-howling.

The cold froze old Lake Michigan,

And that Magnificent Mile, as well.

You can take that Amtrak thither

For it'll roll past the Mason-Dixon.

The North is such a quaint old cuss,

But pales to the Southland's charm.

Take me home to my Southland,

My God! Send me Southbound,

And while I roll along her tracks,

Cairo of Indy State's swamp drains

And reach Kentucky's blue grass.

But the old Kentucky home ain't

The home sweet home of my soul,

For that'll only be whetted by old

Tennessee, and her rocky top's 

Snowy peaks amid a frosty winter.

The Southland's cold, but it don't

Hold the man hostage to the bone

As frigid, old Chicago, mind you so!

Never met one he wouldn't have bit.

Take me home to my Southland,

O' God! Take me home Southbound,

But I shall miss old Michigan Avenue,

And those Monsters of the Midway!

Forget the Cubs: it'll be another year,

And the Good Guys shall bet the farm.

The Hawks cashed in its "Dollar Bill,"

And the Bulls still try to be like Mike.

But here, my abode in the foothills of

Those fair, beloved Smoky Mounts,

I see upon the orange moon glowing

And those leaves, the Volunteers of

My beloved alma mater, Tennessee!

Take me home to my Southland,

Let me dine on biscuits and gravy!

Throw in just a bowl of tasty grits

And country ham: that salty delight!

I love whittling ducks in my spare time,

And chop wood for the autumn fire,

Dressed in a plaid shirt and overalls,

O'! My Tennessee'll always be home!

I'll sit upon my mount's cabin porch

Surveying all I will, but shall always

Look at my Southland home at those

Country souls as far as I can see in my

Beloved Southland Tennessee abode.

To My Friends, I Will Say Unto You

To My Friends, I Will Say Unto You

Written by Jonathan Henderson

January 26, 2014 @ 10:26 PM

To my friends, I will say unto you indeed,

The world is so cruel: it will make you bleed,

And upon first glance at the powers-that-be,

I ask all, "Is it time to re-part the Red Sea?"

The people wade 'round the murky sewage

Of lies told, corruption, our eventual deaths.

Uncle Sam went mad in 1776, his garbage

Denies one liberty, drawing its last breaths.

Shall we take up arms? Pitch forks and all?

Shall we retake America lest we are to fall?

Francis Scott Key never meant this for me

And I doubt surely he did so for all of thee.

The American Revolution never died, see?

It shall continue till all are living to believe.

America has never been the land of the free,

Nor the home of the brave other than sheep,

As the Masons and Illuminati smile at sleep.

Whenever You Want to Fly Away

Whenever You Want to Fly Away

Written by Jonathan Henderson

January 26, 2014 @ 8:37 PM

Whenever you want to fly away,

I will be here, hand always opened.

I have waited for you many a day,

Now I wish to fly 'round the bend.

As two angels in the sky, my love,

Our wings a-fluttering as our hearts

Tell tales of two lovers like a glove,

For we fit well, as Life soon starts

Immediately upon the line, as God

Sounds His horn for us as His laud:

Allow the doves fly in circles around

Our lives, once lost, but now found.

Whenever you want to fly away,

Always wave that hand as you say

We'll sail the skies, singing a lullaby,

Always lighting our candle in a sigh.

Life never gave any quarter or three,

But it betrothed to us two always one.

Let us sail the skies until we are free,

Since for us, there'll be but one sun.

Upon the wake of our earthly mists,

Our ascent towards the blue heavens

Is marked by our guided light's tryst

And anchoring at God as our bevens.

Upon arriving at our destination,

There is no future nor darkest past,

And amid our act of procreation,

Our love's legacy shall always last.

May I Drive You Home, My Fair Belle?

May I Drive You Home, My Fair Belle?

Written by Jonathan Henderson

January 26, 2014 @ 5:47 PM

May I drive you home, my fair belle,

To our place amid the Elysian Fields

As we sing of the night our souls fell?

I'd drive past where my power yields

As I await the precious sight of you,

And my! My belle! My flower of blue!

