Death Awaits

The rumor is death awaits.

I’d like permission to be late.

They say it’s everyone’s fate.

But I refuse to participate.

I’ll be happy to wait.

Saint Peter can close the gate.

You see I’m not an advocate.

And I will delegate those traits.

No need to investigate.

Or demonstrate.

I hope this resonates.

I would like to illuminate my death date.

So, let that end all debate.



The God Enzyme

If heaven is the mission.

Give a listen.

Talking to God will make you glisten.

Talking about his grace,

Will make your heart race.

And put a smile on your face.

Enjoy His precious fleeting moment.

And giving him praise.

Will fill your days.

And change your ways.

So, don’t waste time.

Get the God enzyme.

It’s a divine rhyme for thine.



A Magical Tale

The old guy said, I have no destination or time restraints.

I’m just along for the ride.

You see soon I’ll be out of this life.

Time has no hold on me.

The journey is the kite.

And I’m the flight.

You see I mattered not.

My family denies I exist.

I let that worry me for years.

But I got rid of those fears.

My family now is the dead.

Yep, that’s what I said.

I call them a family of love.

That float down from above.

The dead come around.

Talk to me when I’m down.

Some even act like clowns.

They are my angels, and they sing and dance.

Some are even from France.  Some even prance.

Why, I’ve met dead rock stars and dead Presidents.

Even ancient Gods and ascended ones.

They let me in on the mysteries of life.

And help me eliminate strife.

I never get bored.

In fact, I’m adored.

They light my path.

And never let me down.

They make me believe in love.

And that I’m enough.

My life is full and happy.

So, sit a talk a spell.

And I’ll spin you a tale.

A tale of hope.

A tale of some sailing Spirits.

It’s a magical tale.

And I tell very, very well.



Try Not to Worry

At what point did I lose me?

How could I have been so blind?

Blind?  Stupid, would be more accurate.

Then, I continued to deny what my eyes were seeing.

You played me for a fool.

And I let you. 

What you didn’t see was I didn’t give a fuck.

About what you did.

As long as you left me in peace.

But still, you must think me the biggest idiot on earth.

Which makes me laugh.

Because now you’re someone else’s bad dream.

And I find comfort in that reality.

But I won’t forget bitches! 

Let me say that with malice of heart.

To both of you.

One day when you least expect it.

I will insist upon the truth.

From both of you.

And if you speak the truth.

I may show mercy.

To  you or both of you.

But I have my doubts about being able too.

Until we meet again.

Try not to worry.

I’m in no hurry.



The Undone Ones

Add one, then subtract one. You get three.

I can’t prove it. Can’t you see.   

And so rightfully, frightfully, called new and improved.

That’s me.

I’m a model A or a model T or I could be a model X.

What’s in a name?  A number.  What’s in a number.

The answers to secret questions no one speaks of.

The secret alphabet of illusion.  Alphabet soup for the foolish.

An endless loop of loop the fate.

A leap of faith.  Two lumps of hope.  Add Crystals of hope to help you cope.

Cope with  the dope. Cope with  Pope. 

A rough diamond of hope. 

A new code of hope.  To help you cope.  Dope of hope.

The drug of the shining bright ones.

The undone ones.   The crazy like me of course.



Shack Attack Back an Act

Attract what you fact.

And that’s a tack.

Stuck under the thumb rack.

Let’s make a pact.

To attract and attack.

The lack of fact.

To Sack the Rack of Lack.

Mack, pack, and stack the color of love without flack.

Crack the egg of attract.

And subtract the hate that tracks.

And sidetrack the tact.

Hey just say get back jack.

I know the yak.

TAK a shacked attack.

Mirror the hack.

Just a crack.

And you will give the learned a knack.

From fiction to truth bak.





While look for my merry.

I found a shake topped with a cherry.

So, I took the ferry.

To the dairy.

Opinions may vary.

But it was very scary.

You see she wanted to marry.

Oh, contrary.

She announced I would be primary.

But here I sit at the library.

As I read all about berries.

Or is all this imaginary.

You think that extraordinary?

A bit reactionary.

While I check my itinery.

I’ll head to the apothecary.

But I found my merry unmarried Mary.

How necessary that unitary.



Letter Writers Selling news
Tell all the people that you see
Follow me
Tell all the people that you see
Follow me down. It’s free.

Walk Away

Blacklist me.  

Walk Away.

Curse me.      

Walk Away.

Bully me.          

Walk Away.

Evict me.          

Walk Away.

Analyze me.      

