Could’ve, Should’ve, and Would’ve

Could’ve, Should’ve, and Would’ve

Could’ve, Should’ve, and Would’ve
Knocked on my back door.
I said, “I’m going forward,
I don’t want you anymore.”

They moaned and whined and cried,
Stamped their feet and sighed.
I quickly closed the door
And waved to them, “Goodbye.”

~Day

St. Agnes

St. Agnes
12-year old martyr

A pagan’s threats failed to intimidate
God’s lovely virgin, born to Roman wealth.
“No matter how you torture me,” she stated,
“I’ll keep my purity though I lose health.”

The prefect roared, “You’ll be a prostitute,”
And soldiers dragged her naked through the streets.
She prayed; God grew her hair like bamboo shoots
And covered her, her modesty complete.

She kept her purity throughout her stay,
And when men tried to take her purity,
God struck them blind at once, and when she prayed,
The prefect’s son revived, and she went free.

Bloodthirsty Romans tried her for her faith
And tried to burn the maiden at the stake, but no,
The piled wood would not burn; in disarray,
A red-faced captain stabbed her through her throat.

Her story tells believers to be sure
They too can stand and practice holiness,
For holiness was possible for her,
And Agnes kept her faith even to death.

Enemies of the Christian faith abound,
And they will flourish as the darkness grows.
May saints stand firm until the end, when, crowned
Like monarchs, they will walk in pure white clothes.

~Day Williams

Seven Days with My Little Brother

Seven Days with My Little Brother

Monday you were a coyote
Who crept around and growled at noon
You poked your nose in all my clothes
At night you howled at the moon

Tuesday you were an eagle
Who flew to the highest skies
You disappeared and I was cheered
‘Til Mommy said, “Come down for fries.”

Wednesday you were a gorilla
Who roared and stomped my toys
I was about to knock teeth out
When Mommy said, “What’s all this noise?”

Thursday you swam like a shark
And gobbled up my snacks
Shark swam so fast that he got past
The door before he was attacked.

Friday you were a kangaroo
Who jumped up and down at noon
When Mommy thumped your kanga-rump,
You jumped as high as the moon.

Saturday you were an elephant:
Your trunk reached through my window
And tried to snatch my coins and cash
‘Til Mommy slapped it and said, “Go!”

Sunday you’re my little brother
With mud and freckles on your cheeks
With dirty pants who plays with ants:
Watch out! I’ll be the beast next week!

Good Government

The patriots who made America
Great did not shrink from challenges and some
Gave their own lives–not for vacation days
And pension plans–but for the right to live

And build and love, pursuing happiness
In freedom, saved from the king’s heavy hand.
Good government comes from sound reasoning
With principles that take account of law

And human needs as well as stewardship
Of resources to meet today’s demand,
Pay debts and keep reserves for rainy days.
The Constitution and the Bill of Rights

Protect the people from abuses that
An overzealous and tyrannical
Agency or official could inflict
On citizens, who have less power than

The forces that the government can wield.
Shall government expand its reach, or stay
Within its present limits? Private groups
And companies: What influence should

They have on the decisions made for all?
What happened to states’ rights, the concept that
The States would have more power than the Feds
Except for certain areas prescribed

For them, such as the military, roads,
Post offices, treaties with other lands?
Shall not the States have rights to educate
Their citizens as they think best for them?

The President lets endless wars drag on
Like wounded beasts limping to waterholes.
He looks at profit, not the cost in lives,
And the Joint Chiefs refine their schemes for more.

What is this right of privacy that Roe
Invented to allow the baby deaths
By tens of millions, Moloch’s barbarism?
And Congress, like a boy who stubbornly

Refuses to perform his chores, has given up
Its power to declare a war . . . or not.
Without the fear of God to curb desires,
Men take the lowest, quickest roads, and men

Lose touch with lovingkindness, empathy,
And senses of fair play that drive most people.
Rogue agents and the Deep State, aided by
Some corporations linked to billionaires,

Usurp the rule of law and warp the press
So that the legal system can’t control,
Deter, or prosecute their monstrous crimes.
To have the innocents be massacred

And profit thus from short sale of the stock–
Such evil go unpunished often, which
Encourages more crime throughout the world.
Elected representatives decide

That they’ll pretend the land and money grabs
Do not take place–or they’re too compromised
To write the laws or take the actions that
Would stop the greedy globalists, who plan

To herd the masses into megacities
And social-engineer each person’s life.
The Fourth Estate, which once held government
To close account for questionable deals,

Too biased to investigate without
Regard to parties, and too indolent
To stray from corporate narratives, becomes
A hiding place for “journalists” who have

Poor ethics, while the independent press,
Still impecunious, has forged first-class
Fresh work that goes where cowards cowering
In mainstream pressrooms are afraid to go.

