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jack green Poems
The sun slowly rises in the east as the morning mist gives way. The generations gathered to celerbrate the cycles, to feast, dance and pray. Our fathers kept tradition all arrived to this same hallowed ground. Like all of their fathers before brave yet peaceful and profound.
Rough is this coat i wear soiled and torn from to many falls. A cold shadow casts me forward as a flame consumes the wick. This numb existence i possess stares at reckless abandon because. Of to many choices ignored while being delivered mistakes picked.
Written In The Stars
As the gentle southern rain softly whispers of you. The ache i carry deep in my heart washes over me Just once more to see those green eyes of beautiful hue Staring right back at me, oh the changes you will see.
Too Old For Tears
Many are days weeks and years. Now am too old for salty tears. Sadness replaced the youthful dreams. Lost time won the battle to me it seems.
Lost hope heartless those hoof beats pound. Raising the dust form these red clay grounds. Chasing the federals like demon hell hounds. To the city of Chattanooga.
Barren Is The Vine
The cracked cobblestone memories, are heavy with time. As are the wrinkles, on my once young face. Carved by the years, burned by the sun, barren is the vine. Cold fingers now reap the harvest, of this empty place.
To have and hold more precious than gold. Waste not and want not is what has been told. Beware of the wicked have faith till the end. Count all of your blessings cherish your friends.
Did i try too hard, did i sit on my ass? Did i miss the boat, or accept second class? Will i ever get a break, or even a chance? Hard as i try, will i get a second glance?
Where Demons Dwell
I'm not here to impress I am only here to express. If this causes you distress. I do not mean to depress.
Where An Orphan Sleep's
The starving and the homeless begging in the street. Have the only notion of what frost feels like on bare feet. Places where an orphan sleep alone and out of sight. Heated only by a candle not much for them to bare.
Have you ever felt cast away a nameless wave on a forgotten sea? Did you think you could hold on against a never relenting wind? Do you find yourself caught between what could have been and used to be? Did you really think you were right, life is sweet until the bitter end.
Truth is a word with only one meaning. Twisted at times half told not ringing. Wrestled from doubt showing the wear. Crippled from use without even a care.
I find myself at loss in doubt. Is it worse or better? Do I have a clue what its all about? And does it really matter?
I remember smell of honeysuckle in the soft morning breeze. The shimmering sun dancing on the lake and piercing the trees. So varied are the colors the Autumn leaves will make the eye strain. From beauty not contained, peaceful the sound of softly falling rain
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
The sun slowly rises in the east as the morning mist gives way.
The generations gathered to celerbrate the cycles, to feast, dance and pray.
Our fathers kept tradition all arrived to this same hallowed ground.
Like all of their fathers before brave yet peaceful and profound.
Stolen was their native tradition all customs everything they owned.
Cast to the westward wind starved, poisened and without a home.
My fathers now have gone home to a place that cant be taken.
This generation has the duty to remember the Cherokee Nation.