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
But there’s nothing to fear … the monster was only a big log that someone had set on fire.
Fall colors paint the trees.
Here’s a cheery photo from a Northwest USA springtime day.
Today is the one-year mark since our Vyeshka passed away. We miss him every day, but we are forever thankful he shared his life with us and his sister, Byelka, who preceded him in death.
I know he is with us every day in spirit, and, one day, we’ll all be together again.
This is a poem I wrote for him and Byelka shortly after his death:
Red Sun Falls
As the red sun falls
And the night draws near
My sad heart calls
But you’re not here.
I walk into a room; I expect to see you there.
Only memories remain, feeling nothing but despair.
My love was strong; I thought you’d never die.
Love wasn’t enough, and you had to say good-bye.
As the red sun falls
And the night draws near
My sad heart calls
But you’re not here.
The laughter of others can never be for me.
From this place of sorrow, I shall never be set free.
I’ll wander through the days, until my own life ends,
Waiting for the time you’re the angel God sends.
As the red sun falls
And the night draws near
My sad heart calls
But you’re not here.
Yet I may love another, if mercy is true,
But there’s a place in my soul that will always be for you.
I will never love you less no matter where life strays,
And we’ll be joined forever at the end of my days.
As the red sun falls
And the night draws near
My sad heart calls
But you’re not here.
As the red sun falls
And the night draws near
My sad heart calls
But you’re not here.
This post is not about my books, but the topic does influence my writing.
I’ve had to deal with grief far too often lately. While the pain is fresh in my mind, I wrote up a short piece to get to the root of sorrow.