I sought you along the sunshiny trails,

And though I'd never known just who

When I saw you hoisting the ship's sails,

I felt my heart a-flutter, as so very few

Shall know his love dropped her anchor

Amid an infinite sea, and I her flanker!

Oh, my fair belle! You'll never know

How my heart lived on ice amid snow!

The cold which nearly took me home

Sans a kiss from my empress of Rome,

And my fair belle! Never leave my side

Please! And to thee, I'll always confide.

Mornings Atop Granny's Kitchen Counter (Revised January 24, 2014)

Mornings Atop Granny's Kitchen Counter

 Written by Jonathan Henderson

Originally October 12, 2013; Revised January 24, 2014

T'was such a young lad; t'was so long ago,

And yet, it appears just like yesterday, tho',

When I sat upon my Granny's kitchen counter,

A woman, aged three score, but a soul full o' gold:

A tower of strength to me even at five feet eight,

And I, but a wee tot, gazing 'pon her fiery eyes

As she would lift me towards her kitchen's skies

To coronate me unto her coy throne, 

A surface, white, as purity embodies winter's snow.

O'! How I was such an impressionable lad

Fascinated by her country colloquial virtues; and

Imbued within the Southern comforts, the ambiance of

Her native mile-high, the ancient Carolinian mounts,

Embodying the yeoman ethos, resolve; and

A love cultivat'd from only the richest salts

Our Lord Thy God embedd'd within His Earth!

And Granny fried that bacon so crisp,

Stirr'd homemade gravy in her black iron skillet;

Her biscuits made from scratch, so billow'd like clouds,

The dough rose amid my fancy in a caring heat,

Bak'd golden, a taste chewy with a crunch amid

Piety's dichotomy of Pleasure's textures.

Yet the greatest ingredient of all was her love,

A quality, tho' she be in the denouement of her years,

Shall never fade at twilight of a day once dawn'd.

Upon dining at her triclinium in spiritum*,

There was always far more than met the eyes:

A congregation of our collective bloods flow'd,

The embodiment of passion within the family, and

The likes of which are today mired in obscurity,

For libertine values prevail in society's malaise.

Granny is a trip to simpler times and their charms,

For 'pon me I am imparted with her love and wisdom,

And unto her, I bestow my eternal gratitude 

As her legacy shall never be lost 'pon me.

(*In Latin, this is directly translated as "triclinium in the spirit." It is a reference to the table used during The Last Supper)

Please Come to My Highlands for a Spell

Please Come to My Highlands for a Spell

Written by Jonathan Henderson

January 24, 2014 @ 9:39 PM

Please come to my highlands for a spell

From the hinterlands of the Wild West,

As I will cascade my love from my well.

Don't waste a second escaping its behest

While the banjos duel upon our fairy tale,

For upon your arrival, we'll sip of our grail.

If you fail to abscond here from her Hills,

These ancient Smoky Mounts will collapse

As the Son of Morning's fiery breath kills,

For upon the moment my will shall lapse,

I shall wither as a flower to a wintry death

As if I, a dogwood, in Blackberry's breath.

Shall we bask in the brisk Southern breeze

As tall amber waves of grain dance in seas,

With the fish being us, just two fish alone

Within a school of none but the unknown:

The unknown perhaps a clipper's a-sailing

Across that still calm before a raging tempest
Never allowing her gale of Hatred assailing

The heart, soul, and that which is our test...

... a world where only the highlands may unite
The rugged Scotsman and the belle from the L.A. night.

'Tis Liberty That I Have Lost

'Tis Liberty That I Have Lost
Written by Jonathan Henderson
January 24, 2014 @ 7:44 PM

'Tis liberty that I've lost, my friends,
And I weep till the day rises dawned,
And when my love's majesty's sends,
I'll listen to her whispers and respond.
But if I never see a newly-risen sun,
I shall forever mourn the loss of her,
And the life betrothed to each as One,
Descending satanic fiery Hell's cœur.

