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            GOD DAMN BIKE RIDER

            AND OTHER OUTCASTS

(Poems, Stories and Essays, by the Backwood’s Bard)

                   (1st Edition)

                        by

                  Frank Tymon
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GOD DAMN BIKE RIDER AND OTHER OUTCASTS
                  by

            FRANK TYMON

           © 2001 Frank Tymon
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Dedicated to the Folk Singers,
To the Troubadours and Balladeers,
To the Country and Western artists -
Whose songs have celebrated man at his best.
And to the men of whom they sang.
Working, fighting, loving, dying;
Standing tall for those things worth believing in;
For God and country, for home, for freedom, for honesty and bravery,
For responsibility to one's self and those dependent on one;
For self-respect, for carrying one's own weight (and a little more);
The men whose ethic was, I have a job to do,
And, God willing, I'll do it!
The kind of people that made America great.
The kind of people like the Heroes and Heroines of 9/11.
Dedicated, too, to old friends,
Long gone.
Buck and Zeke,
Joe, and Johnny.
Outcasts from the backwoods,
Who died by the gun.

And, lastly, dedicated to the men I sailed with,
Who weighed anchor for the last time.
To the men I flew with,
Who flew their last mission.
God Keep
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                          Table of Contents

PREFACE

THEY CAN KEEP NO BETTER COMPANY

LAWMEN

THE GOD DAMN BIKE RIDER

MAN

READER

HIGH WINDS IN THE MOUNTAINS

EDUCATION

SPOTTED OWL STEW

WRONG #

THE ADDICT

“FOR HE GAVE HIS ONLY BEGOTTEN SON ....”

THE CHURCH

POPCORN

OUTLAWS THREE

WASP
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MONGRELS

IT AIN’T THE HAVIN’, IT’S THE GETTIN’

I RECKON THERE’S A RAINBOW

THE TATTERED FLAG

SHANTY TOWN

SING ONE SAD SONG FOR ME

GOVERNMENT

THE BALLAD OF RAJ MATTEL

A WORLD OF DREAMS

THE MASTER OF OLDEN WOOD

THE GOOEY, GHASTLY, GROTESQUE GHOST

A LAMENT FOR RUBY RIDGE

FOREVER WAS A SHORT, SHORT TIME

DAD

WICKED WORDS

THANK GOD FOR THESE COUNTRY MEMORIES

MY POEM
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THERE IS A LAND CALLED FARAWAY

A BLOODY BUCCANEER

I LOVE YOU

THERE WAS A TIME

CONTRASTS

UNHOLY NIGHT

THANKSGIVING

DARK NIGHT IN THE CROWS-NEST

THE HILL TO DIE ON

OATH OF OFFICE OF THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES

THREE DAYS OF DREAD

EXTRACT FROM THE DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE



THE VICTIMS

I RIDE THE WHITE LINE

THE BEAST

ELIZABET
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THE SWEETEST WALTZ

WHEN THE CHILDREN OF WACO DIED

YONDER HILL
MOHAMMED WEEPS

A BROKEN DREAM IN NEW YORK TOWN

SULFUR, MOLASSES AND SASSAFRAS TEA

A TRIBUTE TO “OLD SARGE”

SUMMER DREAMS

WHO IS THIS SANTA CLAUS

MY GIFT

1ODE TO THE TUMBLEWEED
RAINBOWS AND BUTTERFLIES

ANTIQUES ALLEY

MEMORIES, IN ANTIQUES’ ALLEY
THE ELEVEN COMMANDMENTS

THE WINDS OF TIME
WINTER STARS

THE BOY SCOUT OATH
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THE PLEDGE OF ALLEGIANCE

POSTSCRIPT

VETERANS DAY
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                                    Preface

       The Heroes and Heroines of 9/11. From across our nation they came.
Duty called. They answered. Danger awaited. They did not turn away.
Working desperately, rapidly, to save those lives they could. It is Our People,
those who rose above themselves to serve, that this book is about. In an age
when past heroes and heroines have been denigrated by our media, it is
wonderful to know that we have, with us always, those who will stand tall
when called upon.
       I know not their names. Some were lawmen. Some were firemen. Nurses
were there. And Doctors. Truck drivers. Those who drove emergency vehicles,
and those who provided emergency medical care. And many with no title, but
there to lend the helping hand to the victims, their families, and to those
involved in the rescue efforts.
       The day, 9/11, will go down in history as a great tragedy. And rightly so.
But it should also go down in history as the day America stood tall.
       When emotion is a key element in the message, quite often the best
format is that of the poem. At times, throughout the ages, legends, myths, and
history have been passed on from generation to generation through poetry.
Poetry memorized or written by balladeers of those ancient ages.
       It is this tradition that leads me to use poems as the major tool for this
work.
       Nevertheless, for some purposes the story and the essay provide an
appropriate means to an end. For example, the lead-in to the book is an
extract from one of my more successful nonfiction books. This extract
highlights the need for heroes, heroines. And in a world of immorality,
publicly and without remorse displayed by our so-called leaders, that need is
ever stronger.
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      Perhaps the God Damn Bike Rider is not the most outstanding example
one might use, but the poem illustrates that to be a hero one rises above baser
values, and performs beyond ordinary levels.
      The works herein cover a wide spectrum of interests. Some poems are
humorous, some sad. A few may be considered political, others moral, some
perhaps not subject to categorization.
      What I write is written because it expresses my opinions, my interests,
the thoughts of the moment. So I won’t promise patterns or fixed positions,
but rather a potpourri of emotion expressed in poetry and prose.
      I hope you will enjoy some of the writing, find some amusing, find
others contain a touch of pathos, and many that can’t be easily classified.
      As a final word in this preface, I dedicate this book to you, a Reader
Unknown:
   TO A READER UNKNOWN: MAY YOUR PLEASURE IN READING
                                EVER GROW.
                                       1
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                THEY CAN KEEP NO BETTER COMPANY

    (An extract from the author’s book, “Name Your Child for Success” )

Heroes For Our Children

      Over the past years there has been an almost continuous attempt to
remove our heroes from their pedestals. Washington, our first President, has
been denigrated by calumny of varied sorts. Lincoln has been downgraded by
many to being only a plodding country lawyer. Davy Crockett, it has been
suggested, donned woman's clothes and tried to sneak out of the Alamo. Our
men who fought so bravely in Vietnam were labeled baby killers. Those who
fought against the spread of communism in Latin America were deemed
criminals. Martin Luther King, jr. is accused of plagiarizing from the writings
of others to obtain his Doctorate degree.
      What are heroes? Heroes are individuals who have performed deeds of
daring, deeds of which we can be proud. And heroes are human. Yes, even
heroes have feet of clay. Was Benjamin Franklin a womanizer? Probably. Did
Washington have one of his woman servants stripped and whipped? There is
some evidence to that effect.
      Have all heroes before or since been perfect? Hardly.
      We honor our heroes, not for their feet of clay, not for the deeds which
they would prefer were never known. We honor them for the heroic deeds
they did, the heroic deeds by which they rose above their baser actions.
      Whatever else Washington did, he was rightfully the father of our
country. He was a brave commander, a good President. For these things we
honor him. We do not deny his faults, but we do not honor him for them.
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       We honor Benjamin Franklin for the good he did. We honor him for his
insight, his writings, his astuteness. We do not deny his dalliances, nor do we
honor him for these.
       We honor Abraham Lincoln for the humanity he brought into the
presidency. We honor him for the ability to rise above family problems, to rise
above hate and bigotry. A country lawyer? Yes, but a great and admirable
President.
       We honor Martin Luther King, jr. for the good he accomplished, for the
courage he displayed. The fact that he was a man; that he, like others, had the
weaknesses common to all mankind; these do not detract from his
accomplishments.
       Davy Crockett may indeed have attempted to escape from the Alamo in
woman's clothing. Would he had succeeded! What wild stories he would have
told of the event! But we don't concern ourselves with this tale. We concern
ourselves with the fact that he didn't have to be at the Alamo. He volunteered.
He volunteered because he believed that the Alamo was where he should be.
He led his people into a fight where the odds were almost insurmountable, and
he fought long and well, and died with the other defenders of the Alamo. For
this we honor Davy Crockett.
       Your child needs heroes. Heroes who, at least on one occasion in their
lives, stood tall and brave above those around them. Nor should the fact that
they, too, had their human weaknesses be denied. For it is not heroic to act the
hero if you have no weaknesses. It is heroic to rise above those weaknesses and
do the job that must be done. It is heroic to be a Martin Luther King, jr., a
Davy Crockett, a Washington, a Franklin, or a Lincoln. It is heroic to wear
the mantle of a hero proudly and well, and to perform the deeds required, in
spite of your weaknesses. That these men did. It can never be taken away
from them. And your youngster must realize the true meaning of heroism, so
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that no one can take away the awe and wonder the child feels at the deeds of
men such as these.
       Amelia Earhardt flew where no one had ever flown. At a time when
flight was most dangerous, when the airplanes were most experimental, she
flew with the best of pilots.
       In space there is little forgiveness for error. Those who go into space
know the chances they take. Christa McAuliffe did not need to be there. She
knew that she might not return. She rose above her fears, died on the
Challenger, and has joined our legends.
       Why am I dwelling on this theme?
       Simply put, because there seems to be a concerted effort to denigrate
our heroes. Muckrakers of yesteryear highlighted the faults of early industry,
and there were many. So such muckraking resulted in laws and regulations
that corrected many of the problems.
       Disparagement of our heroes has no such aim. It is used, seemingly,
with the intent to have us believe that heroism did not, has not, and does not
exist.
       They are wrong. The fact that heroes have weaknesses, severe
weaknesses does not detract from their deeds. Rather, it highlights the effort
and dedication it took to perform heroic deeds.
       A superman can hardly be a hero.
       It is the average - or even below average - person who rises to the
heights of heroism by doing deeds far above his capacity. These are the heroes
       In World War II there were men like Ira Hayes, raising the American
flag in the midst of battle, on Mt. Suribaki. Yes, he returned home to fall
victim to alcohol. But he was a hero. It should not be forgotten.
       Ernie Pyle, a man who didn't have to be there, died on a little island in
the Pacific. A writer, he went with the average GI, wrote of his problems, his
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battles, his losses and successes. A man, doing his job, he was there with the
troops, quietly doing his part.
       Today the Ernie Pyle type of journalism is no longer in style. It lacks the
excitement, the glitziness required by the media.
       But there are many heroes, many forms of heroics. Some are
recognized. Others occur quietly, repetitively, every day, around us,
unrecognized, unpraised.
       You see them, but often do not recognize them. The policeman, quietly
doing his normal chores. An ordinary man, waving traffic through a dead
traffic light. Or selling a ticket for the policemen's ball.
       Except, when things fall apart, and a community goes mad they are the
dam that keeps the swirling gangs away from you and your family. When
gangs shoot up the city streets you count on them to move out and disarm
these psychotics.
       Quiet men doing their quiet, ordinary chores from day to day. But
standing in the breach when your world falls apart.
       We need heroes. Not super-entertainers produced by media marketers,
sold to a gullible public, and reflecting the lowest depths of morality. Not
artificial impossible super athletes that dominate the sophomoric movies.
       So give your children the Earhardts, the McAuliffes, the Ira Hayes's.
Yes, and even the Washingtons, the Davy Crocketts, and the Ernie Pyles.
       Give your boy heroes. Give your girl heroines. They can keep no better
company.
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LAWMEN

  SUPPORT YOUR

 LOCAL LAWMEN,
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FOR THEY LAY THEIR

LIVES ON THE LINE,

 SUPPORTING YOU
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  THE GOD DAMN BIKE RIDER

        He stood at the door
         About six foot four,
  And the look on his face was mean.
       And the drinkers there,
       As they turned to stare,
    Knew he rode a bad machine!

