Truth Doesn't Ramble

Poetic Expanse #88 - Eight Days A Week Series

Today’s Ponder Point . . . . .

Here are the actual guidelines to writing a news story, as posted on the BBC site; - (“and what they are really saying”):

• Keep your language as simple as possible - (“your readers will be stupid.”).

• Don’t use long or complicated words or sentences - (“you don’t want to encourage your readers to become less stupid.”).

• Short words in short sentences are best because they are quick to read and more easily understood - (“we should all aspire to the same level of dumbness.”).

We have descended in to a darkness and succumbed to the expectation that nothing better can be achieved. We have surrendered. We are all drowning in 2 inches of water.

The Human Hum . . . . .

We know they are lying, they know they are lying, they know we know they are lying, we know they know we know they are lying, but they are still lying. — Solzhenitsyn

The Political Part . . . . .

USA, I watched the incoherent blundering buffoon that you unbelievably elected to be your President (not once, but twice) blubber on about nothing for nearly an hour in front of over 100 other nation leaders at the UN. It was ultra embarrassing, it was creepy, it was sad and insane. There was no plot, there was no truth to the rambling statements made, there was no reason for any of it. Still, there it was in front of the entire world. And no one stopped it. It was merciless on so many levels. Men in white should have arrived and wrapped him in a long two armed suit.

USA, change now, your attitude and arrogance is still repairable.

The Update:

My next book is a novel, and it is in publication now. It is planned for launch at the end of this year. It is entitled Mantler’s Shack.

When two bodies end up in the Danube, a resourceful Jon Mantler, coming from a simple life growing up in rural North America, struggles to adapt to the complex capers of cold war intelligence in Europe. His mother’s departure at age six, and his father’s sudden death when he was fourteen cause him to grow up mostly alone inside the tiny house in which he was born. These unique circumstances affect the way he interacts with other characters and how he interrelates with love, death, fear and aloneness . . . . .

Two Poetry Pieces . . . . .

ISITTRUE

077-1.0

Is it true, that Mervin was killed by a broken fan.

Is it true, that the twins both took their own lives.

We were driving, just driving up and down,

On a gravel road, without making much sound.

We were worried, and we were losing faith

In a senseless town, we were outcasts.

What mattered then doesn’t matter today.

Throughout the thirties, the sand had been swept away,

in a most peculiar way.

Not sanctified, not symbolical, just blown out in to the air space.

What would you have done with it anyway.

. . . . . . . . . . .

Is it true that Mervin was killed by a broken fan,

Is it true that the twins both took their own lives,

In a sad stoic town, in a time of stunted stone,

There was a promise and there was bone to bone.

. . . . . . . . . . .

First problem is, - is what my father said.

Second problem is, - is the car had no lights.

Next problem is, - is we never went to bed.

Last problem is, - is there’s going to be some fights.

. . . . . . . . . . .

First problem is, - is there was a raging storm.

Second problem is, - is the car was missing a light

Next problem is, - is the police were everywhere.

Last problem is, - is the rope was a way to tight.

. . . . . . . . . . .

Sitting right here with an empty noose.

Waiting right here with these open wounds.

100 miles from the finish line,

Somebody should have cut them loose.

I had a wife and children, - I had happy hands

Worked through my troubles just like any man should

Settled down to rest then I bit the screw

Watched states and formations take the saved lands

Is it true, - about the fan,

Is it true, - about the lives.

SEGMENTS – SHE RAN

054-1.0

she ran, and ran, and ran, ran out of the small shack and across the street; to an empty lot she ran where the paths were clearly defined and the grass beside was much higher than the ground and higher than her thighs. she could hear him running, behind her, feel him breathing, and knew that he would catch her, five hundred yards, she was running, and out of breath; she wanted him to catch her, not now though, but soon, she didn’t want him to know, so she didn’t know what to do and when he would, and how much to fight;

and which part of him to fight with, it would be so easy she thought, in the years to come, when she would know everything, know how to run; and then she fell, in to the longest of the grass, and she rolled, and she made him fall with her, his leg landed on her hip, and it hurt, and felt wonderful. he tried to roll away, but she grabbed his hand, and instead, she tried to strike him with her other hand, and missed, hitting only the long tangled grass.

she wished he would do something, but what, so she just rolled, and rolled, and rolled; in the grass rolling, and hoping, not to have to think, about what to do anymore, she had been thirteen, for three days now, a teenager, soon she would know what to do, run and roll; and he was thirteen too, and he is still running . . . . .

