For Joseph

Thinking that my garden was as disheveled as a Grateful Dead jam, I suddenly felt the urge to break into one.  Reminds me of Saturday night at Headwind House.  

Country Garden Jam

It was the eve of August 9th, in the year 2013.
The air was hanging heavy and the sky was lookin' mean
The clouds began a-swirlin like the smoke from God's cigar
And the windows of the heavens opened up on Waldo scar

A year before a wildfire raged and scoured the canyon clean
And weather folks warned Manitou of a dire and desperate scene
Up til that time there'd been flash floods that washed away some cars
But nothing like the eve of August 9th on Waldo's scar.

An inch or two of rain poured down on Colorado Springs
And up Ute Pass it roared like 50,000 eagles wings
When suddenly down Williams Canyon all the rain that fell
Came a raging flood and a wall of mud that could only come from hell. 

And poor John Collins, I only heard his name next day
As the papers told the tale
Of the only man not to escape 
The canyon's deadly swale.

The comments said John Collin was the kindest man they knew
And the picture of him looked like he belonged in Manitou
His home was up in Teller where the forests clearly show
The devastation from the Hayman fire eleven years ago.

He made his living in cement, but gardens were his art
At Christmas he was Santa for the kids in Woodland Park
They said he was a teddy bear who was known to volunteer.
But August 9th he first became the worst of everybody's fears.

The canyon flood and the wall of mud took homes and stores and cars
And Manitou she took the wrath of Waldo Canyon's scars
Five thousand lives were changed that day, the town they swore to mend
But only poor John Collins was to meet his fated end.

And poor John Collins, I only heard his name next day
As the papers told the tale
Of the only man not to escape
The canyon's deadly swale. 

The townsfolk and the cityfolk with shovels all in hand
Arrived next day in droves to sweep the mud off from the land
Brave Manitou and all her crew would not be taken down
From the deluge and the wall of mud that threatened to her drown. 

The cars were lined for miles backed up along Rt. 24
With shovels first and drinks for thirst the workers they did pour
They bent their back and gave their sweat and when the day was through
The spir't of life returned anew to the town of Manitou.

The restaurants and music shops, the churches and boutiques
Will open soon and the town will boom within the coming weeks
Life will return to normal to the town of Manitou.
And the name of poor John Collins will be known to but a few.

And poor John Collins, I only heard his name next day
As the papers told the tale
Of the only man to perish in
The canyon's deadly swale.

Poor John Collins (The Ballad Of The Manitou Springs Floods of 2013)

Bikers get a bad rap in this country. 
For decades, bikers were deemed "bad to the bone", 
A breed of outlaw unto themselves, 
20th century Boot Hill gang determined to see you and me
As nothing more than broken lines in the pavement.

But after some careful observance, I have changed my tune.
Bikers are by and large what is great and wonderful about America.
They are not young punks...those are out driving the SUV's 
Their suburban rich daddies bought for them to bribe them
To finish High School.

The average biker I encounter is between 50 and 60
Every one of them sports an American flag, either on their hog
Or on their denim or leather...or more likely both. 
They are not the ones texting at the red lights, 
Or sporting noise-cancelling Boze phones
And jutting their fat suburban butts straight into the intersection
Where an EMR is frantically trying to get to another fallen biker.

The bikers are first at the fires, first at the floods
They are the first to defend your faith, even if they don't share it
Or defend your guns, even if they don't own one.
For years we saw bikers as rebels, outlaws and miscreants.
But they indeed are the truest of patriots.

They will defend your right to speak your peace
Even if it's to badmouth their beloved country
But know this if you do, while one hand is raised to defend your rights
The other is squarely in your face. By the millions. 


The Two Million Biker Ride To D.C.

Cover - The Animals - House Of The Rising Sun

Melodia Per Una Notte Triste

We Choose The Fear Of The Lord - Cover - Maranatha Singers

Bryce 2010

Written in 1976 upon the occasion of being called an anti-semite because I did not subscribe to the prevailing Christian dispensational eschatology concerning the nation of Israel. Yeah, I know...a lot of big theological words.  

The Two Million Biker Ride To D.C.

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