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The Territory of the Little People - Storm Clouds Approaching

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  The Territory of the Little People - Storm Clouds Approaching The atmosphere over Pine Creek churns before it breaks. The sky stops being a distant ceiling, and tears open into a fevered, gestural vortex, churning in fierce ribbons of cadmium gold, raw ember, and bruised ink. Here, in the suffocating stillness of the build-up, the heat plays violent tricks on my inner eye. As the squall gathers, the twisting ironwoods and fractured ridges don't feel empty; they crawl with the uncanny belief of the Little People, low-slung, watchful phantoms spun from wire, red dust, and dry static, waiting out the road's fragility. Every jagged branch and swirling filament of cloud becomes a face, an arm, a sinister presence breathing inside the rising storm, drawing the traveller deeper into the delirium of the interior. Be Creative and Innovative with Knowledge John Bennett - AKA JJFBbennett , is an independent artist. You can view and subscribe to my work via  Blogger , YouTube , Fl...
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Godin Defence: Why can't everything just stay the same?

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Life promised so much but little favour came my way.
And over this vista of nothingness I claimed what is mine.
I waited for all of the promises and yet none did come.
Others more fortunate gained splendor, but splendor was not me.
And I gained self respect on other's misfortune.
But your misfortune is not of my concern.
Count your blessings and rot in your tragedy.
Yes it will end in tears should you trespass my den.

I do not travel,  my miracle is here.
I remained close to my heritage.
This colonial might.
This is God's country, he gave it to me.
I will deny you entry.
You are contagion, you are far less than me.

There are trees in my backyard, insects and lizards.
Rodents scamper at my feet and bats by my ears.
My dog is obedient.
In silence we sit.
Impatient and anxious , I do not want change.
In dark moments I tend to my spite.
With bottle in hand I seek like-minded.

A good  man I have been.
I have done no wrong.
My house is clean.
My garden is tendered.
My lawn is mowed.
My animals are fed.
My hatred is strong.

This is my patch, it's where I belong.
This is my home, you are not welcome.
This is my country and I trust no other.
Why can't everything just stay the same?

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