Walk Away.

Materialize me.

Walk Away.

Number me.      

Walk Away.

Restrain me.

Walk Away.

Mask me.

Walk away.

Distance me.

Walk away.

Lie to me.

Walk away.

Limit me.

Walk away.

Destroy me.

Walk away.

Anger me.

Walk away.

Leave me.

Walk away.

Walk away.

Walk the other way.

Threaten me.

 I Walk your way.



Gonna 86 It

We Gonna fix or we Gonna eight six

They call me Trixie, or they call me Dixie.

I call tricksy.

The Guilty dog always points first.

So, we Gonna fix or we Gonna eight six.

Then sing Dixie.

This 76er is riding with you Hick sirs.

The huskers and shuckers

WE got yo back.

Not cutting’ any slack Jack.

So, get in back cuz.

WE all ways be with u bruh.

Cuz we are spinning’ or spun’

Or totting’ a gun just for fun

You understand cuz’ but we’se still be prayin and sayin blessings.

We got this Dad.

We been waitin propagating’.

Not just Satan.

But on you too.

We can dig on some peace and love Dog.

We Gonna fix or we Gonna 86.



Waiting, Waiting

Waiting, Waiting


A theory about fating.

While others are baiting.

I keep waiting, waiting.

Others seem to have found the Gating.

But to my surprise they are not celebrating.

Waiting, waiting.

That empty feeling of not rating.

I think I’ve found it but it’s abating.

Time can be terminating.

Waiting, waiting.

Its, frustrating, grating.

While I try conflating and mating.

The world keeps dictating.

But there words need translating.

This constant debating.

I need to get on with consummating.

 I will try arbitrating.

This waiting, waiting.



Torre, Torre, Torre

Let me spin you a yarn.

 And at the end you will say darn.

Truth is of what I speak.

 A tribute to Joseph Torre I do seek.

What I found was a satori.

Spiritual awakenings can lead to glory.

Joe  a Brave Cardinal manager for them Bombers.

He called the Angels.  Met the Mets.

Managed to not to dodge the Dodgers.

Hall of Fame.  A baseball executive in his own elite category.

Joseph Paul Torre that’s amore.

How could I ever forget 1996. I wish my mind would go  blank.

Because James Joseph Leyritz made bank.  He put my Braves in the tank.

Born December 27 on my birthday.  Wohler’s pitch he did yank.

Because the Joseph’s it seems had us outflanked.

Enough Joe’s and woes. After all it was the Show.

 Let, this be a tribute to Joseph Torre.  Aka Frank. Born Frank Joseph Torre.

He should have been a Yank.  Think Frank. From Brooklyn, NY.

Playing first base number 14 Frank “the Yank” Torre.

Gold glover in his own right.  His story warmed our soul, as my heart sank.

Let’s not forget brother Rocco.  No Joe in this Torre that I know.

So that’s the baseball  Torre’s and All-American Bordeaux.

Thanks,  Joe for the memories! 



Why Cardinals dealt Orlando Cepeda for Joe Torre

For such a straightforward deal, the trade of Joe Torre to the Cardinals for Orlando Cepeda took some twists and turns involving pitcher Nolan Ryan and center fielder Curt Flood.

On March 17, 1969, the Cardinals sent Cepeda to the Braves for Torre in a swap of first basemen.

The Braves were shopping Torre because he was feuding with general manager Paul Richards and hadn’t signed a contract. Most thought Torre would go to the Mets, who’d been in trade talks with the Braves for several weeks.

The Mets offered pitcher Nolan Ryan, first baseman Ed Kranepool, infielder Bob Heise and a choice of catchers, J.C. Martin or Duffy Dyer, for Torre and third baseman Bob Aspromonte, The Sporting News reported. Torre and Aspromonte were Brooklyn natives.

Ryan, who would become baseball’s all-time leader in strikeouts, impressed the Braves but was a raw talent. Richards rejected the four-for-two proposal because he wanted catcher Jerry Grote or outfielder Amos Otis, but the Mets “labeled them untouchables,” according to Atlanta Constitution sports editor Jesse Outlar.

“We aren’t making a deal with the Mets unless they change their minds,” Richards said.

When the Mets wouldn’t budge, the Braves offered Torre to the Dodgers for catcher Tom Haller, but the Dodgers weren’t interested, the Constitution reported.

