“When a rich man looks out his window, he admires the luxuries that wealth has bestowed upon him. If a poor man is lucky enough to have a window, he sees grimy walls, dirty streets, and all manner of disease and decay. Most of all, the poor man is denied the privilege of seeing hope.”
Hello from beautiful central Idaho, USA! The weather may be “frightful,” but it is gorgeous! Here are some wild turkeys to prove it 🙂
The primary fictional nation in my novels is called “Cadona.” It is big and mighty, but in decline. The air, land, and waters are polluted in most of its territory. This image reminds me of what much of the capital, Cadona City, looks like.
I recorded this video in central Oregon State, USA. This wild turkey family strolling through tall grass is the cutest thing!!
Here is a picture I took. I was looking off a balcony in beautiful northwestern Oregon, USA.
I wrote this poem as I was thinking about socioeconomic inequality.
Doesn’t Matter
It’s heave, it’s throw,
My life it doesn’t matter.
It’s lift, it’s pull,
Can’t climb the rich man’s ladder.
I see the guys in snappy suits,
Gents sittin’ in the shade,
While I swelter in the gutter,
Cleanin’ the mess they made.
It’s tug, it’s tow,
My life it doesn’t matter.
It’s grind, it’s roll,
Can’t get to what I’m after.
I’d like a fancy mansion,
At the end of money street,
But how can I get more schooling,
When I work three shifts all week?
It’s sweep, it’s hoe,
My kids’ lives, they don’t matter.
It’s dig, it’s sow,
Nothing makes me sadder.
My girl went to a grocery store,
And she came home in despair,
‘cause the kid behind her shouted,
She has cooties in her hair!
It’s scrub, it’s sew,
My kids’ lives, they don’t matter.
It’s wash, it’s stow,
The babies’ clothes are tattered.
I want to teach my children
The manners of the well-to-do,
But we can’t go where the rich go,
Without fancy clothes or shoes.
It’s trick, it’s duel,
Our lives, they don’t matter.
It’s taunt, it’s fool,
Can’t join the rich man’s banter.
We don’t have their fancy words,
No one listens to what we say,
And how can we smell like flowers,
Workin’ in the ovens for pay?
It’s lie, it’s cajole,
Our lives, they don’t matter.
It’s arrest, it’s parole,
Our hopes have all been shattered.
Rich folks live in luxury
After drinking too much wine,
But the drunkard in the alley
Goes to prison to serve time.
It’s heave, it’s throw,
Our lives, they don’t matter.
It’s lift, it’s pull,
Can’t climb the rich man’s ladder.
– C. N. Sky
A picture from my front yard
