Tag: Blackmon

Don’t you see it, it’s in the way that he walks

It’s all about the way he wears his pants.

Don’t you see it, I mean, can’t you tell

His cologne’s got that Hollywood smell.

Don’t you see it, that man’s a Yankee

Place your bet, I’m doubling down.

Don’t you see it, it’s all over his face,

Credit cards to eat up your town.

 

Don’t you see it, it’s in the way that he talks

It’s all about the way he waves his hands,

Don’t you see it, they’re all going to Hell

Can’t get the crack out of the Liberty Bell.

Don’t you see it, that man’s a Yankee

On a jet, I know he’s a clown

Don’t you see it, it’s all over his face

Credit cards to eat up your town.

 

Frederick S. Blackmon, USA

Gossipers on the corner

Fill their lips with the latest lament,

With tongues brimming

Yet never sinning against themselves.

So eloquently they speak of others

In the city’s gutters,

Instinctively passing over mirrors

As they pillage and contaminate

The reputations of those most hated.

A scandalous whisper floats unaided.

Despite being loathed as taboo,

Nearly everyone flirts with the idea of “Who Saw Who.”

Perhaps they too, have been victimized

At once, also lamented and despised,

Yet once they reached the street corner

Forgot what was wise,

By not shutting their ears to these novelty spies.

Why preach, when all can participate in idle ways?

In truth, we all speak ill

Directed at our neighbor for a momentary thrill.

It’s a game. It’s a joke.

Well, isn’t it anyway?

A bit of innocent fun to waste away the day.

 

Frederick S. Blackmon, USA

I am on fire, burning from the inside out.

I feel like a brand new sword, confused

As to why it’s been beaten and burned for so long.

I have neither soft nor dull edges

And no sheath to quench my thirst for battle and blood.

I am the talisman of victory. I am the artifact of defeat.

I have no lord for whom I pledge my allegiance;

No great cause to lend my might.

I was forged by a mighty hand against an unforgiving anvil’s edge

And now I gleam in the darkness and the light.

Will they sing songs of my glory or lament the destruction and chaos I cause?

Will I find my way into a hero’s hand or satisfy a villain’s iron grasp?

Will my blade become a liberator of the innocent

Or an oppressor of the helpless and weak?

O Creator, and master of your craft, why have you made me thus…

So cold and sharp, so beautiful and dangerous.

 

Frederick S. Blackmon, USA