      He stalked 'cross the room
         With a face of gloom,
      And bellied up to the bar.
      Then he ordered a drink,
      Gave the barmaid a wink,
  As he scratched at an ancient scar.

         Why do you weep,
        His growl was deep,.
 Do you fear the snow and the cold?
          I've got two arms
      To warm your charms,
 And he leered with his proffer bold.

        She smiled at his pass
        And served his glass,
With weathered hand she took his gold,
        And told him a story,
        Of the blizzard’s fury
     As made his blood run cold.
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          Of a child alone
      On a mountain of stone,
In the heart of the blizzardy storm,
        Of the falling snow,
     Of the cold wind’s blow,
  And naught to keep her warm.

        Her wet tears fell
   As she thought of that hell,
 And he knew her story was true
       His voice was wry,
  As he glanced round the sty,
 “And what of this mangy crew.”

  “What of these brave men,”
    He looked round again,
 At the drinkers sipping warm,
        “Will not one go
      And face the snow?
 Dare none to brave the storm?”

     He sneered at them all
         Across that hall
  On his face was a bit of a leer,
         “So tell me then
       Where is her den,
   And I will bring her here.”
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     “Not a trail that I can't ride,
     Not a climb I haven’t tried.”
He looked around as he made his boast
         A sneer on his lips,
        His hands on his hips,
  Then he smiled at his tearful host.

    Swiftly to the barroom door,
 Quickly the mighty engine’s roar,
 A drinker slowly stood up beside her
        And said with a sway
       As the biker rode away,
      “God damned bike rider!”

        He climbed the knolls,
     With their blanket of snows
He faced the blizzard’s relentless wrath
        In the dark of a night
            Devoid of light
  He searched for that upward path.

         Higher and higher,
      Through slush and mire
   Here paths and roads were none
           Yet far away,
         Saw a candle’s ray,
    But his ride had just begun.

         He reached the shack
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     He brought her back
Wrapped warm in his leather coat.
     And fought his way,
       ‘til break of day,
 Heard the engine’s final note.

         He staggered on
      ‘Til well past dawn,
 And he cursed his brag so bold,
   Still he carried her then
     ‘Til the blizzard’s end
 And he died in the bitter cold.

       Of a wintry night,
   When there’s little light,
    In a bar outside of town
     There’s a child stands
   Holding Mother’s hands
  And listens to a far off sound

     “I remember the night,
     The cold and the fright,
 I remember the engine’s roar.
       He dried my tears,
      Quickly shifted gears,
Oh, Mother, I hear it once more!

     With tear-glazed eyes,
     Looked at wintry skies
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      Heard a far off biker’s mill
         She stood by the fire,
      As the bike climbed higher,
      And higher and higher still,

      Reached for the mountain top
       Even there would not stop
   The rider climbed upward and on,
         Through dark of night
       Through blizzard’s might
He climbed, climbed, climbed - was gone.

    A Mother’s tear-dimmed eyes
      Gazed out at wintry skies.
  Held her daughter close beside her.
         And ended a prayer
        While standing there
   “God . . . blessed Bike Rider.”
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             MAN

To think thoughts never thought,

   To do Deeds never Done,

 To scale Heights never scaled,

This is the Duty laid upon man.

     And with God’s help,

    Each shall do his share.
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              READER

      On silver wings of fantasy

        I drift across the sky,

  And view strange lands of mystery,

     As the old world passes by.



On vaunted trips beyond one’s dreams

      I spend my leisure hours,

 Dodging the pale moonlight beams,

       And hoary castle towers.



       Over seas of gentle blue,

       And seas of angry green,

Through skies where only angels flew,

    And dark clouds seldom seen.
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Come fly with me, and tarry long,

  In strange and distant nook,

Hear soft around us zephyr song,

    ‘Tis the music of a book.
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       HIGH WINDS IN THE MOUNTAINS


    Oh, Johnny went courtin' his true, true love
      High winds in th' mountains, High winds
    Oh, Johnny went courtin' his true, true love
High winds in the mountains, High winds, High winds
     High winds in the mountains, high winds.

      His mother said, as he stood by the door,
     High winds in the mountains, high winds,
     "I fear if ye go, ye'll come back no more,"
High winds in the mountains, high winds, high winds,
     High winds in the mountains, high winds,

   Young Johnny smiled and stepped to her side,
      High winds in th' mountains, high winds
"I climb th' high mountains to fetch home a bride,"
High winds in th' mountains, high winds, high winds,
      High winds in th' mountains, high winds.

 They found him next morning so dead and so cold,
     High winds in th' mountains, high winds
   May the God of true lovers be kind to his soul,
High winds in th' mountains, high winds, high winds
     High winds in th' mountains, high winds.

    Oh, Johnny went courtin' his true, true love
     High winds in th' mountains, high winds
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    Oh, Johnny went courtin' his true, true love
High winds in th' mountains, High winds, high winds
     High winds in th' mountains, high winds.
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EDUCATION

HOW DO YOU KNOW THAT AN EDUCATION SYSTEM HAS FAILED?
When a President doesn’t know the meaning of is.
When Justices don’t know that PEOPLE means PEOPLE.
When the legal system believes that SHALL NOT BE INFRINGED means
infringement is the intent.
When politicians believe that RIGHTS adhere to themselves only.
When courts accept that DEEP POCKETS is Constitutional.
When courts accept that PUNITIVE DAMAGES purpose is to enrich lawyers.
When government, through EPA and other agencies, defiles the Constitution.
When government crucifies Christ.
  When the CITIZENS of this NATION, slave-like, accept unresistingly these
                                 asininities.
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                 SPOTTED OWL STEW

 When the lumbering's over, but the trees are still there,
      And you know at home th' pantry's bare,
   The kid's are ill and you don't know what to do.
     Why, have yourself some Spotted owl stew.

          When the otters eat all the abalone,
       And you ain't got money to buy baloney,
          Try yourself some Spotted owl stew.
      With stewed otter innards if you like that too.

      When the dolphins are swimming big and fat,
And the tuna fishermen don't know where the next job's at.
       Don't worry, brother, you know what to do,
        Just have yourself some Spotted owl stew.
          With dolphin steak and a filet or two.

    When the EPA says to hell with the working man,
      It's the birds and bees what own this land,
        Relax old son, though they're after you,
     Kick back and enjoy some Spotted owl stew,
          Some snail darters, a salmon steak,
           Why have yourself a dolphin bake.

       If the water's scarce, and the country's dry,
          And you just might be wondering why,
           Them fish gotta have some water too,
        So just relax with some Spotted owl stew.
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    Or fish bouillabaisse might better suit you.

        See you at the unemployment line,
      And I'm glad th' country is doing fine,
     The environment's the best you ever seen,
       But I just ran out of pork and bean,
      But come on over when you're through
     And try my homemade Spotted owl stew.

       The wife and kids have left me now,
They're tryin' to get some help from the welfare gal,
     It's something I hope they're able to do,
  Cause they sure were tired of Spotted owl stew.



       One by one, they're taking us down,
         To save the wildlife all around,
    Wish the working man were wildlife too,
   We wouldn't have to live on Spotted owl stew,
            Oh, you're next brother,
          Don't say I didn't warn you.
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                                   WRONG #

       “Oh, Bob, you haven’t called me in a week and I miss your calls and I’m
so lonesome and . . . “
       “What a beautiful voice you have. If you are nearly as lovely as your
voice I’d not let a week go by without calling you. In fact, I’d call you every
day. But, unfortunately for me, I’m not Bob, and you have a wrong number.”
       “Wrong number . . . ? I’m very sorry. I thought you were . . . Well, I am
sorry. Do you really think I have nice voice?”
       “Soft and gentle and warm as kitten’s fur. Very pleasant, indeed. Are
you a singer?”
       “No, no. I, . . . , well, thank you. Would you really call me every day?”
       “With great pleasure.”
       “I think I would like that.”
       “Really?”
       “Yes, really. You have a nice voice, too. And a gentle manner. Would
you, if I asked you, truly call me every day? It would just be a phone call,
nothing else. I wouldn’t ask you for anything. And I have little, . . ., little to
offer in exchange. But I think, very much, that it would be pleasant to talk to
you, every day. Perhaps we could share a fantasy together, dreams even. I fear
I’m such a romantic. I would not impose on your real life. We could share . . .,
what? . . . A virtual relationship, safely separate, safely unknown each to the
other. Like children at play.”
       “Even your laugh is musical. Are you an actress?”
       “All the world’s a stage and all the men and women merely players . . . .
Of course I’m an actress. All women are, you know. But, quickly, before you
change your mind. My number is 250-3854. It’s unlisted. Is nine in the
morning all right? I have a cup of tea at nine. It would be so pleasant to have
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you join me. I shall set a place for you. Do you take cream in your tea, or
sugar?”
        “Actually, I rarely drink tea. But, for the pleasure of your company, I
shall change my drinking habits. Tea it is, with just a touch of sugar. Oh, and
what shall I call you?”
        “A name . . . ? What name has filled your dreams, your fantasies? For
you, that is the person I will be. Tell me of her, her appearance, her name, her
relationship to you. Yes, we are all actresses, and I shall star in this little play.
Tell me, so that I may play the part well.”
        “How intriguing. I’ve never known her, know not her appearance or
personality, but Celeste has long appealed to me. Can you, with an actress’
skill, at nine in the morning over a cup of tea magically become Celeste?”
        “Strange! Are you, perhaps, psychic? For that is, indeed, my name.
        “And you, my telephone comrade, what name would you have me call
you?”
        “Well, you wanted to talk to Bob . . . “
        “No, no, no! No more. You shall be . . . Cliff. And you mustn’t mind. He
has always been a figment of my imagination. And now, but a phone call
away. How lovely. Good morning, dear Cliff. I await your call.”

