Bleaks Poetry Cache

The Long Grey Line

2007-06-30T23:46:00.000-06:00

“The Long Grey Line” or “The Highway was written in

1959 and was inspired by a fatal car accident.

I was upset because nobody at the Elks Club seemed unduly concerned.

They went right on telling their jokes and laughing as though

Nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

The Long Grey Line

(The Highway)

It’s a long grey line

With a code that’s stern

And a law that favors none

Where the payoff’s short, of the permanent sort

For the insubordinate one.

You’re a gambler born

When you honk that horn

To pass, when the law says wait

Then a headlight gleams

And a mortal screams

And you’ve sold out to fate.

Well, you knew the odds

When you took the chance

And you staked your life on the line

But you bid too much

And the rules are such

That you can’t turn back this time.

Now the story’s told

And the tale is old

You’re lost and you can’t complain

So you yield your breath

To the winner – Death

He holds all trump again.

Now that’s bad enough

But the part that’s rough

Is seeing the gang react

To the awful news that you’ve paid your dues

And you won’t be coming back.

They’re standing around

Just swapping yarns

And spending their hard earned pay

When in walks Joe

And he says real low

“John Jones cashed in today”

Well, they’re properly blue

For a minute or two

As they look real thoughtful and grim

Then they turn to the bloke

Who was tilling the joke

Hey! What was that punch line, Jim?

“Bonnie White Bleak”

1959

A Kids Eye View

2007-04-12T23:22:00.000-06:00

A KIDS EYE VIEW “Was written in the ‘50’s after attending a “Hell Fire and Damnation” minister’s speech. Then remembering how free we were as children from the fear instilled by “End of the World Prophets ‘and harbingers of Hell.

After publication of “ A KIDS EYE VIEW I received letters from people in several different states accusing me of.: turning young people against the church. Thus the birth of the next poem ‘SORRY ABOUT THAT

A KIDS EYE VIEW

I’m just a simple country kid
And I don’t know nothen much
But I always sorta wondered
Bout the birds an bees and stuff
And I noticed there’s a difference
In the way all critters be
And I thot it awful shameful
That they’re not as gay as me.

And why it is I laugh and sing
Or love, or hate, or cry
And cows just don’t do anything
But chew their cud & sigh
But it really didn’t matter
Guess they’re just as glad to be
The horse & cow & pigs & things
As I was to be me.

Then someone came & told my Pa
Bout Sunday School & me
And how I’d learn the answers
And be saved eternalee
Now I was pretty glad for that
I thot I’d learn a bunch
Of things I always wondered
But I’d only had a hunch.

So I went to church on Sunday
And I set down in a pew
Then the Preacher started yelling
And Boy! I’m telling You
He jumped around and hollered
And described a place called hell
Where fire burnin forever
Scorching all the Souls what fell!

I sneaked a look around the house
To see if I could find
Somebody lookin like they fell
But they did’nt seem to mind
They looked so calm and peaceful
That I thot—Oh golly gee
If He ain’t hollerin at them
He must be mad at Me.

I slithered down beneath the seat
An I crawled out toward the door
Scared & sweatin——but I made it
And I ain’t goin back no more
Way He hates that clumsy angel
Put him right in hell — he say
As many times as I fell
He'd of chased me all the way!

And I never found out nothen
Bout the things I went to learn
And that other Father scares me
What lets his children burn
Can’t figger out a feller
Whos kids is all corrupt
I’m stayin home with My Pa
When I fall——He helps me up!

Bonnie White Bleak

Sorry About That

2007-04-12T23:09:00.000-06:00

SORRY ABOUT THAT

I lay no claim to inspiration
Have no message to impart
There’s no clouded information
Borne on sheathed or sharpened dart
There’s no motive to my rambling
No illusions to dehort
If I gild the pill with verses
It’s a neuter way of sport.

Some people play with checker board
And some with cards and dice
While others play win gin or dope
And some with men or mice
And then there’s viewers of the screen
Or watchers of the birds
I have a different sort of toy
I like to play with words.

And all the thoughts that come and go
Are temporary things
A tempest blowing through the mind
On swift and troubled wings
And if they dampen spirits bright
Or cloud a hope unseen
Remember its the Spring time snows
That make the grass grow green.

And if my words are barbarous
Or cramped, or crude, or dry
Unlettered muse, or harsh abuse
I have to let them fly
And if they strike a tender heart
Or cause a fool to heed ‘em
Or bring you any sort of woe
For heavens sake don’t read ‘em!

Bonnie White Bleak

Gods of Men

2007-04-09T20:51:00.001-06:00

Gods of Men

For the gods of men,
Many have there been.
For all to see
And most to believe.
And the races of man,
They have gone.
Their gods nowhere.
Now do they belong.
As the men
And their temples age
Into books
Of history pages,
The God of gods,
Looks on with eyes that see
And knows that what always was,
Shall be again.
-by Douglas Bleak-

Red Heads

2007-04-03T21:39:00.000-06:00

Red Heads

Have you listened to the stories told,
By a redheaded four year old.
The world is but a tune,
And the clouds give birth to the moon.

Yellow kittens, fierce and strong,
Are turned to baby dolls at noon.
Little fir balls, always right, never wrong,
And then the clouds give birth to the moon.