Cold Blue Wonder

Poetic Expanse Episode #87

Today’s Ponder Point . . . . .

When reading poetry we don’t look for agreement or disagreement, the critical mind is suspended in order to let the impact of the poem make itself felt. When we read poetry, we are poets.

We remain passively alert, letting the words be active, listening to how they echo on every level, how they sound, how they move in us, how we are moved by them. We wait attentively, without conclusion, for the poem to find us.

The Human Hum . . . . .

“To start my day I want to slowly feel my soul, aptly feed my mind, then find and warm my heart.”

The Poetry Piece . . . . . 1

GOLD OLD REPOSED PRAISED

(022-1.0)

GOLD –

so much an ounce, gold

OLD –

as water sifting through a runaway stream,

when all the wooden gates have been closed, old

REPOSED –

with a softness beneath the din of the loneliest,

far off man, this town has raised, reposed.

PRAISED -

for patience at the Vatican, learning of history,

beneath stones that earthborn men have made, praised.

GOLD -

Remains in a solid state.

The men bury themselves and their fate.

Shouts and shots come and go.

Escape is scattered high and low.

More than we bargained for though.

Much more than we ever needed.

Lives and territories ceded.

Only memories of a good life

and the dreams of the best life,

remain.

The Political Part . . . . .

Hatred, fear and division! It is bewildering to watch US podcasters, broadcasters and experts raptly questioning how their nation has come to this place of political murder and assassination attempts, - When the answer has been in front of their face virtually every minute of every day on every network and social media platform for the last decade. It’s the Trump! Stupid!

And on this last horrific shooting, when the ideal opportunity was right there in front of him to, for once in his entire disgusting life, do something his country so badly needed. - When he had the chance to step up out of his pool of bile and actually be a leader to all citizens and the possibility to heal and start to unite, what did he do? You guessed it. He tossed more gas on the fire by attacking.

The Update on R G’s creative publications . . . . .

Poetic Expanse - A compilation Vol. 1 by R G Schmidt - is for sale as a paper back on Amazon Kindle books. Or - order direct from the author.

Mantler’s Shack - a novel by R G Schmidt - is in publication and scheduled for launch in December 2025. Pre order directly from the author.

Bridges From Both Sides - a Music Album by R G Schmidt (AKA Slyd Blvd) - released in 2020 and available on all streaming platforms, Spotify, Apple, YouTube, etc. or directly from the author.

The Poetry Piece . . . . . 2

FOUR BULLETS

(023-1.0)

Four bullets don't take long to make their point.

Cold blue wonder can't stop what another has done.

Don't settle no score, or return a wrong verdict to justice.

But four little holes can render a man undone.

Well - I keep on talking like a prophet, but I make little sense.

Disregarding authority, and that makes me just like anyone else.

In such close proximity all the little projectiles achieved their mark.

I'd render them useless, but for the way they extinguish a spark.

Lifeless, defenseless, from the terror that enters our skies.

Lifeless and defenseless, from the bullet and from the heart.

Like the lonely grey haired mother who with her only picture cries,

Helpless – defenseless to make a new start.

Four bullets can meet in a place where no one has been.

Without conversation,

they all understand what they've been sent to glean

Under all mans suspicions there still is not a way to be safe.

With four of them out every night,

you know one could be looking for you.

Gently In A Shell

Episode #86 of The Poetic Expanse

Today’s Ponder Point . . . . .

I don’t want it anymore, possibly I never really needed it. It did keep me warm late at night for a while though, but I can see now that you need it more than I, so it should be yours now. Take it in your hands and don’t think twice about it. “Don’t think twice it’s alright.”

Uncle Jake said little, as he carried the water up the hill from the barn to the house. Never again, will I have the same appreciation for fresh water. Or, how it tasted seconds after being pumped from the well on a hot day. Or, in the corner of the dark kitchen when scooped out with a metal dipper from the big ceramic crock. A wow!