                        ------------------------------------------------
       “I thought, for just a moment, that you had forgotten. Or had decided it
was but a foolish, childish game, not suitable for a distinguished gentleman.”
       “Distinguished Gentleman? You are very kind, my Celeste. But . . . Ah,
Cliff . . . . Of course I am a distinguished gentleman. Shall I describe for you
this, my office. The room is large. Much too large, really. Before me, all of
yonder wall, my library. Reference books, encyclopedias, dictionaries, law
books, atlases. And behind me, my dear, the most important books of all.
Novels, would you believe it, I read them again and again. Dickens’ Tale of
                                                            TYMON       PAGE 32




Two Cities. Sidney Cartin facing the guillotine, “It is a far, far better thing I
do than I have ever done. It is a far, far better rest to which I go than I have
ever known.” And with each reading a tear appears in my eye. Victor Hugo’s
Les Miserables, and Jean ValJean. If a man would rise to heroism, let him
first read books such as these. And identify with those depicted therein.
       “But I bore you, my dear. Tell, please, is your tea pleasing to your taste?
Is the sun shining as prettily on your villa as on my chateau. Let us sip a long
sip, enjoy it together. Ah, how beautiful you look this bright morning. I drink
to you, mon cherie.”
       “The warmth of your voice adds savor to my tea. But tell me more. I
have always known you were a bookish man. I am so pleased you read novels.
I’m sure you are knowledgeable of the sciences, history, math. Yet it is
pleasant that the glorious stories, modern and old, are of interest to you.
Poetry, are you well read in poetry? Have you read . . .Oh, dear, it is about
some beach. Yes, yes, “Dover Beach.” Have you indeed read that wonderfully
sad poem?”
       “Wonderfully sad? It is indeed. Still, we have Browning, with “The
lark’s on the wing, The snails on the thorn,” . . . And I have forgotten, but not
the ending. “God’s in his Heaven. -- All’s right with the world.” Yes, so it is,
you know?”
       “Lovely. Isn’t it wonderful that so much beauty survives. Had not
Alexandria burned, what wonderful lines might we now know that are forever
lost.”
       “Not lost. Man shall ever rhyme them anew. It is our nature, as much,
sadly, as our willingness to make war. You, for example, might at this very
moment voice the thoughts once destroyed by that evil fire. Please do! Sip
once more your tea and tell me, in that sweet voice, but a stanza that it be no
longer lost.”
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       “I shall. Listen, then. “Brightly sings the robin, red breast; Cheerily
sings the cardinal, bright crest. And with their singing, sings spring’s best.”
       “Delightful, my dear Celeste. I shall remember the words well, and the
voice. Ah, my cup is empty and I must go. Tomorrow, my sweet. “
                       _______________________________


      “Is that a siren in the background, my dear Celeste?”
      “Siren? Oh, yes. A silly old lady who lives in the building . . . . She’s
deathly ill, and I believe they’ve come to conduct her to the emergency room.
Poor girl. I fear she will never return. There, the siren’s stopped. I’m so sorry
for her. She is in such pain .... It hurts so terribly I ... she sometimes screams.
Yes, for her it shall soon be over. She will sleep the long sleep. Finally, relief
from misery. I … , she will be at peace. Enough, no more of silly old ladies.
Let us talk of us.”
      “Ah, a friend. I’m sorry. Don’t cry, little girl. We can’t have sadness
here. This is our happy world.
      “Yes, you are right. Let me tell you of my adventure.
      “I attended the great ball last night. In honor of the Duke of Rolewitz.
He’s such a delightful dancer. So graceful. The waltzes, . . ., how charmingly
he leads. And, oh, the tango. He is such a masterful dancer. I felt as though I
were dancing on air. And the great hall, with art from around the world. He
was very attentive. Am I making you jealous, Cliff dear?”
      “Not at all, for tonight you shall dance in my arms. And every night.”
      “Oh, dear, someone is knocking at the door. I do hate to hang up. Our
conversations are truly wonderful. I wish . . . . Oh, dear, that terrible
pounding. I wish it could last forever. No, no, not the pounding, Our fantasy. I
must go now. Yes, I must . . . go. Cliff, my darling, remember me always.
                                                                    TYMON   PAGE 34




As I shall remember you. How lovely has been our morning rendezvous. Did
you enjoy your tea? Goodbye, my dream love. ”

      “Celeste, . . . , your voice. Of course I shall remember you. Don’t you
know, I live only for these stolen moments in our virtual heaven. … enjoy my
tea? In your company, it is nectar of the gods. My dearest Celeste, are you
crying? Celeste . . . ?”

                  ----------------------------------------------------

      “This number has been disconnected. Please check the number you
dialed, and try again. Thank you for using . . . .”


                      _________________________________
                                       TYMON   PAGE 35




           THE ADDICT

     It started as a little fun,
      Near thirty years ago,
 “C’mon,” they said, “ try just one”
     Well, how could I say no?

     After that, I went along,
       It wasn’t bad at all,
    We’d puff, talk, sing a song
    And sometimes have a ball.

    Later came the harder stuff,
      It really packed a blow,
   My body found it kinda rough,
     Yet I never could say no.

   Money? Oh, I’d find a way,
       It wasn’t hard to fin’,
  Hit a house round break of day,
   Be gone, with goods, by nine.

     I spent a little time in jail,
        It wasn’t all that bad.
 At first he’d come and go my bail,
     Sure suckered my old dad!

My God, the years have slipped away,
   These streets are awful cold,
                                        TYMON   PAGE 36




Gotta find a flophouse by end of day,
    Dear God, I’m growing old.

     Saw my sister yesterday,
     With her brand new son
 Her husband standing proudly by,
      Told them I had to run.



     For a while I was a queen,
      I’d party and I’d play,
    Now my life’s another scene
      God, look at me today!
                                                         TYMON      PAGE 37




            “FOR HE GAVE HIS ONLY BEGOTTEN SON ....”

What strange concepts we find in the religious teachings of the world! How
very difficult for us to understand! The long path to the cross. Knowing,
throughout those so short 33 years, the inevitable result. How must it have
weighed on His thoughts
And yet, resolutely, with never divergence from that which was right, He
pursued a goal beyond the cross. And the world, since His presence, has never
been the same.
Yes, weak men, evil men, uncaring men, have distorted the message He
delivered to us. Delivered to us through His words, His presence, His deeds.
And mankind, devil-prodded, yet diverges from the given path.
On Easter we remember, wonder. For He was of us, and yet we rejected Him.
Never, though knowing full well our weaknesses, our sins, has He rejected us.
On Easter Sunday, weep for the crucifixion.
And then, rejoice.
                                   HE LIVES!
                                          TYMON   PAGE 38




             THE CHURCH


    Hungry and cold at break of day,
       I dragged along the road,
      And saw a steeple far away,
     Perhaps shelter from the cold.

      As I came near I saw a crowd,
        Gentlemen and ladies fair.
  As I approached my head was bowed,
        And I offered up a prayer.

   They looked at me all with a frown,
      They moved out of my way.
   On the back bench I sat me down,
    Though I knew I could not stay.

“Welcome,” said the preacher with a smile,
       “On such a beautiful day.”
 The worshippers shook hands for a while.
      From me, they turned away.

   “Coffee and food when we’re done,
        After the service is over.
        Good food for everyone.”
    Perhaps, I thought, for this rover.

      The usher took me to the door,
                                       TYMON   PAGE 39




     “I think you don’t belong here,”
  Head bowed, I walked across the floor,
Prayed the service would bring them cheer.
                                                         TYMON       PAGE 40




POPCORN

Thoughts and ideas that pop up, hit you unexpected like. Mostly you forget
them quickly, and wonder why you didn’t capture those moments of pure
genius
Well, I’ve captured a few.
An apple a day -- could make a lot of applesauce.
Not lust, but love, makes life lovely.
It’s not the having, but the sharing, that makes one rich.
Sunset brings rest; Sunrise, opportunity.
History serves one purpose -- it shows us how easily mistakes are made.
The best part of the paper -- the funnies.
The stupidest hoodlum won’t attack an armed man.
Even idiots at times express wisdom, unknowingly, of course.
How sweet the soft voice of a woman in love.
A wife is not a possession, but a blessed helpmate.
How long it takes for children to mature -- but I’ll make it yet.
Moses, not Jesus, parted the waters; Jesus walked on them.
A smile is your most potent weapon.
Anger is very effective -- at producing anger.
I asked my father about our ancestors. He told me there were rulers, in
Ireland, with our name.
I smiled happily.
Then he told me, though I didn’t ask, that there were also hoboes.
So much for genealogy.
How pleasant the memory of the lives you’ve saved, of man or beast; how
depressing the memory of the lives you’ve taken.
A compliment paid, a pat on the back, a gentle hug -- more potent than gold in
motivating man.
                                                       TYMON      PAGE 41




What he does when only God is watching is the measure of a man.
                                             TYMON   PAGE 42




             OUTLAWS THREE

      We gathered at the river, we three,
        Where the quiet waters flow,
And gazed at the moon through the leafless tree,
   As she gleamed on the new-fallen snow.

     Outcasts--forlorn, in a bitter world,
           Hunted and on the run.
    We traveled by night in the wintry cold,
      And hid from the light of the sun.

      We'll gather at the river no more,
            Our race is all but run;
     We'll gaze no more on a wintry moon,
         Nor shiver at rise of the sun.

           The first to go was Joe,
      From the blast of an officer's gun
     And Mary died from a broken heart,
      'Tho' it's said it couldn't be done.

   They're waiting there, at the river's edge;
          Thinking I yet may show.
     Joe, with laugh, and friendly smile,
      And a touch of friendship's glow.

        Mary, singing, that gentle voice,
        Would calm the fiercest storm;
                                          TYMON   PAGE 43




And the love in her eyes as she looks at Joe,
       Is there to keep him warm.

   They can not know that it was me,
       Who gave the plot away.
  They can not know the jealous heart,
     So black that snow-white day.



  I let them know Joe's hiding place.
       Prayed Mary would be mine
  But with his death she soon was gone,
          Leaving but me behind.

  I know they're here, this wintry night,
   And fear’s cold as the howling wind,
     For I must go 'ere morning light
       And join them once again.

     The walnut tree is standing tall,
        Th' moon is shining high.
     Th' waters rippling quietly here,
      Now th' breeze is but a sigh.

  There's nothing here on earth for me,
           It died along with them.
If they'll take me back I'11 soon be there,
    --If this rope holds tight to the limb.
                                                     TYMON     PAGE 44




        THANK YOU
                   I can write page after page.

                        But all to no avail.

             Unless you, the reader, read these pages,
                    Understand the concepts,
                  Identify with the characters,
                        Feel the emotions.

                    It is for this I thank you,
                And for paying the one U.S. Dollar
                        (yes, just $1.00) to:

                         Frank Tymon
                      4749 W. K-12 Ave.
                   Quartz Hill, CA 93536-5146

For that payment makes it possible for this book, and future books,
 To be available to you and other readers at an affordable price.