What of the fair maiden, I must ask?
Will her soul live for yet another day?
I wail, reaching for my gin-filled flask,
I have nothing more to speak nor say.
And if I play a tune on my piano grand,
Shall I serenade of my blue, torn heart?
Shall music of my soul be my last stand
As once and finally my soul tears apart?

What says you, old comrades-in-arms?
What would you do upon Fate's Spite?
Should I sell my soul although it harms
Twilight's last descent into Good Night?
The pain! The pain! That which lingers!
I cannot fathom anymore days to spare,
I'll pen my requiem for His Holy Singers,
And now to my leap of faith! Sans a care

Slaves

Slaves 

Written by Jonathan Henderson

January 22, 2014 @ 12:06 AM

I got my sickle, got my hammer -

Oh God damn! How I know I am,

Now residing with all in a slammer
And the others don't give a damn.
Speakers here and speakers there,
And oh, God damn! Everywhere!
They consume every word heard,
And if the head of one single bird
Should peak out, it'll be shot dead:
Oh! How we've all been so "led"!

Equality? Liberty? Fraternity? Nay!
I say "nay" to they amid their lies,
"Truths" told amid a fishbowl, I say,
And the bull hockey it always defies!
Pass along the whip, s'il vous plait,
We'll all work for The Man, you see?
If one and one are three, they say,
The onus shall be upon we to agree!

Still a-pounding away upon the rail,
The steel for the tanks for "peace"
As the Legion seeks to drive, to sail
And negotiate abroad a new "lease":
The Legion's iron fist with its "word"
And slaves begat or put to its sword.

The Denouement of a Life Eighty-Six Years in Revolution

The Denouement of a Life Eighty-Six Years in Revolution

Written by Jonathan Henderson

January 21, 2014 @ 10:25 PM

Lying upon her bed, poked, prodded,

An undignified position, she confided

To herself, for whom it only matters,

And her soul, slowly fleeing her shell.

Her leg so afflicts her for now, and

Yet she doesn't mind, for she's a fighter

Like a soldier, dug into the trenches, 

A member of the greatest generation

Of a world's people they'll ever know.

To some, she is but a needle in hay,

Nothing spectacular, just some face,

Though she might be a fish in a sea,

She'll forever be my Granny to me.

Staring into space, she rides home,

Only in mind, as she awaits the day

She'll spend the next one-sixth abroad

Living a far from her home, her soul,

And she sheds tears, not one in sorrow,

Nor in remorse, for she has done well.

She's erred in ways and lived in Hell,

And she'll always cast her own stone.

Oh Granny, draw strength from me, 

Never flee from your mind by night,

For as you are drilled like a Marine,

I shall forever have your backside.

Upon first notice of four years post,

The bad break nearly befell you, but

Your bite was worse than your bark,

And I felt its wrath here North, too.

And Granny, please never feel as if

Your beloved don't care, for we shall

Always pray and be nigh, and we shall

Always stand to sing for you a lullaby,

As you are my lone connection dated of
The time three score and ten years ago.

Regardless, you'll always be my Granny;

Tis all that I shall ever want from thee:

Let us sail together upon our ocean's stars
Till twilight's last gleam: we must depart.

Once Upon a Frigid Night in the Mountains

Once Upon a Frigid Night in the Mountains

Written by Jonathan Henderson

January 21, 2014 @ 8:08 PM

Once upon a frigid night in the mountains

Where a valley converges East with foothills -

To its west and north with ridges, plateaus,

And to the south one-hundred miles thither,

The snow descends, and the children rejoice

As one unique snowflake and others descend -

She is bereft of Winter's kiss due to its spite.

It's a frigid night in the Mountains, friends,

No Spring in sight, and to those ends, my

Coat will only bear the brunt of her frostbite

For half as long or less as I choose to fight.

But if ever I wish for the clouds to explode,

Let there be snow! Please, let there be snow,

And I shall dance a jig for you, o' gods, yes,

For we beget to thee our eternal gratitude!

Those Smoky Mountain highs in Tennessee:
So beautiful, and why can we not be, please?