Who will arise to battle tyranny,
The many-headed serpent with forked tongue,
Gorged on its gold and power and control?
Sleeper, awake, help win the worthy fight.

~Day Williams

“Sleeper in the Valley” by Arthur Rimbaud

SLEEPER IN THE VALLEY

(Le Dormeur du Val)

 

Green vale where a river sings like a choir,

Flirting with grasses, those tattered rags

Of silver; where the sun, from hills of fire,

Shines; green vale where rays flash even in crags!

 

A young soldier, mouth open, naked head,

Sleeps; he’s stretched in grass under skies,

Neck bathing in a blue watercress bed−

He’s pale in his green bed where the light cries.

 

His feet in gladiolus, sleep enfolds

Him, smiling like a sick child taking rest.

Nature, rock the child warmly, he’s cold.

 

Sweet smells don’t make his nostrils quiver wide,

He sleeps in the sun, his hand on his chest,

Tranquil. He has two red holes in his right side.

 

~Arthur Rimbaud

(translated from the French by Day Williams)

“Sleeper in the Valley” by Arthur Rimbaud

SLEEPER IN THE VALLEY

(Le Dormeur du Val)

 

Green vale where a river sings like a choir,

Flirting with grasses, those tattered rags

Of silver; where the sun, from hills of fire,

Shines; green vale where rays flash even in crags!

 

A young soldier, mouth open, naked head,

Sleeps; he’s stretched in grass under skies,

Neck bathing in a blue watercress bed−

He’s pale in his green bed where the light cries.

 

His feet in gladiolus, sleep enfolds

Him, smiling like a sick child taking rest.

Nature, rock the child warmly, he’s cold.

 

Sweet smells don’t make his nostrils quiver wide,

He sleeps in the sun, his hand on his chest,

Tranquil. He has two red holes in his right side.

 

~Arthur Rimbaud

(translated from the French by Day Williams)

“When Spies Run Free,” a poem

When Spies Run Free

When spies run free, then why not me
Across the NSA?
I can record the campaign plans
Of billionaires with cares
The other side will not collide
Because we will assure their loss
I share the best  intel with zest
When spies run free.

When spies run free, why not thee?
Uranium will glow
I will enrich my family
Pay to play in my prime
Run with the wind across the sea
And trade your country’s best
To reach the zone where it’s been stolen
When spies run free.

When spies run free, then history
May lay our secrets bare
Such theft can be a mockery
Of patriots called
To share their lights in planet nights
Men have no friends in treachery
The conscience gnaws despite the cause
When spies run free.

~Day

“Vowels” by Arthur Rimbaud

VOWELS

A black, E white, I red, U green, O blue: vowels,
I will tell some day of your hidden births:
A, black hair corset with flashing flies
That swarm and buzz around some cruel stenches,

Shadowed gulfs; E, frankness of vapors and tents,
Spears of proud glaciers, white kings, umbels’ quivers;
I, purple, spit blood, laugh of pretty lips
In anger or penitent drunkenness,

U, cycles, divine vibrations of green seas,
Peace of the pasture strewn with animals, peace
Of lines that alchemy prints on studious brows;

O, supreme Bugle, full of strange shrill notes,
Silences across the world and the angels:
−O Omega, violet ray of His Eyes!

~Arthur Rimbaud
(Translated by Day Williams)

Getaway Car

Taylor Swift Makes ‘Getaway Car’ Quip After Stolen Vehicle Crashes Into Her Rhode Island Home

http://tinyurl.com/y54c9sg7

For Taylor, so swift

All the good started in a getaway car
I drove her away from the accident scene
She was a celeb, reality star
She was a red lipstick cash machine

At first she didn’t like me
Said I drove too fast
I said if you want to be free
I’m your driver, unsurpassed

Free on the highway to nowhere
In my first-class getaway car
Going so fast you’re getting scared
And you’re a reality star

“Take me to my mansion on the beach,
I’ll hide myself in back rooms,”
I knew I had a lot to teach her
As my motor machine zoomed

“First place they’ll look for you
Is at your twelve-room fort
I won’t take you there, or we’re through”
She had to stay out of traffic court

Free on the highway to nowhere
In my high-class getaway car
Going so fast you’re getting scared
And you’re a reality star

Took her to my shack by the open sea
And we ran barefoot through the wind and spray
I never knew before that love could be
Such a getaway, such a getaway

Took her to the boulders overlooking waves
Held her hand as the red sun set
She told me I was handsome and brave
How she was glad that we had met

~Day Williams

“Poet Laureate of Rock ‘n Roll”

Bob Dylan

Photo by W. Eugene Smith

POET LAUREATE OF ROCK ‘N ROLL

To have gathered from the air a live tradition

or from a fine old eye the unconquered flame

this is not vanity.

