Free Spirit Of My Truth
© Surazeus
2019 01 09
Slouching against the cracked telephone pole,
he watches his father and brother walk
through the large gate with thousands of strong men
to work in the factory assembling cars.
He ruffles his own messy hair and sighs
as snow flakes swirl down from the steel-gray sky,
then walks along the buckling asphalt road
past high school where he wants to avoid class.
The thought of working in that factory
for the next forty years like my good father
fills me with horror at the mindless work
that would crush free spirit of my desire.
I want to sing in a rock and roll band,
like Elvis Presley, dancing on the stage
while pretty girls in pink skirts scream with joy
and adore me with hope to bear my children.
Stopping in front of the grungy pawn shop,
he stares at guitars hanging in the window,
then imagines himself on the large stage
singing about outwitting the rich banker.
Playing air guitar outside the pawn shop door,
he improvises words to wild rock tune
while jumping up and down to whip his hair,
then leans back and twitches fingers in wind.
Who is that man wearing the pinstripe suit,
charging higher prices on factory products,
but pays no benefits to loyal workers
while he buys big yachts with profit from labor?
How could he know with calculator brain
that love is the flower blooming in the field
where children run and play with joyful friends,
free from onerous rules of society?
Shrieking the last line in the snow-cold wind,
he stops, startled to see the pawn shop owner
in the door staring at him with a smirk,
so he glares and turns to slouch down the road.
The owner laughs and calls, so he turns back,
and listens as he offers him a job,
explaining, if you work here ninety days
I will give you one of those guitars free.
Grinning, he accepts, and starts his new job,
working every day to help in the store
through keeping records of the inventory
by writing purchases and sales in books.
After working ninety days in the shop,
he accepts old black acoustic guitar
from the hands of the owner who declares,
may you become greater than Elvis Presley.
Striding down the street in warm glow of Spring,
he finds busy spot outside the large bank,
then, setting his fedora on the sidewalk,
he begins to strum simple chords and sings.
Who is that man who wears the business suit,
charging high interest on your mortgage loans
and using profits he takes from your hands
to build new mansion on the river shore?
How could he know with calculator brain
that love is the flower blooming by the lake
where children run and play with laughing friends,
free from onerous rules of society?
Bowing after he sings for several hours,
he counts money people threw in his hat,
and eats hamburger at the homey restaurant,
then comes back every day to play more songs.
While striding bold to sing before the bank,
he finds himself surrounded by five men
who punch him in the face which breaks his nose,
then kick him in the stomach when he falls.
Smashing his guitar against the brick wall,
the gang of men kick him hard in the head,
then crush his fingers with heels of their boots,
tearing his muscles and breaking his bones.
Clutching splinters of the shattered guitar
with broken fingers, as blood smears his face,
he stumbles to the pawn shop in mute shock
and groans while the owner binds tight his hands.
Slouching against the cracked telephone pole,
while his father and brother walk to work,
he stares at his fingers, bandaged in white,
and plots revolution to destroy bankers.
Though they broke my fingers to stop my songs,
paid by the bankers my songs satirized,
they cannot crush free spirit of my truth
for I will rise like Phoenix from the fire.
Sitting in the pawn shop after he works
recording purchases and sales in books,
he holds new pen with fingers that ache
and writes lyrics of songs he plans to sing.
Standing before the bank, he holds notebook
open to the sky, and recites long poems
that criticize theft of capitalist pigs,
while people throw more money in his hat.
He stands tall and proud in slant Summer rays
when the large black car screeches to a halt
and five men shoot him in the head and heart,
so he lies bleeding under empty sky.
© Surazeus
2019 01 09
Slouching against the cracked telephone pole,
he watches his father and brother walk
through the large gate with thousands of strong men
to work in the factory assembling cars.
He ruffles his own messy hair and sighs
as snow flakes swirl down from the steel-gray sky,
then walks along the buckling asphalt road
past high school where he wants to avoid class.
The thought of working in that factory
for the next forty years like my good father
fills me with horror at the mindless work
that would crush free spirit of my desire.
I want to sing in a rock and roll band,
like Elvis Presley, dancing on the stage
while pretty girls in pink skirts scream with joy
and adore me with hope to bear my children.
Stopping in front of the grungy pawn shop,
he stares at guitars hanging in the window,
then imagines himself on the large stage
singing about outwitting the rich banker.
Playing air guitar outside the pawn shop door,
he improvises words to wild rock tune
while jumping up and down to whip his hair,
then leans back and twitches fingers in wind.
Who is that man wearing the pinstripe suit,
charging higher prices on factory products,
but pays no benefits to loyal workers
while he buys big yachts with profit from labor?
How could he know with calculator brain
that love is the flower blooming in the field
where children run and play with joyful friends,
free from onerous rules of society?
Shrieking the last line in the snow-cold wind,
he stops, startled to see the pawn shop owner
in the door staring at him with a smirk,
so he glares and turns to slouch down the road.
The owner laughs and calls, so he turns back,
and listens as he offers him a job,
explaining, if you work here ninety days
I will give you one of those guitars free.
Grinning, he accepts, and starts his new job,
working every day to help in the store
through keeping records of the inventory
by writing purchases and sales in books.
After working ninety days in the shop,
he accepts old black acoustic guitar
from the hands of the owner who declares,
may you become greater than Elvis Presley.
Striding down the street in warm glow of Spring,
he finds busy spot outside the large bank,
then, setting his fedora on the sidewalk,
he begins to strum simple chords and sings.
Who is that man who wears the business suit,
charging high interest on your mortgage loans
and using profits he takes from your hands
to build new mansion on the river shore?
How could he know with calculator brain
that love is the flower blooming by the lake
where children run and play with laughing friends,
free from onerous rules of society?
Bowing after he sings for several hours,
he counts money people threw in his hat,
and eats hamburger at the homey restaurant,
then comes back every day to play more songs.
While striding bold to sing before the bank,
he finds himself surrounded by five men
who punch him in the face which breaks his nose,
then kick him in the stomach when he falls.
Smashing his guitar against the brick wall,
the gang of men kick him hard in the head,
then crush his fingers with heels of their boots,
tearing his muscles and breaking his bones.
Clutching splinters of the shattered guitar
with broken fingers, as blood smears his face,
he stumbles to the pawn shop in mute shock
and groans while the owner binds tight his hands.
Slouching against the cracked telephone pole,
while his father and brother walk to work,
he stares at his fingers, bandaged in white,
and plots revolution to destroy bankers.
Though they broke my fingers to stop my songs,
paid by the bankers my songs satirized,
they cannot crush free spirit of my truth
for I will rise like Phoenix from the fire.
Sitting in the pawn shop after he works
recording purchases and sales in books,
he holds new pen with fingers that ache
and writes lyrics of songs he plans to sing.
Standing before the bank, he holds notebook
open to the sky, and recites long poems
that criticize theft of capitalist pigs,
while people throw more money in his hat.
He stands tall and proud in slant Summer rays
when the large black car screeches to a halt
and five men shoot him in the head and heart,
so he lies bleeding under empty sky.
No comments:
Post a Comment