I. The Passing Of A Princess(DI remembered): "God made the scone, with cups, for the deposit of tears, as with roses, dew upon them, tears resting, especially, in pain, or disregarded, tears, meteors. Celebrate the drama, remember the quiet. Carry on the dream.
LOVE IS NON EXISTANT, A BEATLE PROPAGHANDA, FIRST CONCEIVED BY WOMEN, LUST ONLY EXISTS, THE LUST FOR LIVING, THE LUST FOR HUMANITY, SEE? LUST NOT LOVE. LOVE DOESNT EXIST. CELEBRATE THE DRAMA, REMEMBER THE QUIET, CARRY ON THE DREAM-Jerry E. Barta, Poet-Gardener
United States (Composed (9,11,02)for a Yahoo.com commeration of 911, who first displayed it with a red rose, butchering the text, and then removed it completely, labeling it offensive!)
II. Love The Foolish Heart... ...."considers nothing but the consideration, weeping at the possible conclusion. The foolish heart loves for inexplicable reasons, all the rest are blind, only love is sighted. Whether of God or for another, only love is sighted. Denial will offer no solace, a smile then can hew the strongest of trees, in a forest of the cynical. Love has many victims, I am not one, I merely sing of others misfortune within this condition."
III. (Bisbee, Arizona) "As one ages, one thinks on occasion, in quiet violin moments, of ones parents. Their struggles, in my case, as an insane child, lost in his own fog(I remember anight, my mother sitting up all night, with her insane child, who awoke, for a moment, to see her still sitting there, or a father that cried out of his metal mask, for fear of danger for his offspring, tremble and weep. Are we all not tied together, by a ribbon held by angels or those who sing opera by devils, more likely by ribbons of time and memory, like birds in flight."
IV. Needles, Ca. is one of the last historical towns to be developed, because of a rule by a hierarchy of cousins, steadfast against any kind of progress. They have THEIR utopia, money laundering grants from the federal government. The railroad is a major part of local history, it brought in settlers, some of them miners who dug holes in the ground for elusive wealth. At one time, there were steamboats on the nearby mighty Colorado river. A local rumour, is that the early Chinese dug underground tunnels under the town, servicing the then brothels and taverns. Downtown, is the "crown Jewel" of the Harvey House El Garces historic railroad depot. A block long, two story structure, it rivals any majestic Southern mansion that can be found. The tunnels mentioned, also were used to cool in our typical summer heat of in the range of 120 degrees up. A huge old Borax wagon graces the town at 300 W. Broadway(across from my "Flower Bed from Hell" used to exist. Outside of town, besides magestic bone dry mountains, is a sacred indian site, the "Maze", long thought to be a landing site for ufo mother ships, since it is constructed of many many thousands of stones, laid to form a giant eye. (Just before I was ousted, A local gave me an older book about this area, and one of the drawings of The Maze was of above it. I noticed immediately the outline resembling a bat. My guess, is somewhere in those mountains is a cave, but no one seemed interested besides my imagination.) And in the whole western area, not one working cowboy, There just aint no cowboys here. During WWII, General Patton trained thousands of troops near here. Cowboys?, a popular myth to sell western clothes, country wesrern music(ugh) and used pick up trucks. Would I lie to you? J.B.
V. today, i am depressed, and listening to opera singers, pretending passion, what hypocrites they are, do they ever shed a tear?, of course not!, they are charlatans. We should have them dress in big floppy wings, all in grays, to sing their prostitution. If they do a good job, as time goes on, a color feather is added. None, I assure you will be added. Better we wish they be flying pigs. I feel the same way about gospel singers. And the Mormon T. Choir, who have no bite in their singing. So as our birds go extinct, lets have one day a year, where the wings are worn, I assure you no color will be added next year, and let this day signify all the mourning necessary, individually or in mass, for any reason or consideration. (Then I can mourn that the Federal government will not allow anyone to come read my poetry, nor let anyone respond to me, in praise or arguement, as I grow old and feeble, unloved, steeped in silence like some amateur blind opera singer, afraid to challenge the cracking notes of the great Ravoli, so he too must grow old, feeble, and silent too. (I dedicate this to L.J. Freeh, retiring director of the FBI who has lied, boasting six sons. I have millions of children, all of the dawn, if he can lie, so can I, I await a reason to boast.) Jerry E. Barta (October 13, 1938, 6:02 a.m., Corpus Christi, Texas)
Go ahead poets do a horoscope, you dont have a chance, give up now, and dont sing.
THE HISTORY CHANNEL:
Is ACTUALLY THE HISTORY OF HELL. ALL THAT HUMAN DEATH COMES ALIVE.
EVERY CONCEIVABLE INSTRUMENT OF TORTURE. AGGRESSION ON THE VENUE. TEMPORAL POWER THE PRIZE.
EVERY GREED, EVERY LUST, HUMAN SKULLS PILING UP. MASSES OF HUMAN FLESH, BLUDGEINONG ITSELF, AS IF A SCREAMING AMOEBA.
ONE CAN MARVEL AT THE CONTINUED SACRIFICE OF THE SOLDIER, HOW DO THEY SURVIVE BEYOUND SUCH EXPERIENCE?
ALL THOSE MOTHERS SOBBING
ALL THOSE SISTERS AND DAUGHTERS WEEPING
ALL THOSE NATIONS SWEEPING
UNDER THE RUG, THE FATHERS LOINS WRENCHED
OF THE FUTURE CHILDREN.
FOR WHAT DO WE HERALD FORWARD? OH, MIGHTY CAULDRON OF HUMANITY.