Then I held the warm egg in my hand, that precise temperature remains with me today. I still hold life gently in a shell.

We made eye contact then. The uncomplicated wise man with the kind eyes and a bucket in his hand, and I, a small boy in a world of wonder.

The Human Hum . . . . .

“Every heart sings a song, incomplete, until another heart whispers back.” . . - Plato

Thank you for reading this publication. It is free to all, but if you choose you can help with our expenses by becoming a paid subscriber. Thank you for reading regardless of how you subscribe.

The Poetry Pieces . . . . .

First from the Compilation Volume 1, a European piece that has become much appreciated by my readers.

FARGE

020-1.0

I watched in the harbor as your gentle teasing waves

slapped up against the hulls of the rocking and resting tugs.

You seemed so kind and careful as you fed the canals with water

and comforted the wobbling ducks.

This was no sleeping giant.

I felt I could trust you.

When I approached you again in Den Haag my eyes were want to retreat.

Your rage could hold an entire city in fear and in awe.

There was no conversing with you now.

Your words were the wind the water and the sand.

And you spat them out and across the land,

like I had never expected to see.

I stood awhile.

I marveled awhile.

The sand stung my face

and the wind ripped me back from your shore line.

You stood and looked one hundred feet tall

as your angry white warriors snarled their way to the beach.

This beach where oft you let men lay

and tickled their feet with your soft splashes.

You remind now that one hungry roar

could claim ships and platoons.

The people that live here understand.

I marvel.

The Political Part . . . . .

Judges! I don’t get it!

“No one is above the law!”- they say, then they hand ultimate power over the law to the president of the United States. It gets more appalling everyday, and those that are in positions, like appointed judges and elected officials, continually allow this lunacy to fester and grow.

Who are judges responsible to? Is it not the law, constitution and by that association, the populace that they represent? Have they too become corrupted by these times? These judges need to find their moral fiber and get their non-aligned and independent acts together. How absurd to be watching this in real time. The Supreme Court is allowing a president to take authoritarian military control of a nation.

What now? What will be the consequence? The question is about to be, will the military open fire and shoot their own citizens?

The Update on R G publications . . . . .

Mantler’s Shack - a novel by . . . R G Schmidt - is in publication NOW!

This will be an ideal gift for your friends and family. Pre Order directly from the author.

Poetic Expanse - A compilation Vol. 1 by R G Schmidt - is for sale as a paper back and as an E book, on Amazon Kindle books. Or order directly from the author.

“Bridges From Both Sides” Album of all original songs by Slyd Blvd is available on Spotify, Apple, You Tube, and all mediums. The songs are solid and have had critical acclaim. Check out Slyd Blvd Radio on Spotify.

Another Poetry Piece . . . . .

. . . . . Later this still unreleased song, an ode to blues guitarist Roy Buchanan, who mysteriously died in a jail cell back in about 1989.

THE HANGING OF ROY BUCHANAN

161.01

When a guitar plays the blues, it weaves a magic spell

When a guitar plays the blues, what a story it can tell

They said you were simply sleeping when the heat began to fail

The sideshow was too unbelievable, caught your finger on their nail

Trying to convince the dim lights that the blues are not for sale

It’s a pattern for the trapped inside the pail

. . . . .

I’d scream too, it I met you again without my light

My sight was not retrievable with I tripped in to that night

By now, I should have been in Baltimore sliding in and out of sight

There is no answer, for the trapped, along the trail

. . . . .

So hey Joe, who’s been selling you all of this spit

You were feeling it in your heart, way before you got hit

This world does not come clean, you still have to play in it

Or be strapped, with the trapped, beside the rail

. . . . .

So who knows where you were heading

when they dragged you in that can

Who knows what you were sweet dreaming,

when you slipped in to that sand

I’d rather be on this earth until Tuesday,

then have them peeing on my hand

No answer, for the trapped, just death in jail

. . . . .

When a guitar plays the blues, threads a magic spell

When a guitar plays the blues, what a story in can tell.

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A Browning Time

Poetic Expanse - Episode #84

Today’s Ponder Point . . . . .