                         STAND TALL!

           For your sense of honesty places you among
                    The heroes and heroines
                        of whom I write.
                                TYMON   PAGE 45




COPY TO DISKETTE AND GIVE TO A FRIEND




THANK YOU,

 AND ENJOY
                                            TYMON   PAGE 46




                  WASP

   There was a time you stood right tall,
       And proud of your heritage.
    Being a WASP meant many things,
   And you were pleased with them all.

It meant that you never shirked your work,
     A man men could depend upon.
You carried your load with the best of men,
And you strove for your family like a Turk.

  You built a country second to none.
      With the ethic in you inborn.
You fought its wars throughout the world,
   And fought 'em 'til they were won.

      They say your kind is history,
     Your place is in time long gone.
 There's no need for men with iron spine;
   Who'll take your place is mystery.

      White Anglo-Saxon Protestant!
        What a terrible thing to be!
  Bearing that load throughout your life!
    Its a way of life thoroughly errant!
                                                          TYMON      PAGE 47




WE MONGREL AMERICANS

And Proud of It!
Why not!
We came from many nations, many backgrounds, many races and cultures,
and never a hyphenation among us.
We fought the brave warriors of Cochise, Geronimo, and so many other able
leaders--and won.
We built canals, railroads, highways--and turned a wilderness into a proud
nation.
When madmen, dictators, Nazi or Communist, marched to rule the world we
led in defense of freedom.
When devastation visited country after country with earthquake, flood, fire
and storm we were there providing succor.
We followed the now despised WASP work ethic to build industry unequaled.
We pioneered the vast wasteland of space, planted the red, white and blue flag
of a great nation on the desolate lunar surface.
We worshipped, and worship still, Jesus Christ who died for us; and spread
his gospel of good will where others impose their hellish beliefs with mayhem.
We espouse the ethics and morals of our forebears and pray for those misled
into immorality and sin through weakness of body or mind.
Yes, we are the mongrel Americans. The blood of heroes runs through our
veins; the wisdom of savants we have inherited; the culture of a great
civilization we have built.
Stand Tall, My Fellow Americans!
Mongrels?
 A mixed breed?
 Products of the Great Melting Pot?
Indeed!
                   TYMON   PAGE 48




AND PROUD OF IT!
                                      TYMON   PAGE 49




AIN'T TH' HAVIN', ITS TH' GETTIN'

      When th' peak's attained,
       When th' battle's won,
      When th' trophy's in hand,
       And th' chore is done.

    Only then do you understand,
        In th' quiet of night
         That gold is dross -
    And th' prize was in th' fight!

Working together to build a new world,
Sharing problems that no one can solve,
   Fighting together, back to back,
 And pressing onward as eons revolve.

        No, it ain't th' havin'.
     But it takes a while to know,
      The cameradie of the war,
     That slowly seems to grow.
                                          TYMON   PAGE 50




 I RECKON THERE'S A RAINBOW

     I reckon there's a rainbow,
           Over yonder hill.
    And a bluebird sits a singin',
          On my window sill.
   And th' days are gettin' brighter,
      Th' nights are not so long,
   An' I reckon it's inside my heart,
     I hear the bluebird's song.

      I reckon there's a rainbow,
            Over yonder hill.
    And streams of crystal water,
           A flowin' in th' rill.
     And skies are gettin' clearer,
   And I see th' green grass grow,
And I reckon its the clear, clear stream,
         I'm tasting in my soul.

     I reckon there's a rainbow,
          Over yonder hill,
    And a land of milk and honey,
   Where we'll dine while all is still.
    And th' load is gettin' lighter,
     And it's not so hard to bear.
    And I reckon it's within us all
       To have a world so fair.
                                               TYMON   PAGE 51




        THE TATTERED FLAG

     Tattered, torn, Old Glory flies,
   Proudly high ‘neath troubled skies,
          Though fly is ripped,
            Still canton hold,
   And shining bright the Union bold,
         midst dust and smoke,
            Its colors gleam,
   Ever displaying Freedom’s dream.

 From across the land our heroes came,
And though we know them not by name,
We know them well by courageous deed,
  Who gave their lives to those in need,
  Our prayers we send to God above,
 That such as these shall find His love,
    And that Old Glory long my fly,
 In peace once more in Freedom’s sky.

 A battle streamer need grace that flag,
 Remarking the battle with a simple tag,
 That all may know the brave souls here,
  And perhaps in passing shed a tear,
For tattered and torn still Old Glory flies,
Forever, God willing, in Freedom’s skies.
                                      TYMON   PAGE 52




        SHANTY TOWN

  I'm on my way to Shanty Town
    Shanty Town, Shanty Town,
  I'm on my way to Shanty town,
      To Shanty Town today.

My love waits there in Shanty Town,
   Shanty Town, Shanty Town.
My love waits there in Shanty Town,
      In Shanty Town today.

  I killed a man in Shanty Town,
    Shanty Town, Shanty Town.
High Sheriff waits in Shanty Town,
       In Shanty Town today.

 I'll sleep tonight in Shanty Town,
    Shanty Town, Shanty Town.
 I'll sleep tonight in Shanty Town,
     Beneath the cold, cold clay.

  I'm on my way to Shanty Town,
    Shanty Town, Shanty Town.
  I'm on my way to Shanty Town,
     To Shanty Town - to stay.
                                            TYMON   PAGE 53




       ONE SAD SONG FOR ME

Sing one sad song for my true, true love,
       And one sad song for me.

We met that day in the old church yard,
       Beneath the willow tree.
  She sang a song of true, true love,
   Not knowing it never could be.

        A hired gun travels alone,
           Wherever he may be.
  'Til he dies at the hand of better man,
    And sleeps 'neath the willow tree.

  Blue eyes that shine, and cherry lips,
        That smiled so winningly,
  I turned away with a breaking heart,
      She ne’er could belong to me.

 Sing one sad song for my true,true love,
        And one sad song for me.

  In a western town near ol’ Cheyenne,
        A shootist came my way.
His draw was quick, His aim was straight,
         Soon in the street I lay.

     Death is near, my eyes are dim,
                                         TYMON   PAGE 54




         And yet I seem to see,
  Sparkling blue eyes and cherry lips,
         Smiling so winningly.

Sing one sad song for my true, true love,
       And one sad song for me.
                                                           TYMON       PAGE 55




GOVERNMENT
                        SAVE MONEY!
Congress is no longer relevant!
The president, through Executive Order, legislates and executes.
The courts, through decisions and assumed power, subvert the intent of
Congress; establish their own legislation; execute the decision they have made.
What, then, of the will of the people?
Oh, that's in the Constitution! And who even reads that, let alone follows it?
But government better take away those guns. Even slaves have been know to
revolt when they realize that they are indeed slaves. And soon to be sold to the
largest slave holder of all, the UN World Governemt.
Don't believe it? Open your eyes, your ears.
Read “1984.”
Read the books of Ayn Rand.
Read history (not New Politically Correct propaganda.)
                                       TYMON   PAGE 56




  THE BALLAD OF RAJ MATTEL


 Here sleeps the body of Raj Mattel,
         His body sleeps here;
          His soul is in Hell.
        Disturb not this body.
             But if you do,
   Raj Mattel shall come for you.

 In dark of night the wind will blow,
 And gusts will wake Raj Mattel's soul.
 He shall come and sleep by your side.
  The image he had the day he died,
Your eyes shall see as you moan in pain.
     As Raj Mattel returns again.

    Until at last with early morn.
 The image is gone, and you are lorn.
  Fear not, my friend, it is not o'er,
For Raj Mattel shall return once more.
   Until the day you too sleep well,
And your soul abides with Raj Mattel.
                                        TYMON   PAGE 57




         A WORLD OF DREAMS

    Here in a world of dreams we play,
  And laugh and sing throughout the day.
    And watch the shadows drift away,
                 Except,
        Some shadows always stay,
   Where in a world of dreams we play.

   We laugh and sing and twirl around,
Where green grass grows, and flowers abound
    And happy shadows can be found,
                  Except,
  Some grotesque shadows on the ground,
 Where we laugh and sing and twirl around.

   When evening comes we dash for home,
  ‘Neath twinkling stars in Heaven’s dome,
    And see no shadows that may roam.
                  Except,
     The grotesque shadow of my own,
   Chasing children as they dash for home.
                                         TYMON   PAGE 58




 THE MASTER OF OLDEN WOOD

    Many and many a year afore,
     There fell the wintry snow,
 Blanketing the pines of Olden Wood,
     And e’en the ground below.

A maiden hurried through Olden Wood,
     Before her a cow she drove,
Each dreamed to reach a shelter warm,
       In not too distant cove.

The wind blew strong o’er Olden Wood
       A blizzard of the night,
     She shivered with the cold,
    But shivered more with fright.

  For tales were told of Olden Wood,
    And none there willing tarry,
  For witch and wizard there abide,
  With gremlin, wee folk, and fairy.

   The Master of the Olden Wood,
       The legends oft times tell,
  Will seize a maiden of wintry night,
    And with him she must dwell.

  My Mother stayed in Olden Wood,
      The Master she did see,
                                       TYMON   PAGE 59




Returned she home in madness wild,
     Died with the birth of me.

   So long ago in Olden Wood,
     But now I hear the call,
 The Master dies in Olden Wood,
   His mantle on me shall fall.



I wander lone through Olden Wood,
   ‘Neath dark and shadowy pine,
  Master of all that drear’ retreat,
     And long it were not mine.
                                                 TYMON    PAGE 60




                           .
THE GOOEY, GHASTLY, GROTESQUE GHOST

    There was a gooey, ghastly, grotesque ghost,
    Who dined each morning on butter and toast,
   And supped of an evening on a well done roast -
    This well-fed, gooey, ghastly, grotesque ghost.

          And in the middle of the night,
        When good folk all are sleeping tight,
        This ghost awoke in a terrible fright,
        Awoke all atwitter and turning white.

        With tummy pains of monstrous size,
     He rolled his gooey, ghastly, grotesque eyes,
      No more breakfast, 'cause it wasn't wise,
          No more roast, and no more pies.
      He moaned repentant with painful cries,

      If you traipse along some forlorn way,
And meet this spirit of gooey, ghastly, grotesque gray,
   And he comes toward you then - quickly say,
     Here's toast, and roast - be on your way.

           And on his way he'll surely go,
  Through rain, through hail, through falling snow,
    Screaming, and hollering, and making a row,
   Acting gooey, ghastly, and grotesque, you know.
                                               TYMON      PAGE 61




       Well, that's the end of our ghastly friend,
         I'm afraid he'll never be seen again.
  Except, on Halloween's cold, chilly, biting wind,
He'll arrive gooey, ghastly - and grotesque to the end.
                                            TYMON   PAGE 62




       A LAMENT FOR RUBY RIDGE

     The moan, moan, moaning of the wind,
The moan, moan, moaning of the wind, wind, wind
           And a mother lying dead,
        With a bullet through her head,
   And the moan, moan, moaning of the wind,
         And the moaning of the wind,
               On Ruby Ridge.