Why can we not feel a full Winter's blanketing

Rather than an air with its thumb upon its nose?

Those frigid days atop LeConte and Clingman

Shall baptize the inhabitants that be! And when

It falls south of old zero, they still get out, play...

... but not the valley folk. And what a shame.

Old Man, Look at My Life

Old Man, Look at My Life

Written by Jonathan Henderson

January 21, 2014 @ 3:20

Old man, look at my life,

And I'll always follow you.

When I see all of the strife,

The people live to cry away.

But old man, shall we state

That we'll spread the news,

When the one and only flies,

Will others say "goodbye"?

Old man, we are godly souls

And I sing for those so lesser
Endowed with Him a beloved

Life sans our faith does beget.

And old man, just look at you,

As you flee high unto the sun.

But as I see my beloved near,

I'll be pleased to be by her side.

And old man, what'll they say

When your life descends there?

What'll they say when you do

See His light, when your wings

Reach the light dimming your

Days? And old man, will you

Cry? Will you cry as you fade?

We are one with the ages, as we

Ascend His Steppes to Heaven.

The Hero Who Rode Black Jack Home

The Hero Who Rode Black Jack Home

Written by Jonathan Henderson

January 19, 2014 @ 3:58 PM EST

That pristine shot killed your finite time, 

Measured by our flaws, you called home.

The scarlet chest bid "no," and yet the heart

Allowed the lion roar as you faded to Taps.

Your spirit's embodiment, the eagle, soars,

So many wails and their tears cascade low,

But their love for you will assuredly grow.

They are waving goodbye upon the capsule's

Descent, for you earned your wings, and 

Upon ascending Heaven's steppes, you are

Riding shotgun upon old Black Jack Home.

Crossfire hail will never give more to bear

The brunt of your moments' gross despair,

For the life at His Table drinking His Wine

Will only beget upon you a brand new life.

The lady and that little tyke shall forevermore

Never let you slip away at twilight's gleam,

For everyday, they will always kneel before

For you, never to die, their prayers forever

Calling you home to them with Glory's song.

Black Jack will carry your soul Home at dawn,

The chariot awaits, the salutes are forever begat

The fallen never cease living, nor they ever die,

 Nor will you, the knight riding Black Jack atop

 The Steppes into the Wild Blue Yonder's skies, 

And twenty-one rounds will always salute you
 Never amid the dusk nor a twilight's last gleam,

 For at the descent of The Sun, your soul shall

Ride Black Jack thither Home to God, for if 

Ever He called a good man to serve, Liberty

 Sent Him the tall, quiet hero to a new morning

In His Army to preach to those wanton souls.

Riding High and Heavenly Bound

Riding High and Heavenly Bound

Written by Jonathan Henderson

January 17, 2014 @ 10:02 PM

Cruising at dawn across Route 66,
My lady and I on the Harley are just
 Getting our kicks, and as I'm sailing
Across the river of pavement's heat,

My maiden Rosie Riveter and I sing, as

The radio's our respite to save our soul!

My home amid the hazy skies East
 Of Eden in her Smoky Mountain highs

Remaining always to be of my home
 Sweet home: for it is my rocky top

Abode, always so soulful amid the
 Moonshine stills in old East Tennessee:

The volunteer spirit always to course 

Through me, and the veins rendering

Upon me of the life betrothed with my
 Mother Nature by Him: Lord Thy God!

Along the bend we roll, riding through
 Bayous and ascending jagged canyons,

And we are both feeling so high as we soar
Above the big and lovely Montana skies:

The wild blue yonder never appeared as
 Such a beaut as it does now on this day

As we coast across this old luscious sea
 Of green and her amber waves of grain.

Oh! I am riding high, friends!

I am riding high! For I indeed

Am heavenly bound and sent

Till I find my trove of treasures

Beneath that rainbow of mind!
Dear Mother Nature: Be kind!
'Tis my wanderlust of pleasures!

