Hello. Come on in. The daddy writes about current events, literature, music and, once in a while, drops something on you from back in the day to make you pause and ponder, stop and stare, and begin to wonder. Who knows? You may start to pace the floor, shake your head from side to side, then fall down on bended knees in a praying position and cry, "Lawd, have mercy! What is this world coming to?" Check yourself! But this blog is NOT about the daddy. It's about you: your boos, your fam, your hood, your country...our hopes and dreams of a better tomorrow. So let's make a pact: the daddy will put it on the track if you'll chase it down and hit him back. Together, we can definitely take it to another level. Shall we?"

Saturday, November 1, 2008

America from the bottom up:Two Poems from the daddy

Today, the daddy is feeling America from the perspective of the "least of these." In this case, it's a hardworking African American who, after years of work under southern apartheid, manipulation, intimidation and humiliation, has lost much of his spirit. The other is a veteran who, after losing his family farm, is riding the rails. But he still has some pride and "a dream or two."

Patriot Joe
by Mac Walton, aka, MacDaddy

Ole Joe flagwaves.
He chomps down apple pie
They strung him out to dry.
Ole Joe.

He’s all for bootstrappin.
He strives all day long.
They bought Joe.
They stole Joe’s song.

Who’s Joe?
Lincoln’s pride and joy,
John K’s rung to fame,
Nixon’s checker game,
Reagan’s union of shame.
How’s Joe?
Joe flagwaves. Never sings.

Ole Joe flagwaves.
He’s a good ole boy.
He looks black.
He dreams white.

They lynch Joe each dark night.

Homeless Joe
by Mac Walton, aka, MacDaddy

I ain’t saying some dry gloves
Wouldn't keep these old bones warm.
This pair is a might damp.
My fingers are a tad numb.

I ain’t saying I’ve fallen on hard times since Nam,
since we lost the family farm when recession came and stuck.
They say a room in a project would be a step up. But to me,
It still feels like I'm out of luck.

I’m searching, like everybody else, for a reason to
jump for good these crying trains screeching, this
Miss-my-farm sadness below train tracks endless, cold
trembling past damp cardboards darkened beneath the bridges.

I’m needing the same as some city folk: a
warm coat around my shoulders, a pair of cotton gloves around my fingers, and
a gal or fellow who believes this sometimes drunken beggar can still
be a man, this
Ames Iowa Farmer doing the best he can.

I’m hoping you’ll look past these wet, dirty rags, Muddied boots from Goodwill
to an old farmer with dim-lit eyes but still a dream or two.

I’m asking: If one of us is homeless,
how about you?


Anonymous said...

Daddy, I really like the one about the vet who lost his farm and is riding trains. You should write a book.

Anonymous said...

Encore! keep them coming Macdaddy

rainywalker said...

We all have dreams, memories, even the homeless.