      The wail, wail, wailing of the wind,
 The wail, wail, wailing of the wind, wind, wind.
            And a child lying dead,
          Blood flowing deep and red,
    And the wail, wail, wailing of the wind,
          And the wailing of the wind,
                 On Ruby Ridge.

       The sigh, sigh, sighing of the wind,
 The sigh, sigh, sighing of the wind, wind, wind.
         With blind justice lying dead,
         While a nation waits in dread,
    And the sigh, sigh, sighing of the wind,
          And the sighing of the wind,
                 On Ruby Ridge.

         The cry, cry, crying of the wind
   The cry, cry, crying of the wind, wind, wind
         With fair Freedom lying dead,
                                               TYMON   PAGE 63




            And peace forever fled,
      With the cry, cry, crying of the wind,
         With the crying of the wind,
                On Ruby Ridge.

     The moan, moan, moaning of the wind,
The moan, moan, moaning of the wind, wind, wind
               On Ruby Ridge.
                                          TYMON   PAGE 64




FOREVER WAS A SHORT, SHORT TIME

     She said she’d love me forever
     She said she’d always be mine,
   Yes, she said she’d love me forever,
   Ah, forever was a short, short time.

  We walked alone in the moonlight,
  Mid bower where honeysuckle climb
   Swore she would love me forever,
  Ah, forever was a short, short time.

    I held her close and I kissed her,
    Her lips like the sweetest of wine,
     She said she’d hold me forever,
   Ah, forever was a short, short time.

    The skies were blue for a season,
    The sun seemed forever to shine,
     She loved me then and forever,
   Ah, forever was a short, short time.

  She’s gone, she’s gone, oh, forever,
        So ends a love so divine,
   She’s gone, she’s left me forever.
  Oh, forever’s such a long, long time.
                                          TYMON   PAGE 65




                DAD

         A quiet man, Dad.
    I don’t recall him ever mad,
   ‘cept when he had good cause.

       A drinking man, Dad.
   At moments when life was sad,
    And he had to take a pause.

       A working man, Dad.
  Hard work for everything he had,
     A house and its four walls.

    An understanding man, Dad.
 Stood by me when things were bad.
  Shored me up against life’s falls.

        A brave man, Dad.
Took gun in hand to the sheriff’s pad,
 Brought son from a cold jail’s walls.

       A lonesome man, Dad.
 One wife he loved, one wife he had.
Together traveled through life’s halls.

         Memories of Dad,
    The good, sometimes the sad.
     God bless as curtain falls.
                                                           TYMON      PAGE 66




WICKED WORDS

If they are in (My Mentor) Master B. I. Got, Esquire’s Dictionary, how could
they be otherwise?

Bad: Great, like, "Hey, Man, that's real Bad!"
Evil: It would seem, under modern standards, that there is none. Christians
have longed for a world without evil. America has found the solution. Elimi-
nate the word evil from our vocabulary. Or define it in a politically correct
manner. Define evil as merely - Alternative life styles!
Good : An undefined word in modern English.
Disruptive Student: One trying to get an education in today's classroom.
Maverick (nonconformist): Old B. I.
Misfit: The modern generation -- or is it Old B.I.
Oddball: B. I., you are everywhere!
Women: The best, and at times, the worst-- but always the most wonderful, of
God's gifts to man.
Guns: The one tool most feared by totalitarian government. That which pre-
cludes a government of the people from becoming a government of the des-
pots.
Self Defense: Actions which are damaging to robbers, rapists, and others and
which may lead to your arrest and conviction, or to a suit by the criminals in-
volved.
 Neanderthal: Master B. I. Got
Primate (person): Master B. I. Got
Tribe: What most of us descended from, one time or another.
 Fatherland: Generally, any place but America.
Mayflower: What those despicable White Anglo-Saxon Protestants disem
barked from.
                                                         TYMON       PAGE 67




Melting pot: America, before Big Brother imposed his methods of disintegra-
tion.
 Civilization: And interesting concept which never reached fruition.
Class: That's what I got, Daddy-O!
Differences: The most important characteristic of Americans. It gives the old
politicians a lever to divide and conquer.
Divine right of kings: Only if I'm the king.!
Pride: "Stain not thy Escutcheon" - Master B. I. Got, Esquire
"A man without self-pride is less than a man." - Master B. I. Got, Esquire
Sleeplessness: And opportunity to whack dumb sheep on the backside as they
jump over the fence.
Culture: In America? You gotta be kidding.
Human race: Those bastards!
Inherited trait: That for which we prefer not to take responsibility.
 Lineage: Our tie to the apes.
 Manners: Ancient rituals, long since discarded in our enlightened society.
 Monarchy: Hereditary rulers with their hereditary faults.
 Pedigree: What I've undoubtedly got.
 Society: Often high.
                          OK, that’s enough for one day.
                                           TYMON    PAGE 68




THANK GOD FOR THESE COUNTRY MEMORIES

  The earth turns beneath the plows sharp blade,
    Beyond the field a grove of greening trees
       And furrow after furrow lies behind.
     Thank God for these country memories.

         At noon we find the cooling spring,
         Sip from the dipper, on our knees.
      I wipe the sweat of labor from my brow,
      Thank God for these country memories.

On summer day pick blackberries from the brambles
       Listen to the humming of the bees,
   Watch the bright white clouds float gently by
     Thank God for these country memories.

       In autumn we now begin to harvest,
      Fruit of our labor never seems to cease
   Indian summer moon shines bright above us,
     Thank God for these country memories.

       On the porch we gather after supper
         Forgotten are the day’s miseries.
       Tomorrow we’ll return to the harvest,
      Thank God for these country memories.
                                          TYMON   PAGE 69




               MY POEM

 My poem isn't words on parchment thin,
      Nor paeans chanted to a deity,
    But the gentle softness of her skin,
And the wonder of her standing close to me.

 My poem isn't rhyme of bookish sounds,
 Nor simple sounds which only rhyme,
  My poem is her eyes of softest browns,
The wondrous gift she gives me of her time.

    My poem isn't written with the pen,
     Nor flow of ink upon the page,
    But with love, and with love again,
    That grows unbounded as we age.

   My poem is those things she is to me,
  The dreams, the hopes, the happiness,
       My poem is a living reality,
  My wife - God's gift of Heaven's best.
                                         TYMON   PAGE 70




    A LAND CALLED FARAWAY

  There is a land called Faraway,
 Where little children laugh and play,
  And hurry home at end of day.

 Where time is told by tinkling bells.
  What joy their silvery tolling tells,
 With all resounding crystalline knells.

     I’ve never been to Faraway,
  Nor heard the bells so sweetly play.
    Yet I am sure I’ll go one day.

       Not true -- long, long ago,
  I played in sun and glistening snow,
   With children that I used to know.

     By time so gently led away,
   For when we age we can not stay.
    Seduced by life we go astray.

    Yet back I go, if but in dreams,
 To fairyland ‘neath moonlight beams.
Beneath her light that fair world gleams.

    There is a land called Faraway,
   And I must hurry there someday,
     Hurry there, and ever stay.
                                        TYMON   PAGE 71




     THE BLOODY BUCCANEER

     Aye, a Bloody Buccaneer he was,
           A Bloody Buccaneer
But when Old Hickory needed fighting men,
          Jean Lafitte was there.
      Aye, Captain Lafitte was there
  But when Old Hickory needed fighting men,
          Jean Lafitte was there
     Aye, a Bloody Buccaneer he was,
           A Bloody Buccaneer

   Aye, a Bloody Buccaneer he was,
         A Bloody Buccaneer
       In 1814, in New Orleans,
      When defeat was very near
  Old Hickory called for fighting men,
    And Captain Lafitte was there.
      Aye, Jean Lafitte was there
When Old Hickory called for fighting men,
        Jean Lafitte was there
   Aye, a Bloody Buccaneer he was,
         A Bloody Buccaneer

    Aye, a Bloody Buccaneer he was,
          A Bloody Buccaneer
    He sailed into Lake Ponchatrain,
       The British he did not fear
 He sank their ships and sailed out again,
                                          TYMON   PAGE 72




        That Bloody Buccaneer
         Jean Lafitte was there,
    Aye, Captain Lafitte was there.
    Aye, a Bloody Buccaneer he was,
          A Bloody Buccaneer




    Aye, a Bloody Buccaneer he was,
          A Bloody Buccaneer
The moon was bright on the Spanish Main
 A seaman slipped into the waters clear
    Captain Lafitte was laid to rest,
        That Bloody Buccaneer
 A seaman slipped into the waters clear
     Jean Lafitte was laid to rest,
        That Bloody Buccaneer
    Aye, a Bloody Buccaneer he was,
          A Bloody Buccaneer

    Aye, a Bloody Buccaneer he was,
          A Bloody Buccaneer
     So when you toast your heroes,
        And perhaps shed a tear,
   Drink ye one toast for a sailor boy,
         Jean Lafitte was there,
                                    TYMON   PAGE 73




  Aye, Captain Lafitte was there.
  Aye, a Bloody Buccaneer he was,
        A Bloody Buccaneer

  Aye, a Bloody Buccaneer he was,
        A Bloody Buccaneer
When the dogs of war besiege our land
    And it seems the end is near
     Jean Lafitte will be there,
  Aye, Captain Lafitte will be there
  Aye, a Bloody Buccaneer he was,
        A Bloody Buccaneer
   And though it be only in spirit,
   His courage we all shall share
 Though a Bloody Buccaneer he was
        A Bloody Buccaneer.

         Aye, Jean Lafitte,
    A Bloody Buccaneer he was,
       A Bloody Buccaneer
                                         TYMON   PAGE 74




            I LOVE YOU

      I would not live forever,
            And yet . . . .
           Another hour?
        Perhaps another day.

          And that day,
         That hour . . . .
      How would I use them?
      Only to love you more.

              Enough!
                I go.
         But long after me,
My love, forever, shall with you stay.

 In morning sun and budding rose,
 In birdsong and floating butterfly
  In soft caress of evening breeze,
Gently whispering, ever, I Love You.
                                   TYMON   PAGE 75




    THERE WAS A TIME

     There was a time . . .
     And that so long ago.
         Yesterday.

  She opened wide my door,
Smiled a happy “good-morning,”
   And went along her way.

     There was a time . . .

 But time goes by, and now . . .
   The door is open wide -
            Today.

     The hall is silent now,
       And oh so empty
          I am alone.

      There is a time . . .
     Yes, that is even now
            Today.