–Ezra Pound

He was never known to make a foolish move.

–Bob Dylan

Bound for glory on a rolling thunder tour

Seems nobody’s good enough for you

But Michelangelo and the prophetic Jews

Elijah himself would have camped with you

among the ravens and the rocks

Jeremiah would have called to you

from the dungeon and the stocks

Isaiah would have prayed with you

for the shepherds and their flocks

With your modern ballad you penned in a cab

Your moonlight valentines and villains you stabbed

With your acoustic chords and vagrants you grabbed

With royalties that flow like Niagara Falls

You’re strapped to the mast while the Muses call

And sad-eyed ladies stroll by in prayer shawls

            Poet Laureate of Rock ‘n Roll

            With blues, folk songs and rock-roll soul

            I stand here below

            With a laurel wreath

            Shall I come up and crown you in a show

            Or shall I set it at your feet beneath

You’re the Joker, the Ace, and Jack Fate

Like a thief in the night, your timing is straight

I wonder when you first knew you were great

When the astronauts tell you, you have the right stuff

And the outlaw cowboys call your poker bluff

And your wife has told you she has had enough

Are you happy in the houses that you own

As you admire Roman sculptures in stone

And friends from your youth leave you alone

With a year or two to get saved and give God glory

You left that behind to tell other stories

Your putdowns and tributes to sharp dealers and whores

            Poet Laureate of Rock ‘n Roll

            With blues, folk songs and rock-roll soul

            I stand here below

            With a laurel wreath

            Shall I come up and crown you in a show

            Or shall I set it at your feet beneath

Elvis and Lennon have both gone away

You reign supreme above their large graves

And grope like a blind man to sing another day

Harmonica laments and troubadour hymns

Your profile glows by the Grand Canyon’s rim

Where you kneel to commune with the seraphim

Shrewd as a coyote, you controlled your lust

Rimbaud, Verlaine and Woody, you left in dust

Like a Phantom jet that zooms above a bus

The grains of sand slip down the hourglass

The Reaper smiles and enters to harass

You push him away like he’s so much trash

            Poet Laureate of Rock ‘n Roll

            With blues, folk songs and rock-roll soul

            I stand here below

            With a laurel wreath

            Shall I come up and crown you in a show

            Or shall I set it at your feet beneath

With your hobo ways and your folk song sets

You sail through the stars the sea reflects

And dust yourself off whenever you wreck

With your ex-wives and children, adventures in Rome

With only the heavens a place to call home

With no place to go where you aren’t known

You strike a pose like a poor troubadour

When you own more houses than most have doors

And you can’t predict what God has in store

With your love for Israel despite her flaws

She’s been ruled by Davids and ruined by Sauls,

Oh, tell me when to meet you by the Wailing Wall

            Poet Laureate of Rock ‘n Roll

            With blues, folk songs and rock-roll soul

            I stand here below

            With a laurel wreath

            Shall I come up and crown you in a show

            Or shall I set it at your feet beneath

You earn more in a day than Woody in a life

And stay ambivalent toward Jesus Christ

Who gave you the gifts that no one can deny

You handled your fortune and traded your fame

For endless new visions that drive a slow train

What you love well shall not be taken away

Your CDs sell in Pasadena malls

The Spirit inspires you like Peter and Paul

To find scraps of paper on which you scrawl

With your leather pants and acoustic guitars

You play like an angel beneath the stars

With cold-eyed glances at the other bards

            Poet Laureate of Rock ‘n Roll

            With blues, folk songs and rock-roll soul

            I stand here below

            With a laurel wreath

            Shall I come up and crown you in a show

            Or shall I set it at your feet beneath

With the sad-eyed lady to whom you proposed

A marriage and sent her a diamond and a rose

She was a Gentile, you had a song to compose

With your gravel voice and your mercury sound

You share with the world the jewels you have found

We are pleased and amazed to have you around

            Poet Laureate of Rock `n Roll

            With blues, folk songs and rock-roll soul

            I stand here below

            With a laurel wreath

            Shall I come up and crown you in a show

            Or shall I set it at your feet beneath

~Day Williams

Lowlands cover by Juliana Daily

https://twitter.com/arayamas/status/787664508718284800

Bob Dylan in Mississippi

by Danny Lyon