There are so many terms thrown around today that I am tired of hearing. Ah, the damn cliches. “If there is an original thought out there somewhere I could really use it right now,” - is what Dylan once said - (In Brownsville Girl), and I feel that way a lot. Current, overused phrases like,

“take it to the next level.” “ “I think we need to talk.” “Thank you for having me”. “100%” “That is so woke.” “They are gaslighting us.” - need to be stricken.

The Human Hum . . . . .

“People greeting people, connecting to each other, exchanging feelings, - what a notion, - what a rush. Take a preemptive shot at life before it all goes to brown grass.” . . . . . R G Schmidt

The Poetry Pieces . . . . .

here is a story of coping and survival . . . .

TO BE BROWNED

001-2.0

To be browned by the seasons is what everyone fears,

ringing years, changing tiers,

ringing ears, exchanging fears.

It is a restless game beneath the stars that keeps no score,

reveals no more, end to fore,

reveals no core, ends at four,

In time for dinner you say!

What then, what later?

You have remained too long,

sung no song, still you say,

done no wrong.

— — — —

In time you will not recall, not from within, at all,

win and lose, rise and fall,

contact a wall, reject it all.

What then prevails in your surprised mind at rivers ebb,

seems barely a distinguishable tune.

With no rhyme, no enzyme,

nor intestine.

— — — —

Now that all common causes have been abandoned,

it seemed nonsense, at best, a test,

left alone in a late autumn fog.

Precautions have been taken, yes,

but it is doubtful that this rain will stop,

drop to drop,

pop to pop.

— — — —

You have heard it said before,

just forty-eight days to Xmas.

Then all hell breaks loose, the noose,

and a free trip

to Sicamous.

II

We will salvage what we can, there is still gas in the van,

and some still left on our side, and at our side,

just outside of the city.

Backsides bared, unshaven, contemptuous and brazen,

recalling all the insane scenes,

and drive in movies.

Dreading that first snowfall, yet longing for buttons and bells,

hating the smells, and pumping the wells.

Something should be shattered, a poem should be burst free,

curse and splatter, with a cautious eye,

wary and wise, igniting a thirst,

for when the next dry bone brown autumn

again lingers long,

on this land.

The Update on R G . . .

The new novel is in publication and launch at the end of 2025. Mantler’s Shack - a novel by R G Schmidt. Pre order now.

Poetic Expanse - A compilation Vol. 1 by R G Schmidt - is a poetry pictorial photo book available for sale NOW on Amazon. Or order directly from the author with a simple email.

And, keep listening to Slyd Blvd, on You Tube and all streaming mediums, or on Slyd Blvd Radio if you are on Spotify.

The Political Part . . .

Be an Independent! Stop aligning with, - and listening to, - and cohorting with, - sameness. Deactivate that magnet that keeps slamming you in to the wall of stupid. You don’t need to be identified with, or categorized as, be stuck to, - any cause or forum.

“I think therefore I am!” was a realization of existence. If Descartes was here with us today he would have to revise his philosophy and declare that the human has ceased to exist. The thinking aspect as proof of existence has left the building. The free thinking being is no more.

We follow doctrine, we align as told. MAGA, Republican, Democrat. Conservative, Liberal, Far Right, Far Left - we haplessly fall in to these nests.

Become an independent thinker now! Before the chance is lost forever.

Here is something from the Slyd Blvd Album “Bridges From Both Sides” . . . .

THE BLACK

155.01

It’s not the ticking clock, It’s not the heart attack

It’s not the vile demeanor, It’s the black

It’s not the rolling over, It’s not the knife in the back

It’s not the lies you told, It’s the black

When you abandon your role, you break the stack

When you cede control, you can’t attack

When the light is gone, and your world is sacked

When you pawn your soul, you to to black

It’s not the spinning wheel, not the drug we lack,

It’s not the dread we feel, It’s the black

Have to find a new home, cause we can’t go back

Nothing is the same, It’s all black

When you sell your load, you break the pact

When you burn the road, you won’t get back

When you miss the point, have to face the fact

That your humanity stabbed, us in the back

It’s not the building wall, not the cages in the back

It’s not the misuse of power, It’s the black

Now black is the culture, black is the track

It’s not anything, anymore, It’s black.

