The Renegade

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The sweet scent of freshly-cut grass, and the familiar groan of a nearby lawn mower were like fine wine to my nostrils and music to my ears.

After a five-year stretch on the inside, living on the run is freedom, but also hell. A Darwinian existence. One step worse than death.

With no change of clothes, I stink from my own piss, shit, and sweat, and when I sleep on the ground ants and blowflies crawl on my face—thinking I’m dead the blowflies try to lay eggs on my flesh.

I’m running low on food, only eating what I can steal from stores or scavenge from dumpsters.

My drinking water comes from a building’s downspout or from a nearby drainage ditch.

I’m wanted by the long arm of the law—for escaping custody for a murder charge that I didn’t commit.

Some say it may be a better life in jail, so I should to turn myself in.

But what do they know?

Certainly it would be better than this life I have now.

But this way is my way, and this way, even if I die on the streets and my soul is carried across the great divide by a flock of crows, it’s better than giving my body and soul to the cowardly FBI.

I’m like a Coyote, escaping capture,  always on the run, but at least I’m free.

– Poet Stoker

A Foggy Night On An Abandoned Wharf

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Be mindful on your midnight stroll near the waterfront cool and dark, an inland fog like a dungeon of mist will leave you barren, desolate, and stark. Be careful where you place your feet, many wharf rats you will meet, they’ll be dragging maggoty fish heads into holes, or doing trapeze acts upon the slimy poles. Be mindful on your wayward walk, it’s easy to slip and fall and drown in the murky dock. ~ Poet Stoker

Ballad of The Black Hound Of Depression

Along life’s bumpy dirt-covered road there’s an animal you ought to know well, he’s wrought with terror, and born from thunder, during the howling winds of hell. His eyes have a ruby red glow, his coat is slick and fine. He’s called the black hound of depression, or so some people say, and no amount of medication can scare the black hound away. It would mean your demise, so please people be wise, do not allow the black hound inside your mind. On some windy night you’ll awake with a fright and onto the city bridge you’ll find.
Leaping to your death, you think, is the only escape to keep the hell-hound at bay. Downward you’ll plunge into the great abyss, giving the water below a sapphire kiss.
Your mind’s videotape spins it’s last reel, the final frame will show the black dog, still nipping at your heels. ~ Poet Stoker

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Beck’s Last Beer

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The gawking crowd watched on in amazement that day as another drowned body was taken away,
In a failed attempt to skip from ship to shore he’d lost his footing and was seen no more,
Mr. Beck he was a good old man but too many times he’d had drinks in his hand,
A Ten Penny beer in his back pocket was clear, and his body was dressed in white turtle neck gear,
Beck’s bloated body was all that remained of his beautiful soul that night in the rain,
Macabrely they paddled in their little row boat until nearing Becks’ body which was close by and afloat,
Beck’s death grip was pried loose from the slimy-green-spiles, as his two grown sons, Kenny And Neil, stood silently weeping a while,
What a way to say goodbye to your dad, god bless their souls, Father raised out of the harbor by hook and by pole. ~ Poet Stoker

*Dedicated to the late Clarence Beck, RIP.

Written By @cagestokerblog