Over her bridge of old Mississippi at the
 Divide's Gateway Arch, I dig of his saintly
 Entrenchment upon the New Madrid Fault.
 I seek a little taste of hemp herbs high atop
 The glacier caps of Rocky Mountains' peaks!

Trees! So many lovely trees! And all those

Evergreen trees so far as my eyes can see!

And I feel as if upon today, I am sailing
 Across a sea of skies as if upon the wings
 Of a dream! And upon approaching the arid

Soils, the desert forks one, two, and three:

The city of the mythical bird, then to sinful
 Casinos of Vegas lights, until I drive north,
 Rosie and I, to buy tickets to Prophet Joe's
 Holy Land upon the shores of Utah's famed
 Tabernacle Choir near old Great Salt Lake.

Oh! I am riding high, friends!

I am riding high! For I indeed

Am heavenly bound and sent

Till I find my trove of treasures
Beneath that rainbow of mind!
Dear Mother Nature: Be kind!
'Tis my wanderlust of pleasures!

I wish to see the infinite descending rains of
The Northwest forest's gifts and to partake
 Upon a cup of Joe, and a nibble on an English
Hankering for a scone; I desire her majestic
 Cascades, those mounts upon fair Puget Sound,

And a space needle never to fly to space amid
 The heavenly bliss as I drive fancying sci-fi!

The Experience never sounded better at old
Woodstock '69 than it does upon my cranking
 Hell from my radio: For Rosie and I serenade

Of the slight return of a poor child akin to
Those residing amid the Creole folk parading
  Le Rue Bourbon in the city of old New Orleans!

Turning South we shall do, partaking of
 Oregonian trails and her blazers, too; but it's

To the artist formerly known as the Bear
 Republic to where I'll flee! Flee! Free to be!

I shall partake upon the beauts of Redwoods
And her majestic Sierra Nevada mounts East,

Only to cruise Bay Side but avoid the isle's hole,
 As "The Rock" still apprehends the con within!

Soaring more paved river slopes till I reach
 My counterculture amid a moonlit night, oh
 Haight-Asbury! Let me sail with Rosie, and
 Set our course across the Bay, through the fog,

Till it will necessitate that I seek to drive once
 Again, now across the Golden Gate, and that
Suspension of the soul a-sway to my being!

Oh! I am riding high, friends!

I am riding high! For I indeed
Am heavenly bound and sent

Till I find my trove of treasures

Beneath that rainbow of mind!
Dear Mother Nature: Be kind!
'Tis my wanderlust of pleasures!

L.A.! Where, sir, have you been?

 You've been away since I was half

Past ten! And all the films you shot

Remain mysterious to little old me,

As I am just a simple old country boy

From a Great Smoky Mountain cabin;

But for now, I shall seek fossils within

Your La Brea tar pits and the heat it

Wrought; your San Gabriel mounts

Surrounding a rose of a township;

To snap the photographs of man's 

Betrothal to Mother Nature as he

Proclaims amorous ubiquity of those

Hollywood lights, shining so bright

Amid the darkest Tinseltown nights!

To Chavez Ravine I flee! Me, Rose!

We flee for our Bud and Dodger Dogs;
Viewing the game till the Stretch; then to

The Chinese Theater for a pilgrimage,

As upon those sacrosanct seats laid

Once and so many times the bottoms

Of the many and rich of those thespians.

I shall fly as one with the bald eagles!

Fair America has called me Home!

But have I ever really denied her love

When I never left her shores nor womb?

Oh America! How I do love thee! Oh

How I see of thee my soul within, so

Deprived of a joy so simply attained

Unlike I hear of our forefathers' tongues

So collectivized and yet in tight quarters

Just a scant clipper and a schooner away

To sail across the tempest's raging pond

Of the Atlantic! But I shall forever seek

A good time in God's sunny azure skies to

Beg for me a pass and a wink from my

Fair Lady Liberty off the coast of the

New York islands; her Brooklyn Bridge

Shall always remain the golden standard

Even as the crossing at the Bay of the

Same namesake shall doubtless argue.