Cardinals general manager Bing Devine offered Cepeda and Flood for Torre and outfielder Felipe Alou, according to the Constitution, but Richards wouldn’t trade Alou, so the clubs settled on Cepeda for Torre. Seven months later, when the Cardinals traded Flood to the Phillies, he refused to report, prompting his legal challenge of the reserve clause and opening a path to the creation of free agency.

Cepeda feels chill

The Cardinals were willing to trade Cepeda because his performance declined in 1968 and he miffed management by reporting late to spring training in 1969.

After batting .325 with 111 RBI and winning the National League Most Valuable Player Award with the Cardinals in 1967, Cepeda hit .248 with 73 RBI in 1968.

Cepeda “found himself taken advantage of by well-wishing friends who helped him pile up debts and other problems that didn’t endear him to the Redbirds management … especially when at times he’d duck out of the dugout between innings to conduct personal matters,” Bob Broeg of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch reported.

The Cardinals hoped Cepeda would be more focused in 1969, but he informed Devine by telegram he would report late to spring training.

When Cepeda arrived at camp on March 5, he said he’d been sick, but Devine fined him $250 for reporting 48 hours later than he said he would.

Cepeda said he detected “a coolness” from Devine, and Broeg reported “Cepeda realized there had been a change in attitude toward him.”

“Bing was not terribly friendly, and he was all business,” Cepeda said in his 1998 book “Baby Bull.”

In his 2004 book “The Memoirs of Bing Devine,” Devine said, “I thought Cepeda might be on the way down.”

I almost forgot sir.  If they ever make another movie about the Joes.

Remember the name Joseph Pierre Torry from St. Louis, Missouri.

He’s in a Hall of Fame too!  That concludes my Poetic Justice for number Six.

Ironically, Cha Cha Cepeda played parts of six years for the Braves.

And to think we could have had the Ryan Express. Sorry.

And your reckoning continued in 1999 to sweep up another crown.

Foolish Fool

I can’t stop loving you.

You foolish fool.

I can’t stop loving me.

You foolish fool.

I can’t stop loving.

You foolish fool.

I can’t stop living.

You foolish fool.

I can’t stop dying.

You foolish fool.

I can’t the sun from going down.

You foolish fool.

I can’t stop anything.

You foolish fool.

I can’t stop searching.

You foolish fool.

I can’t find kindness.

You foolish fool.

I can’t stop destruction.

You foolish fool.

I can’t stop the other thought.

You foolish fool.

I can stop two though.

You, foolish, foolish, foolish,

Other you.



Welcome to the Block

Hi, welcome to the Pearly Gates.

My name is Saint Peter and I’ll be your guide.

And who might you be?

I’m P (coughs).  Holds up book in hand and points.

Hmm. Hayes.  Yes, here we are a writer. Touché.

Purplehayes58.  A pen name I presume.  Let me see.

Says here died of writers block. Suicide.  So sad.  Is that correct.

No sir it was Writers Glock.  Not block.  I was worried about block.

But it seems I contracted lock first.  Let me tell you, all I could do was write.

Which was awesome for about a month.  Then it went into writers dock.

My ship finally came in and docked.  And the writing continued.

As my symptoms worsened it lead to something call Writers Mock.

I started to resent other writers and started to mock them.  One thing led to another.

Before you know it, I was back in Writers Mental Hospital Block.

Social distancing was non-existent, and I caught another block. Rock block for writers only.

It’s genetic or in my DNA.  So, I had the rock block blues.  But I was a rocking, writing machine gun block.

Other writers were envious and jealous.  They were always trying to steal my journal.

Talking behind my back and plotting against me.  One accused me of plagiarism so I Knocked His Block off.

Violence is never the answer.  I knew that but ego got in my eyes.  From then on, I tried to stop writing but the flow was always there. 

One of the writers had a gun snuck in to him.  He came to my room and shot me with a Glock Block.

Which led me here to you St Peter and the Pearly Gates. 

Sad, so sad.  People never cease to amaze.  But I think you’ll be happy here.  And I welcome you to Heaven.  Here the only block you will get is called Flock Block.  But right now, you’re showing symptoms of Dead writers Lock Block and a mild case of Dead Writers Heart Lock.

You may pass and the next door be sure to Knock, Knock so you won’t get Jock Block.

Good luck and remember from now on you have Off the Clock Writers Block.  Relax and enjoy so you won’t get Writers Squawk Block.  It’s just surfaced the Block that Writers Cuckoo Clock He’s a Writing Peacock Block. Welcome to the Block. Try not to Block.

Damn this is a WordPress Block. That’s funny I don’t care who you are fellow posters.

Purplehaze Block