    I whisper soft her name,
  I see a smile, a happy smile,
  And know within my heart.

     There was a time . . .
TYMON   PAGE 76
                                         TYMON   PAGE 77




              CONTRASTS

   The lash of the wind across the trees,
   Driving them down, upon their knees.
   The thunder's deep and sonorous roll,
    Bringing fear to the frightened soul.
     A lightning flash across the sky,
     A message of doom from on high.

      These symbolize a might power,
  Working his magic from celestial tower.
   The reins of the winds are in his hand,
The drums of thunder are played by his band
    The lightning flashes within his eyes,
       Illuminate the darkened skies.

    The storm passes, and then we see
  How gentle and soft that power can be.
  Soft zephyrs kiss the redolent flowers,
  Sunshine's caress, and gentle showers,
   The warmth of spring is on the field,
      The icy reaches soon will yield,
 And crops will grow where all was bare,
 And the world we see ne'er looked so fair.
                                                TYMON     PAGE 78




                 UNHOLY NIGHT

     The tortured clouds, twisting in the wind.
     The tormented trees, bowing to its power.
             Howling evilly, the wind,
             Tearing at roof and wall,
               Tearing at my soul.

         I lie awake and listen to the sound,
             Listen to the growls of anger,
         Listen to the low moans of sorrow,
          Listen to the monstrous howling,
            Of this creature without body,
         Of this creature without substance,
              Bent upon my destruction.

     It rattles windows, playing on my nerves.
 Beats the tree limb’s hammer hard upon the roof,
Sweeps the trailing ends hissingly across the tin roof,
   Bends, shakes and threatens the entire house.
    Then stops, in silence, listening, watching,
                  For my response.

    Quivering I slip deeper beneath the covers,
                For I know its game.
     When I am least prepared it shall rise up,
       From where, crouched, it now awaits.
   Rise up, snarling, moaning, growling, spitting.
        Rise up to seize me, carry me away.
                                 TYMON   PAGE 79




Carry me to I know not where,
       I know not how,
      I know not when.

         My God!
          It’s here.
   And I am . . . gone . . . .
                                                           TYMON       PAGE 80




THANKSGIVING
       It's not a day, it's a state of mind.
       I write of woes and problems, of crimes and misdeeds, of drugs and evil.
And truly they abound.
       And yet . . . .
       But for a moment, let me forget they exist.
       Each day the sun brightens our Valley, each day we waken to a world of
hope. A day in which we may, whatever our gifts, contribute that small deed
that makes this, our world, a better place. Nor need it be wealth, or treasures,
or even gifts.
       That happy smile with which you greet a friend. The kind word you
extend to a neighbor. The gentle touch of your hand, the warm hug, the happy
laugh of companionship. A phone call for no reason other than to extend good
fellowship. Gifts all.
       Simple acts. Holding the door open, just a second, to let another pass
through. Not as a duty. Not even as a courtesy. But a show of concern.
       For concern is a priceless gift.
       Too often, a gift withheld.
       Amazing. What we give, what we extend, what we offer - all are
returned to us multifold. And in the giving we have reaped, and should be
truly thankful.
       We set aside a day of Thanksgiving each year, and pray we can
assemble with our families that together we can share. A wonderful ritual of
togetherness, a warm and happy day. And when it's gone the pleasant
memories remain.
       Well, well. Shortly I shall return to my vicious self. But for now let me
extend to you a wish for a happy Thanksgiving Day.
       And yet, remember,
THANKSGIVING - It's not a day, it's a state of mind.
                                                 TYMON        PAGE 81




        DARK NIGHT IN THE CROWS-NEST

        Far below the hull bounces on roiled sea,
       Waves reach upward, white tipped, angry,
         Lightning rents the dull gray curtain
       And thunder applauds with mighty ovation.

On we sail, stabbing into the heart of the dread hurricane.
      Quickly, so quickly, the ship drives forward.
     At times, huge propellers above the waterline,
   And ship quivering and twisting falling back again.

            The ocean’s blue has darkened,
          An ugly green, evil and foreboding.
                        Day’s end.
             Below, crew descends to rest,
      Hatches dogged, bunks and hammocks freed,
      Tired sailors, cold and tossed by stormy sea,
               Lie down but cannot rest.

           Crashing of waves, howling of wind,
              Creaking of metal on metal --
               The music of the seaman,
             Lulls them to a wretched sleep.

              The waves now reach my feet,
                    Wash upon my legs,
             Finally grasp angrily at my body.
     Fall thunderously back to strike the deck below,
                                             TYMON       PAGE 82




                  And then return.

             Bow dips beneath the water,
Rises once more to drain the salted water to its home.
                  We ride the waves.
       And in the Crows-nest I watch the storm,
       And pray to be alive with coming dawn,
       As waves claw angrily higher and higher.

           A dark night in the crows-nest.
                                      TYMON   PAGE 83




     THE HILL TO DIE ON

     It lies ahead, gaunt cliffs
 Rising to peaks of pointed stone.
  Innocent and quiet and yet --
  Hidden by that outward calm,
          A thirst for blood
    That cannot be assuaged.
          A Hill To Die On!

             God forbid.
      I would not end so soon,
          So much undone.
       I have in me grandeur,
         I have love to give,
         Memories to make,
          Dreams to dream.
    Somber and quiet it stands,
     Waiting. Silently waiting,
Oblivious of my pain, of my dreams,
              As I wait.

    And now the order comes.
   We move forward, single file,
       Weapons ever ready,
  And in our minds the thought --
     Is this the hill to die on?
                                          TYMON   PAGE 84




            OATH OF OFFICE OF THE PRESIDENT

                 OF THE UNITED STATES

“I DO SOLEMNLY SWEAR (OR AFFIRM) THAT I SHALL FAITHFULLY

   EXECUTE THE OFFICE OF THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED

         STATES, AND TO THE BEST OF MY ABILITY,

             PRESERVE, PROTECT AND DEFEND

         THE CONSTITUTION OF THE UNITED STATES.
                                           TYMON   PAGE 85




         THREE DAYS OF DREAD


      There are days to be remembered
             Days to stand proud
             Days to recall heroes
     Days to pay homage to our forebears

     Sadly, sadly, there are other days,
   Days when the flag, inverted, should fly
           Three Days of Dread,
      When the evils of Government
           Should fill our minds.
GOVERNMENT. DESPOTIC GOVERNMENT!

      One day, that most evil of all,
          When citizens, guiltless,
      Were rounded up, like cattle,
    And incarcerated in the halls of hell,
         The concentration camps.
GOVERNMENT. DESPOTIC GOVERNMENT!

        One day, on Ruby Ridge,
      When Mother and Child died,
       By the gun of lawless men,
     Hiding behind such symbols as
           FBI, BATF, Law.
        And none dare intervene.
GOVERNMENT. DESPOTIC GOVERNMENT!
                                                   TYMON   PAGE 86




         One day, most evil day,
     When the Children of Waco died.
    bodies singed, blistered, but ashes..
    Again the symbols -- how strange,
            the same, But more.
        FBI, BATF, ARMY, Law.
GOVERNMENT. DESPOTIC GOVERNMENT!

 Let the Red, White and Blue, sadly, inverted
                 Remind you.
                 It happened,
               Again and Again.
         And will happen once more
      Unless you control the government.
        Uncontrolled, all powerful, it is
GOVERNMENT. DESPOTIC GOVERNMENT!
 Three days, fly the flag, sadly inverted, to remind you
                         Beware
  GOVERNMENT. DESPOTIC GOVERNMENT!
                                                            TYMON       PAGE 87




      EXTRACT FROM THE DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE

           (with elements capitalized to highlight their importance.)

      We hold these truths to be self-evident, that ALL men are created equal,

that they are endowed BY THEIR CREATOR with certain unalienable rights,

that among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. That to secure

these rights governments are instituted among men, DERIVING THEIR

JUST POWERS FROM THE CONSENT OF THE GOVERNED, that

whenever any form of government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the

right of the people to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new government,

laying its foundation on such principals and organizing its powers in such

form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their safety and happiness.
                                 TYMON   PAGE 88




I RIDE THE WHITE LINE

There’s them that ride better,
    But I’m doing fine,
   From Diego to Frisco,
    I ride the white line

 The Beast that I ride on
    Is heavy and dark,
With an engine like thunder,
   An each hill is a lark.

   I’ve outrun the racers,
     With never a sweat,
There’s many would beat me,
   And never done it yet.

There’s them that ride better,
    But I’m doing fine,
   From Diego to Frisco,
    I ride the white line
                                         TYMON   PAGE 89




             THE BEAST

       Big and ugly and mean,
     Black and rugged and long,
    Daring me to step astride her,
   Be her master, if I be that strong.

   I’ve traveled on many a highway,
   On cowpaths, and old worn trails.
 I’ve spent some time in happy homes,
     And some in bleak, cold jails.

And always, she’s carried the burden,
     With never a major fault.
    That mighty engine roaring,
Chasing dreams that came to naught.

      Ah, well, it’s nearly over,
  One pleasure, and not the least,
We’ve traveled the old world together,
 With me on the back of The Beast.

        As Hell’s gate are opening
      And I am leaving life’s feast,
  I’ll enter that domain right boldly,
Riding proud on the back of The Beast!
                                         TYMON   PAGE 90




IN HONOR OF ELIAN GONZALEZ’ MOTHER,
         ELIZABET GONZALEZ
         WHO GAVE HER LIFE
    THAT HER CHILD MIGHT BE FREE.
              GODKEEP

             ELIZABET

   How calm the waters at the start,
     How bright the stars above,
    Her child’s future in her heart,
      A heart so filled with love.

 Dark clouds gathered along the way,
       On a dark and wild sea.
She prayed for return of light and day,
   Didn’t know it never would be.

  Strapped on her child the life vest,
      And told him not to fear.
   Told of the wonders to the west,
      Sensed she’d not be near.

  Good Mothers, let’s pray that you
     Shall never face this test,
  And always summer skies of blue,
   And a land of Freedom’s best.

 How could she know her child’s fate,
 Happily hearing the lighthouse bell,
                                   TYMON   PAGE 91




She’d opened for him Freedom’s gate,
   But they sent him back to hell.
                                        TYMON   PAGE 92




      THE SWEETEST WALTZ

    They came to the Royal Castle,
    To the huge and splendid hall,
Kings and queens, dukes and duchesses,
     To attend His Majesty’s Ball.

  Throughout the night they partied,
   With food, and drink, and song,
    And danced to festive music,
      Then left before the dawn.

   Some say the dance was over,
   Gone dancers, musicians, all.
And yet some say, the Sweetest Waltz,
     Was played, after the ball

    A gray-haired cleaning lady
      Slowly mopped the floor
 And heard the waltz within her soul,
    The band had played before.

