Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

Over shantytown a mountain rises,
where spirits thrived in secret places.
'Spirit Mountain,' a map said, the sacred rise.
Nothing is sacred now, everything is mapped,
stamped, claimed and maimed and scooped out,
measured in treasure, electronic markets to the cent.
I had to see the mountain so I set out to a haze horizon
across the pickets and thickets, thru hills still filled with
large guts muttering epithets of 'those dam hippies,' and
those worthless pieces of leftover from some leftist plot,
still poisoning minds from their ivory tower universities,
who otta be silent, who'd never win the war if it mattered.
And when I got to the Mountain it was still just as high,
though fenced off and gouged in a few places.

liked the rhyme, liked the vernacular parked next to the sacred.

~ ~

Such a pleasant journey

Thanks everyone. Was reading a Bobby Byrd poem (El Paso poet), and he was saying: "...give them a quarter, mister. Give them a dollar. Give them back the secret places in the mountain where their spirit lives..."

Then I just rambled a little ramble.

much to ponder

a very ponderful piece you have constructed here, amigo.. with some help by Bobby Byrd hisself! Nice.