Fields of Mesquite
we were running through
mesquite tree thickets
swingin' hickory sticks
hand-carved with
Buck knife blades
our grandaddies
bought for us
down at the feed store
we were lithe and leaping
pools of pasture quicksand
scratched and bleeding
parrying dragon's teeth
and vaulting post-oak battlements
with broomstick spears
our eyes
were clear and fierce
we were young and feral
and thus
immortal
and we glorified every
barbwire battle-scar and bruise
stomped sticker-bushes
into green mushes
with our bare feet
the sea-monster catfish
and piranha perch
feared us
and whole herds
of holstein-minotaurs
fled as we sounded our war cry
and charged
skinny sun-browned
arms and legs windmilling,
whirling wooden weapons
though johnson-grass jungles
clad in cut-off loincloths
we carried our world
in our pockets
a cane pole was our standard..
and we knew the warrior's way..
slipped out at night
stalked through moonlight
and kept the coyote's at bay
'cause we were wolf-kin
and blood brothers
even the demons would fall back
from the howl of our pack
we rode bareback and bridle
on mighty steeds
slaying weeds
with barn-door broadswords
and there wasn't a crow
that didn't know
to take a wing-hot
if they saw us reach
for that back-pocket
slingshot
and all we hated was
goblins
the devil
and havin' to eat that damn liver
and we never understood
how being still...
and quiet...
was being good
even cartoons on all three
count'em
ALL THREE
channels on a saturday morning
could not contain our spirits
with woods, water, and
adventure calling!
we flew though
mesquite tree thickets
thick with crickets
and the sound of cicadas
rasping love songs
spinning and dashing
crashing the brush
in our rush
to the river
to set sail on homemade rafts
crafts of quick hands and water-logs
and on a good day
we all got to play
Huckleberry Finn
and if forever would just never end
Peter Pan would be
my bestest friend
and i'd still be tilting
at windmill dragons
drinking flagons of root beer
and making tin cans dance
with a Daisy red ryder..
but as with all good things
time has a way
of pulling your strings
and we began to lose
the warrior's path
to schools, and rules of engagement
designed to narrow our minds
our young hearts
of starlight and Silmarils
would not willingly
accept this paradigm
and soon cracked under the strain..
and no mesquite thorn
ever cut so deep
or caused so much pain..
but i won't delve here
into the years of tears
or a false fate
beat into me
with the hate
of angry hands
took me thirty years
to make my stand
but here i am
proud to join the man
who said
" I AM STILL A WARRIOR"
awake at last
from past lies
with a will to spill
truth
in hatred's eyes
and i know you know
i'm a poet who grew
from seeds planted
by those who ran
through the bamboo
but if you can find it
in your heart to trust me
and the bond of warrior-word
that we share..
then Brothers and Sisters
dare to bare your feet
and together at last
we will charge
through
fields
of
mesquite.
Dragynn '07
News 
Market Data 
Discover 
