Mama Said

War is.....war is.....
I can't say Hell.
My Mama taught me,
My Mama told me,
I can't say Hell.

Then war is.....
Unpleasant.

I had a friend
Who caught a shell
In his gut
That, otherwise, might
Have been mine.

And he was my buddy.....
My buddy.

And war is.....
Immoral.

The young girls
In the shops
Do not sell
Articles of merchandise;
Do not sell.....
Articles.

And barmaids
Are not barmaids only,
When a soldiers lonely.
They pick minds;
They kill sometimes.

And war is.....
Painful.

When your time comes,
War is painful.
Lead, inside,
Gnaws inside;
And I've copped a shell-full.

And war is.....
War is.....
I can't say Hell.

I CAN'T say HELL.

Mama said,
I can't say Hell.

LIKE HELL I CAN'T

Oh, Hell.....
Oh, hell.....
oh, hell.

Written the Spring of 1969 by James R. Hoye

Song Of Desert

I, when young,
Through the desert ran, 
Barefoot of shoeless tongue,
Past the red horizon, 
- So it suited me -
And I snake bitten,
Grew to wearing boots.

Thus shod - unfree -
By hot sands cursed.
I, to the city ----
Unreal, visioned light. 
I, to the harsh heinous grating sounds,
The stiff cold fingers mirrored bright.
By laces came I bound.

Grew I there; 
Knew my place nouveau.
The cool blue sky erased.
The white, the red, the golden sands,
To other hands;
To other barefoot feet.
The beating city in me.

Ooeeee - ooeeee - ooeeee

The rumbled subway,
Jumbled passageways,
The neon nights
Beat and grew.

To papers fallen;
To black on white,
Delirium of sprinkled line,
Speckled and militant.

To conference tables, finally,
In skimpy pants;
The blond - the bedroom,
Restless nights,Restless dreams.

The cactus cast a lily bloom
On wind and night,
While, distance dimmed,
The thousand cloaked shadows stand,

One, sheathed in white.

One, sheathed in white,
Hand raised;
Words of coming ---
Words of praise.
The city humming,
Or is her perfume so very strong?

Am I longing?
Am I longing? 

One in white,
To shepherd at the deserts's edge
And bush of unconsuming flame,
My spinning head
And click the glasses 'round;
Another round;
My head around.
My blond and London Bridge
And all fall down.

He has told of coming,
White robed.
He has told of coming,
Eating locusts - eating honey.
He has told of coming.

I of morning, 
The vicious dawn,
The too sweet air,
The unremembered blond;
Warm chest - warm breast,
Her tangling - strangling hair.

Known of no rest
Stood He, breast bare to the sun
Of forty days,
To the sand.

The wind cold ---
The wind hot.
Burned the eyes ---
Seared the hands
Of forty days.

Yet, banished the serpent by the lamb,
And given Him unto gentle hands.

I, to the desert come again,
Running barefoot through the sands.
I, to the desert come again.

The snakes are in the city.

Written in the Fall of 1964 by James R. Hoye

Perchance To Dream

The white stick man is coming. 
Do I dream?....Do I dream?
The white stick man is coming,
Do I dream?

He stood there, straight before me,
And broke into a song.
"Come with me upon a journey.
It shall not take too long".

And he led me through a land
Of burning ruby sands,
‘Til stopping short he cried,
"All will die.....All will die".

Our journey, then resuming,
He waved a brittle hand,
And something in his strange command
Called to me.....I followed.

We spied a graveyard on our way,
The stick man paused.....began to prance.
He sang a ditty as he danced,
And this is what it said:

"Oh, a rose is at the center,
And it spins a spidery web.
Hi de lee....Hi de lo
And it emanates an aura
At the flow and at the ebb.
Hi de lee.....Hi de lo

And the rose knows where you've been,
And the rose knows where you'll go.
Return then to the center and the rose, 

Thus we came.....
All was said.
Life is just.....

The rose is dead.
Hi de lee....Hi de lee....Hi de lo"

Then, the stick man fell to silence;
Gazed across the land.
Again, he bade me follow
With a flicker of his hand.
The sands fell far behind us,
And it rained from span to span.

We came upon a monument 
And a troop of his own kind.
He didn't speak a word to me
But these thoughts formed in my mind:

"We are marching.
We are marching.
The rains are pouring down.
We carry stones to build
For the killers and the killed,
And 'neath this stone
Our bones will lie.
But now.....we are marching.

The stones are piled.
The stones are piled.
The image is harsh.
We are mild.
The image is weak.
We are strong.
The image is dead.
We won't last long
If the rains continue pouring down.
We will drown
And stop our marching.

And when, at last, all is finally dry
And the air is choked with time-tossed sand,
This image, alone, will starkly stand,
A man.....with a tear in his eye".

With that dark thought,
Our journey was done.
The stickman's face glowed like the sun.....

He danced to the mournful memory of man;
Murmured the coming of the end.....
Then, bursting with light, he was gone.

And the white stick man is never 
What he seems.....what he seems.
Oh, the white stick man is never
What he seems..... 