Fish and alligators, they do bite,
If little ones go near the water at night.
Snakes and bears are given lots of room,
And the clouds still give birth to the moon.

But when we lay down to rest,
Safe and warm in the parents nest.
All the tales and fears fade away,
'Til morning brings more play.

And you know I could swear,
As I climbed to bed up the stairs.
That the clouds just gave birth,
To the moon!

By -Douglas Bleak-

To You Who Would Judge

2007-04-02T20:14:00.000-06:00

TO YOU WHO WOULD JUDGE
IF--God created me from dust-—then I suppose
He bears no malice toward my lack, because
He made me as I am and knows—-
My weakness--being his-— I’m not to blame
Nor any other. WE did not choose, WE dare not claim
The glory, or the shame.
Twas HE who chose the clay and cast the mold, not I
Twas also HE.. Who deemed me fit to live or die
So if in imperfections I abound-—Look around
Are any others cast of finer clay?
I say--nay.
And dare you guess--what lies behind the clay
Of molds that differ, only in the way
The artist shook or trembled as he worked
To fashion you or I to lurk--behind a mask of clay
To play the part-—Of mice or men, and then depart.
We dare not look beyond concealing clay, lest we percieve
The purpose of imperfect form—-and misconceive
The vastness of the human mind; the shape of things to come
Or know—-which clay-—conceals a spirit
Fit——to lead the way.
I know not how or when, or what, or why
Or by what right we differ--you and I.
I only know we do-—and so, we go our way.
And let it be as it will be and trust;
Whatever price we ask—-will be the price we pay.
And it is just.
Bonnie White Bleak--1963

A Cowboy Good-Bye

2007-03-25T14:55:00.000-06:00

A Cowboy Good -Bye

We’ve made the call,
The boys are on the way
From across the high Absarokas
To the flat lands far away.
Most should be here
In just a day or two,
With stories just abustin;,
‘Bout their trails rode with you.
They’ve honored me the first shot Of tellin’ what I knew
And if I stretch the facts some,
Well you’d have done it too.
Now as people go
I’ve knowed few finer,
As straight and as true.
Na, just ain’t many the likes of you.
To none were you a master
And well, masters you had none. ‘Cept for the Big Boss,
Out beyond the sun.
You know I.
Well, I don’t rightly recall
When your door wasn’t open
From now back to when, well; I was quite small.
Seems you was always there
With open heart and hand.
To share the burdens that we bear And lift us up; to make our stand.
Now 1 know
There are horses you didn’t ride,
Fish left to grow.
You’ve left us those, and your family pride.

Now I could go on like this,
But ya see, the rest of the fellers
Are awaiten and won’t miss their chance. Some are fair story tellers.
I won’t say goodbye; just see you later,
When its my time to go; saddle up and ride.
We’ll all see you on the shore; with rod, reel and rope At the lake of the Great Divide.
-Douglas Bleak-

Hidden Trails

2007-03-25T14:52:00.000-06:00

HIDDEN TRAILS
Way beyond the Blue Horizon
Past the veiling Timber Line
Lies the country of my homeland
Mountain solitudes sublime.
From the vast and snowy ranges
Hidden trails are calling me
They are waking ancient echoes
Of a lifetime wild and free.
I can hear the voiceless whisper
Cross the burning desert sands
Through the unfamiliar forests
Over many distant lands.
The soundless voice will follow
Over land or sea or foam
And whereever I may wander
Hidden trails will call me home.
Bonnie White Bleak ;
18 Years old when this was written

The Cowboy

2007-03-23T18:54:00.000-06:00

The Cowboy

His days are filled with sunshine

The nights a pool of stars

He thinks little of television,

Airplanes, boats or cars.

He listens to the songdog’s melody

Night on every night.

His dreams are filled with pretty girls,

Faraway, out of sound and sight.

He knows the smell of saddle leather,

Pine, sage and cow.

He is a where a man, is his own,

To few if any, would he bow.

If you know one of these,

Hold his memory dear!

For many do not come along.

And most have packed up their gear.

-by Douglas Bleak-

A SOLDIER’S PRAYER FOR HOME

2007-03-23T18:48:00.000-06:00

A SOLDIER’S PRAYER FOR HOME

Way beyond the far horizon
Way beyond the timber line,
Lies the country of my homeland
Mountain solitudes sublime.
From the vast and snowy ranges
Hidden trails are calling me
Hear them waking ancient echoes
Of a lifetime--wild and free.
‘ In this wilderness of wonder
There the curse of fear is shed
Lives my heart clean as the glacires
Though my soul is steeped in blood.
Steeped in blood of many soldiers
Though I learned to call them Foe
They have stained my hand deep crimson
And that stain will never go.
In the blue and purple twilight
I can’t hear the stifled yell
Of a comrade gone to glory
From this bloody battle hell.
Way beyond the far horizon
Let me live beneath the sky
It’s a prayer— Oh God please grant it
Then I’ll more than gladly die.
Send me back into the mountain
Far to heaven goes my cry——
Send me homeward to my mountains
There I’ll more than gladly die.
Bonnie White Bleak
Written in 1942 during WWII