They get lost in the city…

You see them mumbling; usually to themselves. They have lost everyone. None are left to listen to the complaints! The lost are the lonely…

The despair is written in the lines of their faces. Their addiction is in their voices. “Can ya spare some change?”

My guess is that they didn’t fit in where they came from either. Driven from the nest by the stronger siblings.

So seldom do they hear any words of encouragement. Maybe never…

I’ve been listening to the masses.

They be trying to bring me down.

I’ve been taking master classes.

Ever since the blues dropped into town.

They are talking about oppression.

Like, it’s shiny and brand new.

So much horror in that lesson.

That ironic cake to chew.

They are raging, eyes are blurry.

Tears they fall like April rain.

Going nowhere in such a hurry.

Like they just discovered pain.

I’ve been looking for a chorus. That won’t break us into songs. Maybe something just to bore us. Take our rights back from the wrongs…

I watched her rise and fall over our sleepy little town. That dead rock in the sky, that shines over us all… Who knows the secrets here? Where? Where everyone pretends that nothing happens.

The warm salt waters of the Gulf Stream flow north from Mexico, along the eastern continental shelf, passed Cape Breton and beyond. Cold arctic air sweeps down over frozen tundra and bristles raised hairs on hunched backs, along Labrador and into the Northumberland Strait. Where these 2 meet is a spit of land that rises out of the Atlantic, just north of New York City, and is formerly known as New Scotland. It’s because of this; the north winds and the south currents that the conversations here are usually always about the weather…

To an outsider, it would appear as if nothing else goes on here but the weather. However, appearances are deceiving. Nothing is as it seems…

Reminds me of the old joke… A man from the city asks a fisherman, “What do you do around here for excitement.”

The fisherman smiles, ” In the summertime we fish and we fuck. In the winter, we don’t fish. “

I’ve been patient with understanding…

And all things that I don’t know.

They piled up and not withstanding…

Except those marks from letting go.

We were holding onto dear life.

Confused like children in a war.

Lack the words for clear expression.

Peace and love were not in store.

There is something in the shadows.

Dare take a look? Oh, just a peek!

There’s something Holy in the answers.

When the strong protects the weak.

Dennis Mantin

The sun returned with a vengeance.

The cold air was hanging on.

The headmaster took attendance.

Appeared that one of us was gone.

Some prayed for her safe passage.

Some cried for her return.

There was no meaning or no message.

Just a look of harsh concern.

There was a shuffle in the hallway.

And some movement at the door.

She said, “I’m late, but I’m ok.”

And she’s not missing anymore.

Piano rose above the frost line.

Sweet music cold and still.

She held that note and damn the cost.

I just had to get my fill.

My attention was the darkness

Gold light did touch her face.

I’m so attracted to your beauty, dear.

My mind is in that race.

Now, I hunger for the quiet.

And how that used to be.

Before the beauty and the music.

Before this madness that I see.

They gathered in the city after abandoning the farms.

A silent somber motley crew, full of piss and doing harms.

They hardly drew a notice, just didn’t look the part.

The country cousins consortium, taking mayhem to an art.

They stole and raped and pillaged. Took a dark and fearsome path.

Until they ran into a ringer with a cold and wicked laugh.

There’s a silence in the meadows. She is waiting by the phone.

But her boys don’t call or write. For their sins they must atone.

Vincent might have been a better writer than he was a Painter, and unless you’ve read his letters to his brother Theo; then I’m certain that you might want to debate. I’m not interested…

I have read volumes on this mans life and death, and never have I encountered so much absolute bullshit and misinformation surrounding one person. This is the problem. If the public and humanity are so easily fooled, then all history comes into question.

Vincent Van Gogh did not cut off his ear and give his discarded body part to a prostitute… There is an actual police report, and the only witness to this supposed mythology was master swordsman PAUL GAUGHAN. Paul was not much for fiction. However, he did manage to fool most everyone with his efforts here.

Paul Gaughan cut off Vincent’s ear and created this story to evade jail. Scotland Yard detectives came to this conclusion several decades ago when they studied the police report. Vincent was too drunk to remember anything.

In the 1960s, the last of 3 brothers died, and on his death bed confessed that it was him and his brothers who accidentally shot Vincent. Vincent took days to die and was conscious, and he took this secret to his grave to ensure that these 3 brothers, his tormentors, wouldn’t be punished.

It’s my opinion that based on these 2 almost incidental examples; that history has a major problem.

The cold bore down upon them.

No signs of heat or heart.

Just murmurs of some warnings.

Like they told you from the start.

But NO! You wouldn’t listen.

And now you know the way.

If only you can get through this!

Just to live another day…

Some will heed your warnings.

Some will pray for shithouse luck.

Some will calmly walk through fire.

Smile sweet, don’t give a fuck.