Confessions of an Old Punk.
Poets sling words,
Painters sling color,
Singers sling sounds,
Prophets are silent,
But listen—I sit and
Take it all in like a Pizza,
Waiting for my ride home.
Kyiv—Ancient city on the Dnieper. These river waters have flowed for more centuries then are counted in history books And will continue to flow after all the puppets have turned to dust and new trees have grown in groves by the Dnieper. Were these banks once paradise, before our ancient ones built a village here? Did an ancient shaman have visions of what would happen here? The dance of the puppets pulled by the strings of history. Warriors and chieftains, then kings and lords, tyrants and Czars, Nazis and Soviets all acting out their puppet dramas— Their strings pulled by the dark lords of power and lust, greed and fear and anger. How many times can a city of people be a battle ground? Kyiv—in the 1920’s, the Bolsheviks imposed the collectives. The collectives failed. Thousands died of hunger. Hitler’s storm troopers made Kyiv a nightmare where thousands were sent
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