On farm road 112,
in the cotton country of the South,
sits Old Jones on the front porch,
of his aged white house.
The World has passed his footsteps,
Old Jones sits in a wooden chair,
on an aged white porch.
Black as coal 'tis he,
aged and wise,
the gray hat sweat stained on,
as to be going somewhere,
at the ready,
From the wooden stove in the back,
comes odors of wood and pork sausage,
the tinge of taste is alive.
Three generations have passed by his feet,
without a single care 'tis he,
rocking back and forth,
a thousand times a day.
The Sentinel of the cotton field,
that he labored in as a young boy,
were the promise and wealth lay empty.
Two World Wars would pass him by,
as he worked the fields,
and time marched on.
The time of rest is upon him now,
there is no one in the field,
except, a single machine,
that does the work of a hundred working men.
The autos pass his door daily,
on farm road 112,
some honk and wave,
to acknowledge his presence.
He can remember the model-T truck.
His white dog sits by his side,
a companion and a witness to the day,
that he watched go by.
His life is a testament of change,
the endurance of a man,
and his work,
an era fanciful now gone by.
A mellow creak in the wind,
Yep, there he 'tis,

He is quick,
and is sharp with his wit.
A saying for the past,
keep it with you,
the wisdom will last.
A tune of long ago,
on his breath,
A sigh...deep from his chest.
A look far off,
then the look of light on his face.
A verse from the Good Book,
spews forth from his lips,
like sweet molasses.
Then, a peace settles,
on him.
Just like the dew,
on the cotton field of the morn,
he watches daily.

The straight face of office types.
My territory, my space, my desk.
The Power,
a window with a view...
Coffee... Coffee....
who is to make it?
and where is the cream and sugar.
Wish it was clean!
Don't touch my cup,
unless it is the boss,
then it is trivial...

Deep in the corridor,
down the path of doorways,
of secret domain,
is the "Oasis".
Hidden in a crevice of a wall.
The spring of refreshment,
it bubbles to the touch,
and cool, the effervescent.........
The common, the good, the just, the great, the mighty,
all have to drink in the same manner.
assume the position, head bowed.
before the anointed spring.
He who drinks for my spring will never thirst again...

fax connecting....
send document,
document received,
send receipt noted...and printed.
I feel like I've been FAXED!

Lets Talk
The Conference Call
the time for the long winded,
self important nobodies,
tie up employees time in a suspect manner.
Their whimsical ideas,
the big, the small, the ugly, the strange no faces people.
Voices....just Voices.
They have no body's...
The number, the plan, the crude.
The vocal image of the 90's
Power minded tormentors...They reach out all right!

I pray ThiS thinG,
This DEMon OF pRint woRks
Buttons everywherE,
signs, and NameS of
COMPUTER -TECH mumbo jumbo...
daily the torment does start.
Please be kind and print Nice.
Times Roman
Draft Mode
Just Print or die...

Some live in a prison of daily labor.
The ache starts in my stomach,
when I think of it.

No joy, just work.
The barter of the soul.
the buying of time,
for worthless paper.
my blessed hands...
The duty of being an adult?
I want to be free,
of wasted toil.
The social pecking order,
just to climb the ladder,
and be more miserable!
Is this the American Dream?
Somebody misplace .
For financial Jail..

Gloved hands stretch out to a winters fire,
and eyes starring into the heart of it,
as to see forever, STILL.
the bite of a winters wind at my back,
Blowing sparks of fire into the air like stars shooting upward.
The rhythm of the road gets in your blood,
to wander like a gypsy,
in yesterdays rags.
Tattered clothes and tattered lives.
Faces with names of the road,
Boxcar Bill, Kansas Tom, and Hobo Jones,
rule this iron line.
Unwritten laws govern the tracks,
Where freedom is.
An oasis,
in the next Hobo Jungle,
Just down the tracks.