      She laid aside the bucket,
         Laid aside the pail,
     And closed her eyes to listen,
      To the music’s magic tale.

   Slowly she twirled upon the floor,
        To music soft and low,
                                         TYMON   PAGE 93




 And swirled at the music in her soul,
      And dreamed of long ago.

    Dreamed of a handsome lover,
    Of a a waltz they used to play,
    And with a smile on her face,
     She danced the night away.



  The sun rose bright next morning,
 She wondered if the dream was false,
Yet danced along, as she sang a song,
And that song was the Sweetest Waltz.

   Some say the dance was over,
   Gone dancers, musicians, all.
And yet some say, the Sweetest Waltz,
     Was played, after the ball.
                                           TYMON   PAGE 94




WHEN THE CHILDREN OF WACO DIED

   The screams reached to the Heavens,
     The smoke reached to the skies
   The fires of Hell were burning bright
    When the children of Waco died.

 The imps of hell laughed loud with glee,
    While some just chortled inside,
  And the devil smiled his happy smile
   When the Children of Waco died.

          If ever you visit Waco
   Place flowers, where desolation lies,
 And curses for those who lit Hell’s flames
    When the Children of Waco died.

 Two names now grace the Halls of Hell,
     The Devil looks on with pride,
      Bill and Janet made his list,
   When the children of Waco died.

    And in your prayers, Good People,
       Remember those who tried
  To quench the hell of man made flames
     When the Children of Waco died

     And pray that there’s a Heaven,
      And a God they play beside,
                                     TYMON   PAGE 95




And his angels were quickly with them,
  When the Children of Waco died.
                                    TYMON   PAGE 96




        YONDER HILL

  The sun is shining brightly,
       On yonder hill,
  The wind is blowing softly,
        Where it will,
 And my love is waiting quietly,
          by the rill.

 Soon the moon’ll be ashining,
        On yonder hill,
 The stars will twinkle gently,
           Ever still,
   And I shall be beside her,
        On yonder hill.

    The grass is green as ever,
          On yonder hill,
 The birds are whistling softly,
            softly still,
In my dreams I hold her closely,
             ever will.
‘Til once more we sleep together,
        ‘neath yonder hill.
                                                             TYMON        PAGE 97




                           MOHAMMED WEEPS

         Mohammed weeps.
             For an evil cult has twisted the words of the Holy Koran.
             Mohammed was a warrior. To fight bravely against warriors
was a
              virtue.
              Today an evil cult insults the memory of Mohammed.
              Today an evil cult twists the teachings of the Holy Koran.
              An evil cult, enticing young men through their lust, promising
them
              the services of celestial virgins, if they but torture, mutilate, kill
the
              weak, the helpless, the innocent.
              But the day of judgment will come. And on that day they shall
hold
              out their right hand.
              Hold it out, and withdraw it in terror.
              For their life's record shall be placed, not in their right hand,
but in
              their left.
              And though they scream in agony, and curse their sexual lust,
and
              the evil teachings of the evil cult, they shall descend into the
depths of
              hell and receive just punishment for the evil they have done.
              Mohammed weeps.
              So hath Allah decreed.
TYMON   PAGE 98
                                         TYMON   PAGE 99




A BROKEN DREAM IN NEW YORK TOWN

 “Momma, when is Daddy coming home?
  “He promised we’d see the park today,
       “Why did Daddy go away?
 “Momma, when is Daddy coming home?”

   A broken dream in New York Town,
  A child’s world came tumbling down,
   As buildings tumbled to the ground.
 “Momma, when is Daddy coming home?”

     She held her daughter tenderly,
     To protect her from the misery,
   And horror that she should not see.
   A broken dream in New York Town.

      “Your Daddy’s gone far away,
       “But you and I have to stay,
   “We’ll go to the park another day.”
   A broken dream in New York Town.

  How many dreams were broken there?
     How many offered up a prayer?
    “God keep the children everywhere.
“From a broken dream in New York Town.”
                                          TYMON     PAGE 100




SULFUR, MOLASSES AND SASSAFRAS TEA

     When I was young, back in Tennessee,
     In early spring, my Mother said to me
       Sulfur, molasses and sassafras tea.

   Now, I have tasted stuff what was worse,
  And I feared a lickin’ if I started to curse,
 So my comments were mild, and a little terse.

 Well, I swallowed it down, without much glee,
      Prayed I’d live, but never again see,
       Sulfur, molasses and sassafras tea.

    Now I’m a tad older, and turning gray,
      And a little wiser, I’ve got to say,
    Now and then I wonder if I went astray.

‘Cause, though I thought it’d be the death of me,
       I sure felt fine, back in Tennessee,
             And I owed it all to … ,
      Sulfur, molasses and sassafras tea.
                                                                    TYMON        PAGE 101




                           A TRIBUTE TO “OLD SARGE”

I enjoy the cartoon strip, Beetle Bailey, especially the character, Ol’ Sarge. I knew the ol’
boy pretty well.
        However, in real life, Ol’ Sarge was just a tad different than depicted in the strip.
        He was a tough disciplinarian who kept many a wild young buck on the straight and
narrow. I know. Been there, a sometimes disgruntled recipient of such (admittedly, well
earned) discipline.
        At times he was the father figure that tossed out what, unfortunately long
afterward, was recognized as exceedingly sage advise and guidance.
        Quite often he was the smart, skilled manipulator who saved many a
wet-behind-the-ears Second Louie from career-destructive decisions or actions. And we
didn’t even know we were being manipulated!
        To many modern readers, I guess, he is just a funny old comic strip character. And
he is, and definitely an enjoyable one.
        But to us Beetles, grunts and officers who served with him, he stood tall.
        I salute you, Ol’ Sarge.
        Well done.
        Pay attention there, Beetle, and shape up.
                                           TYMON   PAGE 102




            SUMMER DREAMS

  The haunting fragrance of summer flowers,
   Drifted by warm zephyr past my pillow,
   Wakened me from dread winter’s cold,
    As outside the blizzards breathe blew
    White snowflakes where once bloomed
              Summer flowers.

         How chill the morning air,
     How warm the blankets piled high.
    A few short months ago summer ruled
    And now, so strange, only in my sleep
            See I summer dreams

Yet I remember well the aroma of summer roses,
  The yellow gold of sunflowers along the way
    The delicate notes of birds now far away
      The warmth of sun browning my skin.
          Summer Dreams, fast fading.

        Why long I so for yesterday?
      For cold and bright a day I have.
      And wintry beauty I do not reject.
      White snowflakes, winter flowers.
          And yet, Returning ever,
              Summer Dreams
                      .
                                                           TYMON      PAGE 103




                           WHO IS THIS SANTA CLAUS

       Has anyone really seen him, this rogue in red who hot rods his reindeers
through the chill night skies of Christmastide? An escapee from the North
Pole, perhaps? Bounding down chimneys uninvited, placing toys under
myriad of Christmas trees for good little girls and boys. And even for those at
times mischievous. Who is this Santa Claus?

       The encyclopedia has him tagged. "A mythical old man. . . " it says.
And so he is. And yet, learned article carefully read, still one wonders, 'Who is
this Santa Claus?" Ghostlike, with Christmas past, he fades from view. But
only to return midst sound of tinkling bells, sheen of bright Christmas lights,
and melody of noel.

      Did he live in bygone day. Perhaps. Saint Nicholas of Myra is his model,
and though Saint Nicholas died ideas do not die, dreams do not die, love does
not die. And there is the answer to our question. Who is this Santa Claus?

      He is love personified. Love for our children, our family, others. Each
year we use his presence to countenance expressing those feelings, often
hidden. Gifts are given without embarrassment. Christmas cards are
exchanged. The story of Tiny Tim is read, and "The Night Before Christmas."
The brightest of all lights are lit, the lights on the Christmas tree. All the
important rituals are followed. Rituals that expose for a brief moment the best
in mankind.

      To paraphrase Tiny Tim, "Bless us, each the other."

                                  Merry Christmas.
                               TYMON   PAGE 104




           MY GIFT

   When days are hard,
     And solace rare
    May comfort ever
      Be your share

    If sorrow oftimes
    Comes your way
  Take a short moment,
      Then, to pray

   The blackest clouds
    And wildest wind,
   Your smile and song
    Will quickly end

  And when those clouds
     All melt away,
    The sun is there
    To light the day

    And rainbows, too,
    Will light the sky,
     Bring laughter to
     Both lip and eye

 Sunshine of a morning,
Bright moon gives its light,
                             TYMON   PAGE 105




 Peace as you slumber,
  In dark of the night

 Sweet kisses and hugs,
With those that you love,
And the blessing of God
From the Heavens above.



 These I bequeath thee
   As much as I can,
  And everything else
    I leave in God’s hand.
                                      TYMON   PAGE 106




     THE WINDS OF TIME

        The winds of time,
    Driving the days before,
     So gently in my youth,
   But now those days are o’er.

       The winds of time
     Then drove the weeks,
    How quickly did they fly,
    Though pause one seeks.

        The winds of time
  Blew quick the months away,
As I looked back in great surprise,
  How short the time they stay.

        The winds of time
 So quickly dispatched the years
  With gusts so swift and strong
   As I looked back with tears

        The winds of time,
   What more would they do?
     Are loudly howling now,
   I fear our lives are through.
                                           TYMON   PAGE 107




     ODE TO THE TUMBLEWEED

    The gusting winds its chariot
      It drives with relish keen
  And sometimes stops to tarry a bit,
    Then rushes from the scene.

    Bouncing, rolling, hopping high,
        It rarely stops to rest,
The winds may roar, the winds may sigh,
        As every path it tests.

   In drifting hordes it dots the land,
       Where no other life can be
    A restless, roving grayish band,
     Tumbling plants of mystery.

   In desert land it seems to thrive,
  Windblown across the desert floor
  And where at first just four or five,
     Now pass they by the score.

What seek they here, this restless band,
      Hard driven by the wind?
 To spread their seed upon the land,
     That their breed should never end.
                                      TYMON   PAGE 108




RAINBOWS AND BUTTERFLIES

   Rainbows and Butterflies,
      And flowers abound.
 Twinkling stars fill our skies,
    Green grass all around.
Midst all the old world’s troubles,
Thank God these still are found,
   Rainbows and Butterflies,
      And Flowers abound.
                                         TYMON   PAGE 109




             ANTIQUES ALLEY


          How strange it seems
  To wander here midst ancient dreams
    Of long forgotten familiar scenes.

    The musty smell of yesterday,
    The olden arts here on display,
  Memories that come, then fade away.

How bright the moon in picture frame,
How worn the board for checker game,
 So many changes, so much the same.

 In every room something you’ll find,
 That happy memories brings to mind,
And sometimes memories of another kind.

    Ah, well, the day is passing by,
 The sun slips downward from the sky,
    So many pleasures here to buy.