But for a soul descriptive such as moi 

To proudly stake claim as an American

Is to hearken upon a sacred covenant

With The Creator where for all time,

We live to serve Him and those of less

Because we are free! Free to see! To be

One ideologically begat with the fruits of 

Our labors and their sweat resulting in 

The cries amid occasional broken souls

And those of the backbone, but never

To let our resolve as a people endowed

With liberty to cross the River Jordan,

For the Wall of Jericho to fall upon us,

But of the greatest import, to live happily

Because we are free!  Free to live our gift

From Him: An unbridled, begotten liberty.

To Your Life A New

To Your Life A New

Written by Jonathan Henderson

January 17, 2014 @ 7:13 PM

To your life, a new journey:

For you are the newborn babe

Soaring new heights hitherto

And thither; and God's grace

Shall shine upon you so bright

As you rejoice and hurt; love

One only to perhaps hate later;

And when you turn the steering

Wheel of your beloved and 

The One, you will know, oh you

My fair child, the newest and 

Beloved babe for a family young.

And to your life, a new sojourn,

And all shall be beholden of you

As you ascend to heights from the

Vulnerable and the small angel

To one of the arbiter of the mind,

A source of the decisive; from the

Demure but firm of resolve to

A foundation begat of solid steel.

You shall rise high as a phoenix:

A soul borne of ashes awaiting

Substantial formation to one of

Inflamed; one awaiting to coast

 God's blue skies rippling of clouds

As a winged bird of prey, of

Prayer: always burning the most

Bright till you are again to be

Burnt anew into the state prior.

Your soul was born nine months

Thither; it will live forevermore. 

The Mad Monk of the Woodlands

The Mad Monk of the Woodlands
By Jonathan Henderson
Written January 15, 2014 @ 4:30 PM


He built himself a cabin,
Hunted for his livelihood,
Logged trees as firewood,
And drank of his own gin.

They called him the mad monk,
A man: the life of the woodlands...
His soul never dropped till sunk,
His rough hands provided his funds.

They said his name was Big John,
Always wielded his ax, plowed away...
The infinite greens were all his lawn,
But he always shared the land anyway....
 
They called him the mad monk,
A man: the life of the woodlands...
He slept so high; the trees: his bunk,
And so many of those are abund'....

He cooked his meals upon a fire,
The fish he caught up the stream,
Venison, that old taste of desire....
Land of Liberty! American Dream!

They called him the mad monk,
A man: the life of the woodlands...
His soul never dropped till sunk,
His hands provided his funds
They called him the mad monk,
A man: the life of the woodlands...
He slept so high; the trees: his bunk,
And so many of those are abund'....

Riverside Breezes

Riverside Breezes

Written by Jonathan Henderson 
January 14, 2014 @ 3:00 AM EST

Riverside breezes,
Please carry me away!

Lo'! How I do beg of you!
 And home to a land bereft

Of misery and despair.

The lady and I shall ride 
'Round in my gondola
 O' the heart down the lanes
 O' Venetian boulevards;

 And amid beached sands,
 The Californ' Dream guides
 Us to our new home; and O'!

 How I do love her so!; and
 O'! How I do love her so! 

'Tis Nature's accord always
 To mingle!; Let there never
 Be another moment we are
 To spend apart writhing amid 

The daggers Mephistopheles
 Have 'pon us wrought!

A wondrous piece
 O' pleasure amid

Her billowed, fluffy clouds,
 My lady and I in love, 
Always hand-in-hand,
 We shall sail unto the stars
 As two seagulls intertwined
 Gliding 'cross the ring 
O' fiery, majestic Pacific
 Skies till we are to find
The gem as we gondoliers
 Row within our sea o' green;
 And should we choose to
 Meander from that path
 Blazed, then consumed
 O' our tears amid sinful
 Hollywood lights; unfortunately
 Die amid the artisans' brights,

I see no other recourse than
 We hand-in-hand tame our
 Languid souls: two lovers
 Encamped amid her rocky
 Californ' Pacific shores: 
My dreams and yours!

