Mike's Playlist

Vocals & lyrics by Alani Keiser
Lead guitar by Shaun Berry
Recorded & produced by Gloryvale Studios - Edenvale (Mike Wright)


Sweet Surrender

http://allpoetry.com/poem/11785983-Accused-by-beautifulblade
Slam poetry- accused
False accusation of rape

Accused

first time ever writing/recording slam. 
forgive the southern accent. 

You're No Superman

http://allpoetry.com/poem/11824622-To-anyone-who-doesnt-think-theyre-beautiful-by-beautifulblade 

music credit:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3H4y5vIxw4c

*To anyone who doesn't think they're beautiful*

"Take Flight" by Cynthia Sharp, with Nicole Scoffield on viola. 

Take Flight

Poem at Seadrift Texas United States of America

Aww How Sweet & Beautiful by Mike Mercer

Blind Luck on the Milk River Ridge

Come gather around compadres, 
this story will unfold
of horse thief moons and rifle fire 
and blood that was spilt cold.
Ride back through windswept coulees 
and the hoodoos of my mind
to that ol' Milk River Ridge 
and the year of '69.

Once you ride north of the border, 
just past the Sweet Grass Hills,
the prairies level off to where 
the Milky water spills.
That ridge belonged to the Blackfoot, 
the coyotes and the Sioux
and though it was a stately place 
I was simply ridin' through.

I bought supplies at Fort Benton, 
then rode north of Forty Nine
to trap for beaver and for mink 
across the Medicine Line.
From Montana to the Queen's Land 
the whisky trade prevailed;
the law was yours to make or break 
along the Whoop Up Trail.

Ol' Blue and I would read the sky 
and ride on through the night;
come morning's sun we'd sit by gun, 
well hidden out of sight.
For the Blackfoot were stirring, 
fuelled up with firewater,
seeking to revenge the death 
of White Crow's only daughter.

The girl was just a youngun, 
how awful she must have felt
when the whisky trader bought her 
for just a few wolf pelts.
The word was he gave her liquor 
he'd laced with turpentine,
then he forced himself upon her 
- that evil, heartless swine!

The young woman violated, 
the poison took its toll,
the heavens cried for mercy 
as they gathered in her soul.
White Crow soon went on the warpath, 
now lusting for the death
of any fool that ventured there 
and breathed a white man's breath.

I had hid out in the hoodoos, 
amongst the rattler dens
with ancient paintings on the walls 
that spoke of ancient men.
The sun was high above me 
as I looked down at the post
when suddenly I heard the screams 
from fifty feathered ghosts.

The trader was the first man killed, 
a bullet 'tween the eyes,
then sev'ral others at his post 
were shot and left to die.
I saw their lifeblood stain the grass 
exactly where they fell,
I tell you boys, from where I hid, 
I felt the fires of hell.

Then from the post I saw him run, 
a lad of maybe ten
and from my perch I heard him shout 
and then silence again. 
He held a Sharps to his shoulder 
and sighted on the chief;
as White Crow fell, forty-nine men
stood there in disbelief.

The boy pressed on and his rifle fire 
caught a few more unaware.
Was then I quickly signed the cross 
- said myself a prayer.
I hopped on Blue and down we flew 
into the devil's maw,
where painted warriors sat their horses 
silently in awe.

Strike me up a match, amigo, 
I'll try to set the scene.
His eyes were round as silver coins 
and bore a silver sheen.
I was as young as you then, friend, 
a lit stick of dynamite,
but my God, to tell this story 
chills my heart with fright.

That boy was blind, he could not see, 
yet he aimed unerring.
The Bloods could not conceive this 
so they just sat there staring.
I reached the lad, then things went bad 
when Blue stepped in a hole;
and down I went, my luck all spent 
I fell beside my goal.

In all my days I can't recall 
anything quite so queer.
Those Blackfoot were a hard-boiled lot, 
but still I sensed their fear.
I told the boy "keep on firin'!"
- myself, I did the same;
it wasn't long before them Bloods 
had given up the game!

There's a moral to this story, 
though subtle, it's holds true.
If you're heading into trouble, boys, 
just keep on ridin' through.
But if you stop to poke the bear 
be sure to light out quick;
'else you best have thunder and lightning
at the business end of your stick!


Blind Luck on the Milk River Ridge

The Evolution of a Cowboy

There's scientific evidence,
and mostly it rings true,
of how we moved from apes to men
or even to apes from shrew.
But sit a minute and ponder;
while this holds up for you,
look at your ol' travelling partner -
did he evolve that way too?

His gait is offside and wobbly
like a sailor back from sea,
but astride the rankest pony known
he's straight as he could be.
He sits the saddle so upright
so confident...care free.
Glued there like a tick on a hound -
he mighta evolved from a flea!

The fingers on his rightside hand
don't match the ones across.
He's felt the bite of the dally
but he don't notice the loss.
To point he just spits his tobacco,
his eight teeth he need not floss.
When counting he just uses his feet -
he mighta evolved from a hoss!

His speech is limited to utterance,
half mumble and half drawl.
He signs bad checks to pay his fees
with barely an X to scrawl.
I've seen him dragged from beer gardens
unable to walk or crawl.
So when it comes to Darwin's theory
I don't think he evolved at all!


by Rory Duce on February 13, 2016
© Rory Duce, All rights reserved

The Evolution of a Cowboy

Text:
http://dissidentvoice.org/2016/04/let-it-be/

Let It Be

Do You Believe

Experimental Word Art from Award-Winning Poet, M. D. Friedman

Inside Deliberation

I am a poet first and all else second, I have worked in radio, wrestling announcing and commentary, race announcing, and currently host a poetry open mic in the Denver Metro area

Do You Believe

J Todd Underhill

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