   Well, I’ve tarried much too long,
  ‘mid dreams and fantasies and song
     But it’s here we old antiques belong.
                                                         TYMON       PAGE 110




                      MEMORIES, IN ANTIQUES’ ALLEY

        Antiques Alley -- Where the pleasure of the hunt awaits you! And what
         strange and exotic finds lie ahead. The expected, and the unexpected.
                        The very old, and the hardly old at all!
Yesterday’s dreams, Tomorrow’s wonders.
And old top hat, perhaps, that brings back memories of stage, of screen.
The Stetson worn, oh so many eons ago, by range riders, cowboys -- ah, and
by children everywhere!
Remember music of the violin -- no, No! Rather, of the fiddle. Playing the
songs of yesteryear. Irish jigs, old English ballads (Barbara Ellen, perhaps.)
Recall the music locked away on those 78 rpm records? Bing Crosby, Glenn
Miller? Ah, the pleasure of the hunt!
Antiques’ Alley -- Where dreams flourish and wonders abide!
Walk lightly, speak softly, as you were in a library. For patrons here would
gaze on treasure, undisturbed. Would see, not today, but yesterday, enveloped
in a haze of happiness.
For each treasure projects its own aura. An aura of history dimly seen, of
pleasures lightly reminisced, of promises yet to be fulfilled.
For each treasure is unique, has its own story to tell, its own essence to
project, its own wonder to provide.
The Antique Store is unlike any other shop you might enter. Here we look, not
the patina of modernity, but for the worn and comfortable reflection of happy
use. We look not the cheap and tawdry, though such might catch our eye, but
for the sturdy and lasting.
And yet, at times, the fragile and delicate may bring us to a halt as we wonder
how survival has been possible.
                                                         TYMON      PAGE 111




When you enter here, leave behind the values of a commercial world, and
recognize that value lies in the mind. And what wonders meet the eye, and fill
the mind, in Antiques Alley.
The familiar, the strange, the exotic.
Surely Antiques’ Alley. And, for some, Memory Lane.
All here for your review, for your purchase, for your pleasure. From right
here in the Antelope Valley tools of farmers, ranchers, sheepherders, miners.
Photographs of earlier times, unfamiliar places, long gone dwellings and
peoples. Mounted in frames seldom seen today. Books no longer printed,
pottery no longer produced, utensils no longer used.
Nor is this an ordinary store. For here dwells yesterday, here awaits you
remembrances laid aside, here are dreams lost and found.
A young lady picked up a simple dish, a pattern perhaps unusual, gazed at it
with a whimsical smile on her lips. Memories, perhaps, that were personal to
her, of days of childhood, of such a plate on the kitchen table.
An older woman glanced at a bonnet, now long out of style, and reminisced of
the last time she had worn such a bonnet, a thoughtful look on her face.
Through yonder door more marvels await. There a love seat, maintained with
gentle care. Yonder a rocking chair, perhaps a little rough, but sturdy and
strong. For furniture of early times was made to last the years.
And old harmonica, and how many lips have touched it, filled the home with
music. Here a simple tea pot, exotic picture of cherry blossoms suggesting the
wonders of the orient. On that far was a painting of lady fair, and nearby the
limned portrait of stern-faced Indian brave. A bamboo flute lies on the shelf
over there, and an ancient fiddle stands in a nearby corner. A bucket with a
dipper sits beside the wall and brings back thoughts of one room school days,
and how many the youths have supped from such a dipper.
                                                         TYMON       PAGE 112




Over there hand-sewn dresses, and handmade quilts. Ah, the quilting parties
back on the farm, with gossip and goodies, exchange of cloth and ideas, all the
while sewing the warm quilts for winter’s coming.
How delightful to travel down memory lane! The happy times brought to
mind, sometimes the sad. The wonders of yesterday softly brought to mind.
Come, join in time travel, through the magic of Antiques Alley, just down
Memory Lane. And old beau may be waiting there, family, friends, happy
occasions.
The once were’s, the might have been’s, and the yet to be’s. The magic of time
travel ... ,
In Antiques’ Alley.
The yellowed pages of an ancient novel caught my eye, and I flipped through
it casually. A poignant paragraph of the heartbreak of the heroine, a minor
faded spot near the bottom of the sheet. Perhaps caused by tear from one of
tender heart. What wonders words can do! Arousing anger, fear, tenderness,
disdain.
Other books there. A painting, well cared for an carefully framed, depicting
sailing ship on stormy sea. What memories such pictures bring to mind!
Riding out a hurricane off the coast of Charleston, with waves clawing
upward even to the crows-nest where I stood lookout. And thoughts of calm
passage on southern seas, ship shepherded by flying fish along the way.
Ah, over there! Under that glass counter! I collected those as a child in the
mountains of East Tennessee. Indian arrowheads, carefully, meticulously
chipped from flint. Once common enough for a child to find while exploring
mountain retreats. Now , antiques, bringing long forgotten memories. O
childhood days, of more recent ones. Of Indian friend Kicking Eagle, once
resident of the Valley, and his words of encouragement. “Be at peace. Ride the
wind.”
                                                        TYMON      PAGE 113




Near the arrowheads lie pieces of hematite, iron ore. I once lived atop a
hematite mountain in the Alaskan northland at the Polar circle. At times of
leisure I shaped and polished objects of hematite, giving them a sheen to
match the aurora borealis that lit the skies.
Fatboys! How odd in desert climate. Reminiscent of long past years the cold
winds of the arctic circle, slicing with unerring accuracy along the front
zipper of those bulky ware.
How strange a tour through Antiques’ Alley. The objects seen, the memories
recalled, the dreams re-dreamed.
One can spend an hour, a day, just remembering. Among the wonders ... of
Antiques’ Alley.
                                   TYMON   PAGE 114




       THE ELEVEN COMMANDMENTS
   THOU SHALT HAVE NO OTHER GODS BEFORE ME

THOU SHALT NOT MAKE UNTO THEE ANY GRAVEN IMAGE

        THOUS SHALT NOT TAKE THE NAME

         OF THE LORD THEY GOD IN VAIN

   REMEMBER THE SABBATH DAY, TO KEEP IT HOLY

      HONOUR THY FATHER AND THY MOTHER

             THOU SHALT NOT KILL

       THOU SHALT NOT COMMIT ADULTERY

            THOUS SHALT NOT STEAL

      THOUS SHALT NOT BEAR FALSE WITNESS

             THOU SHALT NOT COVET


      A NEW COMMANDMENT I GIVE UNTO YOU
           THAT YE LOVE ONE ANOTHER;
            EVEN AS I HAVE LOVED YOU,
         THAT YE ALSO LOVE ONE ANOTHER.
                                     TYMON   PAGE 115




            WINTER STARS

    How bright the winter stars
   Seen through the cold night air
    Each constellation gleaming,
    With snowflakes in its hair.

       Orion boldly stalking
       Across the wintry sky
      With Pegasus preceding
     Where the seven sisters fly.

   The North Star ever glowing,
   That we should know our way
    And that white path across,
    The gleaming Milky Way.

    Slowly, slowly pass they by,
     For they have traveled far
Through the long night our comrades,
    How bright the winter star.
                                  TYMON   PAGE 116




     THE BOY SCOUT OATH

   On my Honor I will do my Best

To do my Duty to God and my Country

     and to obey the Scout Law;

  To help other people at all times;

  To keep myself physically strong,

Mentally awake, and Morally straight.
                          TYMON   PAGE 117




    I PLEDGE ALLEGIANCE TO

         THE FLAG

OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

   AND TO THE REPUBLIC FOR

       WHICH IT STANDS,

         ONE NATION,

         UNDER GOD,

          INDIVISIBLE,

   WITH LIBERTY AND JUSTICE

           FOR ALL
                                                         TYMON      PAGE 118




                               POSTSCRIPT

      At times we pause, look back, and recognize those to whom we owe so
much. Sadly, by the time we do so, too many are no more.
      Look around you, my friends, at America. Sadly, yes, it has many faults.
Happily, nevertheless, it has the promise left with us by our forebears -- the
promise of freedom.
         The men who have insured that the spark of liberty shall still burn
deserve our respect. It is proper that I close this volume with a few words of
  respect for them. Words I wrote long ago, and words well worth repeating.
                                    TYMON   PAGE 119




  VETERANS DAY / MEMORIAL DAY

       THIS PRAYER IS FOR OUR VETERANS

    THOUGH THE POLITICIANS LOST OUR WARS,
          OUR VETERANS NEVER DID.
         FROM EL ALAMEIN TO ANZIO,
       FROM NORMANDY TO THE RHEIN,
       ON THE ISLANDS OF THE PACIFIC
         AND THE RIDGES OF KOREA,
      THROUGH THE JUNGLES OF VIETNAM
         AND THE DESERTS OF ARABIA.
       ON LAND, ON SEA, AND IN THE AIR.

       THEY FOUGHT WHERE DUTY CALLED.

TO THOSE WE ARE SO LUCKY TO HAVE WITH US STILL,
       THOSE WHO SURVIVED WAR'S HELL,
          THE WOUNDED, DISABLED, ILL
          GOD BLESS, AND THANK YOU.
                  WELL DONE!

     AND WHILE WE HONOR OUR VETERANS,
  FORGET NOT THOSE BY COUNTRY FORSAKEN;
 THE PRISONERS OF WAR, THE MISSING IN ACTION,
     FORLORN, DOOMED PAWNS, LONG LOST,
           SAVE IN OUR MEMORIES.
     GOD BLESS THEM, AND GOD FORGIVE US.
                                 TYMON      PAGE 120




PLEASE, IN YOUR PRAYERS, REMEMBER THEM
     WHO SAILED THE LAST VOYAGE,
         FOUGHT THE LAST BATTLE,
          FLEW THE LAST FLIGHT.
            THEY DIED FOR YOU.




AND WITH DEEP RESPECT, THIS PRAYER IS FOR
         THE MEN I SAILED WITH,
WHO WEIGHED ANCHOR FOR THE LAST TIME;
       FOR THE MEN I FLEW WITH ,
      WHO FLEW THE LAST MISSION.

                GODKEEP
                 AMEN
                                      Frank Tymon
                                                            TYMON      PAGE 121




OTHER BOOKS BY FRANK TYMON

Name Your Child for Success;

Raise Your Child for Success;

Beyond Aurora-- Dreamship;

Legend of a Star-Crossed Love;

Internet English, World Wide Web, Ecommerce and International Trade;

The Totalitarians;

The Lean Machine;

God Damn Bike Rider and Other Outcasts;

The Confessions of Master B.I. Got, Esquire;

A COMAL COLLAGE;

How To Program the Home Computer for Fun and Profit

frank@qnet.com;

http://www.av.qnet.com/~frank/

Frank Tymon
4749 w. K-12 Ave.
Quartz Hill, CA 93536-5146
TYMON   PAGE 122

								
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