Lay Me Down Slowly

Lay Me Down Slowly                      January 7, 2014

I'm so very tired you all, but I digress to you,

You rode that catfish hard, Slew-Foot Sue,

But Norte México needs to rest and unwind.

I've known I would see the Lone Star's soul,

We crossed Rio Grande and her catfish bowl,

And the Okies of lore packed such a punch.

But I say unto you now, my Slew-Foot Sue,

I wish always to only speak and see of you,

I would travel across the desert plains for you.

Please, my fair Sue,

Lay me down slowly,

My body is sore, too.

You love me surely,

But I seem so surly,

Hitch the wagons!

Ride to the West!

 Get out your guns!

We'll build our nest!

We cowpokes, we pioneer folks,

You and I, Sue, and I shall sigh,

I lassoed a twister, and it sulks.

And now you wish to leave me behind,

But why, pray tell, are you being unkind?

Is this old land not enough for you to see

The nightly sky, the blackened, eternal sea,

And you feel you must ride off high away

From me as you reach for the earthly moon?

Please, my fair Sue,

Lay me down slowly,

And I shall assure you

I will love you wholly,

The life we shall lead

Will take us to night:

You will never need

Another to feel right.

Shall We Drink A New?

Shall We Drink A New?                      January 1, 2014

The crystal ball again descends

 Into another post annos demise,

Finalized upon fair and venerable,

That well-lit soul: Time Square;

As children play pre-clock morn

 Till hitting the Sandman's hay,

While the champagne bubbles

 And overflows the sky away.

And a new year has arisen again

 Upon one and all; we rejoice, and

A renewed horizon for each soul,

A beacon of hope for all; and

As the music courses through me

 And all my once-deadened veins

Of we the common folk singing as

 Our souls coming to dance this old jig.

At the ans de vieux outdoor ballroom

 The dropping of the year's end ball!

You, my good sir! Please rejoice!

 Spread around to all the confetti! 

Laissez les bons temps rouler,

 S'il vous plait, Monsieur Première!

As I await the time of the parade

 Of the bands, floats with those roses:

As Pasadena's aroma is glorious,

 The bands all quite so very fine!

It shall only be upon the end

Per annum a revolution; and

Of an old decrepit man and

 His waning days, year; and of 

The death of the old codger,

 That blackened hearted soul

Amid his scripted accounts

Of each their flawed year so.

The stork shall deliver upon

 All a newborn per the rooster

Upon the dawn on the horizon

 Of the moonlit morning sun; but

I digress, Hope springs Eternal,

 Yesteryear is just another goodbye, 

While the young shall relinquish the

 Dying curmudgeon's chilled hand.

Shall we drink a new amid

 Our celebration renewed,

And I ask my dear friends,

 What shall we do, say you?

 To drink, be merry, refined?

As I say onto you, dear friends:

 I'm another "Little Boy Blue,"

How I'd fancy the passing

Of my newly founded time!

Rock 'n Roll never sounded

So alive within my revived soul,

As I drink to all of thee within

This happiness we're begat,

Never allowing the memories

Of Dick Clark ever to fade:

He rock 'n rolled all night, and

 Partied each and everyday!

Forty times upon the whitest

 And bleak Decembrist revolts;

And my! How I was out of tune 

At his new angel wings he flew!

Shall we drink a new? Oui?

 My beloved friends and loves,

As we choose between the dive

 Or the bland soupe du jour?

Oh, the times are quite tough,

 But we shall always persevere

As the stork delivers to one and

 All a newborn babe at Renewal:

The new year is born to hear

 Of Lord Jesus' calling His Disciples,

His Truth is sought; and how

We shall ever reap true salvation!

But I shall still make use of my

 New gloves and hiking boots, as

Into the frigid end of the year's

 Night time, to beseech The Father

A posterity of a final celebrating

 Fair Love's rewards and flirtations!

Jack Frost's nip: How so frigid!

 He shall be loathed and cursed,

But not my Hope in my Soul

 As this is new year's first morn!