Inside Screaming

Episode #83 of Poetic Expanse.

Today’s Ponder Point . . .

I totally understand that one individual can do nothing to change the plight of others in some far off land. Still, to ease the festering frustration we all feel, we do need to - outlet. For all of my lifetime , or at least since 1967, I have understood the plight of Israel and the difficult circumstances under which they were building a nation. And, I remember Rabin. Shortly, after that came Netanyahu and the beginning of the death that has culminated in to today. It is not anti-semitic to want a nation in which the Palestinian people are able to live. It is not anti-semitic to speak out against the decades of Israeli settlements on Palestinian land in the West Bank. It is with no hatred or ill intention toward the good people of Israel throughout the world that one asks that they STOP killing and starving civilians.

The Human Hum . . .

“No man can really say that he knows what joy is until he has experienced peace. And without joy there is no life,”

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The Political Part . . .

Canada is at a political crossroads and perhaps doesn’t really know it. It is a totally different country than the one I left 40 years ago.

Back then, Canada was smaller in population, but generally differed little in values and culture. Despite its historic connections to France and the United Kingdom it was the geographic, philosophic and cultural connections to the neighbor to the south that dominated what ever happened in the land of the red leaf.

But, that was before Canada’s southern neighbor turned in to the asshole Uncle, who would steal your ball if it got too close to the fence and started to think only of himself and how hard done by he was.

Today, Canada is not only the biggest state in land mass, but also the largest populated state if compared to the US. That puts a lot of onus on what was once thought of as little Canada in the context of the world. Hopefully, the general population is up to the challenge of being and remaining an independent nation.

Subscriptions to Poetic Expanse are free. Please help to grow this project by recommending new readers, or gifting subscriptions to your friends and family.

The Update on R G publications . . .

Coming at the end of the year: Mantler’s Shack - a novel by . . . R G Schmidt - i. This will be an ideal gift for your friends and family and we expect each of you to purchase a packages of five or ten books. Put in your pre-order now directly to the author. Special price of Euro 1250,00 for package of 10 books.

Poetic Expanse - A compilation Vol. 1 by R G Schmidt - is a poetry, photo and art book released last year - it is for sale now as a paper back and as an E book, on Amazon Kindle books. Or order directly from the author.

The Poetry Pieces . . .

. . . . . one new work of inspired by sleeplessness below, . . . followed by a song lyric from a few decades ago.

(Inside Screaming)

002-2.0

(Frowsy on the floor)

(Longing, waiting, adrift)

(Tentacled)

. . . . .

(Comrades in the night)

(Returning out of sight)

(Coughing snorting)

(Mind boggling)

(Televisions, penetrating, distorting)

(Wait, hours, Walls pounding)

(Persevere, persist)

(Swoosh, aggravate, resist)

(Turn, Flush, gurgle, forsake)

(Warm and awake)

(Whisper aloud, Laugh proud)

(Turn away from time)

(Streets, tires, screech and roll)

(Ice hurling now)

(Distance returns somehow)

(Silence kill, engines still)

(Gone, restless, until)

(One creak, one sneak one will)

. . . . .

(Believe, appreciate instead)

(Love, Live, not Dead).

. . . . . song lyric inspired by a wild night out in Prague.

The Empire Building

162.01

Out of all these vagabonds, there is only one

Who would carve your name in the setting sun

I will love you forever, and we’ve just begun

There’s a point when a fire can’t be undone

. . . . .

Look at all those palookas, standing in the tide

They all just melt away, when I step in side

You knew it was all over and you jumped upright

Now everything has changed and slid out of site

. . . . .

You feel doubt, energy wanes

There’s things I can’t explain

. . . . .

Soul’s tired baby, hearts afraid

Standing outside the empire building

Standing in the rain

Learned a lot of lessons lately

Learned them with pain

Still I’m outside the empire building

Waiting in vain, waiting again.

. . . . .

My heart is rich and plentiful, but it weighs a ton

I know I should stay, but still I run

Time takes another bite of me, to the bone

Battered, scarred and alien, I walk home alone.

I feel doubt, my energy wanes,

There are things I can’t explain.

R G Schmidt (Blvd)