Do I dream?....Do I dream?....Do I dream?

Written in the Fall of 1975 by James R. Hoye

Reflecting Upon My Basic Training

I slipped my leash in war-town,
Gazing gawk-eyed at the big cannons;
Sticking my head in.....
Making sure first
No one was fiddling
With the other end.

I slipped my leash in war-town,
Barking back to the snarling dogs
That stalked back and forth
In their fenced-out world.
Their eyes were burning.
Their teeth were sparkling.
They barked back at me.

I slipped my leash in war-town,
And watched the regimented feet
Shuffling slowly by;
Wearying me as, mile on mile,
I heard, reheard, their staccato beat.

I slipped my leash in war-town,
Smiling up upon the sky,
Where vapor trails crossed, re-crossed,
And sounds trailed specks, I nearly saw,
That vanished clearly.
By and by.

I slipped my leash in war-town,
Seeking and finding a quiet place;
Stopping my ears, closing my eyes;
Locking my mouth, unlocking my mind.

Settled softly to the earth,
I gathered dreams within my reach.
In war-town there, I slipped my leash,
And lay me down in peace.

Written in the Fall of 1968 by James R. Hoye

Fate

Il: Have you ever wondered how Fate decries
All of life’s opportunities? 
(The answer may be stranger than you think).

Elle: And why should I have interest in such?
Methinks you ponder overmuch.

Il: Imagine, (If you will), 
Countless doors set in a ring. 
An ancient two- faced white haired man,
Sitting at the hub, 
Watching everything..

Elle: Nothing escapes his attention, I presume?

Il: Nothing.......
Periodically, Petitioners appear,
Blindly seeking their destination. 
These, he gives no advice,
For he’s not there to give directions.
His only task is to open the proper door.

Elle: A simple doorman?

Il: (With A Raised Eyebrow) 
His name is Janus.

Elle: Aha! The God of Possibilities.

Il: Some few people, 
Sure of their path,
Will move from door to door 
Under his approving eye, 

He simply lets them pass by.

Elle: That seems reasonable to me.

Il: Others pause,
But ask nothing,
And on occasion,
(Though very rarely),
He’ll let them peek
Behind a door or two,
But still will offer NO comment or advice).

Elle: I begin to see a pattern to this tale.

Il: The vast majority though, 
Mill about aimlessly, 
Uncertain what to do
Or where to go,
(And fade in and out 
as their needs wax and wane). 

These, Janus ignores, 
Neither sympathizing nor directing them. 
For that is not his task.

Elle: And that’s as it should be.

Il: Yet, there is one exception; 
Those who are highly focused
And persistent in their seeking, 
Who revisit him time and time again, 
(Even though they can’t perceive him).

Elle: Worthy they. 

Il: For these rare souls, he will, sometimes 
Open a door a crack 
Revealing the knowledge that they lack, 
That they might find their way.

Elle: You mean he interferes? Oh, Shame!

Il: (ignoring her),
And there are those who say 
He even speaks to these favored few, 
(Deep within their minds),
And the lives of those who heed him 
Are changed for all time.....

Elle: Shame.....Shame.....Shame

Il: Oh, hush.....
Is he just a dream? 
Is that a voice you hear? 
Can you afford not to heed it?

Elle: Now..... THAT would be something to fear.

Il: Yes. it would.......
May you choose well.

Elle: You mean me?.... It applies to me?

Il: Why not? Doesn’t Fate apply to all?

Elle Oh my!.........OH MY!.
And here I thought it was just a tale........ 
oh my.

Il: May you choose well.

Written the Spring of 2004 James R. Hoye

The Final Cycle

Cycles spire in an endless gyre,
As life renews like a phoenix’s fire,
Always the same,
But always changing.
________

Am I in need of new images, then,
To express the changes that I see,
And if I am, What might they be?
________

How about, the "Horsemen" smirking
Above the spinning Earth.
In truth, they’re flourishing more today, 
Then in their prime.....

Or could it be that now’s their time.
________

War is rampant.
New Diseases abound.
Famine is everywhere.
Death follows them around.

Not images I’d choose to embrace,
Yet, this might be their time and place.
Could the END actually be coming?
________

Prophesies of many kinds
Have said so for a long long time.
Revelations, Nostradamus, Edgar Cayce, and more,
The time lines on the Pyramids, the legends of folklore.


And the signs are there......
_________

Depleted forests produce NO air.
________

Polluted seas CANNOT maintain
The bounty that they once sustained.
________

War never ceases,
Only moves around,
As men find new reasons
To cut each other down.

(Not to mention new ways to kill.....everyone)
________

Diseases are surfacing
For which we have no cures.
Medicines we trusted once
Are no longer sure,
And finding new solutions is
Much harder than before.
________

Icebergs melt., and oceans rise,
Crops die and famine starts.
New tectonics threaten
To tear the world apart.
________

If this be the final cycle,
Then, let it end in style,
Whether with bang or whimper,
For this ending’s for all time. 

Written in the Fall of 2003 by James R. Hoye