The Colonel’s Teepee

~

by Rawclyde!

~

Col. Sheena Johnson

U.S. Army legend

Sets-up a teepee above Pluckame

High on the mountain ridge

~

Here she hones her arrowheads

& prays to St. Joan of Arizona

Her ex-Taliban husband Habibullah

Assists

~

Young enchantress Mamoodia

The other Sufi archer of Pluckame

Patrols

Her bow vibrant & arrows a quiver

~

Life in a Sufi bubble

Has it’s ups & downs

But mostly it floats

Miracles often occur

~

~

Sheena becomes so angelic

She sprouts wings

Every curve of her body

Softens

~

And Habibullah swears

He’s

Gone

To heaven 

~

Afghaneeland Adventure Series | Old Timer Chronicle II

~

Col. Sheena Johnson & The Ants

   by Rawclyde!

Thousands of ants

Tumble across the raggedy ground

At the feet of Col. Sheena Johnson

& her faithful hubby Habibullah

~

The couple sit cross-legged honing arrowheads of Sufi bliss

In front of the commander’s imported Native American teepee

“I’ve never seen a horde of ants like this,” says ex-Talib Habibullah

“I wonder where they are going?”

~

Elder Haji Mujadooti having trudged up the mountain-ridge trail

Stands out of breath amidst the horde of ants, tries to say something

He slaps his pants frantically, falls down, rolls around spastically

Thus disrupting the peaceful scene with idiotic old-man antics

~

Covered head to toe with angry biting ants

He heroically stands up & despite the pain he is suffering

Says to Habibulla’s infidel wife,  “Do something, Sheena!

Our courageous Afghan soldiers are dying below!”

~

~

Ahhh!

The commander knows Afghanistan

She knows Taliban & she knows ants too

She arises

~

The empress of the Afghaneeland village of Pluckame

Pulls Haji Mujadooti out of the jam in which he stands

“Darling husband, please tend to this poor wise man”

Habibullah smiles, arises & does as bidden

~

Barefoot, Sheena steps into the rapidly moving horde of angry ants

Not one lousy insect crawls onto one toe of the formidable goddess

She stands erect as the Rock of Gibraltar & prays to St. Joan of Arizona

Who in a distant land relays the message to heaven

~

And by God, Sheena’s Sufi bow materializes in her held out hand

Sufi armor crackles sparsely here & there on her outrageously perfect body

She picks up a freshly cut & carved & honed world-peace arrow

Fits it to the bow string, aims, shuts her eyes, let’s it go

~

The cosmic forces of the universe gather upon the arrowhead point

Thrust forward into the oblivion of every Taliban brain below

Capt’n Chuck Fiddler’s Afghaneeland Sufi Bubble

& divine revelations explode!!! 

~

Suddenly beyond anybody’s wildest expectation

There are no more Taliban in the tumultuous nation of Afghanistan

The insurgents have transformed into the silliest looking little ants ever seen

All carrying rifles tinier than toothpicks

~

Pvt. Ghani Gandhara gut-shot and breathing his last breath

Picks up one of these purple insects on the end of his thumb & smiles

The Afghan National Army defending the nation’s new democracy shall prevail

Pvt. Gandhara leaps beyond the veil… 

~

Text / Copyright Clyde Collins 2014

~

Col. Sheena Johnson at the helm of

Capt’n Chuck Fiddler’s Afghaneeland Sufi Bubble

~

Afghaneeland Adventure Series | Old Timer Chronicle II

~

The Unhappy Fate of Old Rhino Hate

~

One noon day

I was sitting at

my table

eating my meal

~

A bowl full of

moon and

star and little girl

heart vibrations

~

When from out of

no where ~ maybe

from behind a

rock

~

There hobnobbed

up

to

me

~

An old rhino

with

a bad back

a bad liver

~

But with

the most superior

mind

in the world

~

In his hand

was a

glass full of

black ink

~

In the ink

there were a

thousand bugs

all screaming

~

As they drowned

“Hate!

 Hate!

   Hate!”

~

The old rhino

roughly

set this glass down

on my table

~

Next to my bowl

and

he said

“Eat it, kid”

~

My lip

quivered I’m sure

and my eyes

went round

~

As I peered

into this glass

then my bowl

then the glass again

~

I took a

lonnnnnnng

look at this fat

old rhino

~

With a glint in

his eye

cold as the deepest

part of the ocean

~

He picked up

his glass

slammed it down

on my table

~

He said again

“Eat it, kid”

and the thousand

shrill little bugs

~

As they drowned

in the ink of

the glass

continued to scream

~

“Hate!

  Hate!

    Hate!”

good background music

~

I tried to

ignore the old

beast and

his glass of ink

~

I continued to

eat from

my own bowl

of

~

Moon

and star

and little girl

heart vibrations

~

But this

this beast under the

noon sun

would not go away

~

Continued to say

“Eat

   it,

    kid”

~

And you know

what

the bugs

were screaming

~

Into the

cold gray ocean

in the old rhino’s

eye

~

I looked again

tried a grin

gave my bowl a spin

said, “Try mine!”

~

He blushed purple

huffed & huffed

shook his head negatively

and repeated

~

As he pointed to his glass

“Eat

   it,

    kid”

~

I tried to

spit

in his eye but

missed, hit

~

The horn on his head

instead

and said

“No thanks”

~

He wiped the spittle

off his horn with

his tongue

gritted with a squint

~

“It doesn’t taste

very good

but it will keep

you alive”

~

Then he banged

his glass on my table

knocked my bowl

to the ground

~

Did a somersault

jumped up and down

began to

look too tough

~

So

I

said

“That’s enough”

~

Yours truly

grabbed the glass

drank the ink

all the bugs

~

That were screaming

“Hate!

  Hate!

    Hate!”

~

Old Rhino smiled at me

as if we were now

the best of comrades

true and stout

~

I smiled too

pulled out a gun

aimed it at

his head

~

His smile faded fast

and boom

he

was dead.

~

Rawclyde!

~

Colt Python

~

Sept 11

~

SOUTHWESTERN REPERCUSSION
Cloyd Campfire

Thee atilt guru, who was admired by so many furious folks upon the streets of the Third World lands, slung-shot a rather heavy stone into a distant bedazzling pond.

Davy Crockett reincarnated, sauntering thru the day-room that morning, couldn’t help but note the bewildered look upon the faces of the patriots stretched-out infront of the post-modern campfire plugged into the wall of instant news.

T’was their pond. Two of the tallest skyscrapers around ~ collapsed. Thousands died. And ripples of sorrow, anger, and high-tech vengeance began to move across and beyond the pond. And these fragrant pond water ripples expanded around our ancient space ship ~ Earth.

And then, and thennnnnnn, bombs begun falling all around Osama bin Laden, thee atilt guru of today’s and tomorrow’s yore.

Davy Crockett, yes, reincarnated, who in this budding 21st Century was an unemployed homeless man, somewhat confused by these ricocheting ripples that had slapped upon the shores of his sleep-walking dreams, didn’t know what to do, so he watched the tube & read the paper, and finally kicked a can. The airborne tin smacked Sammy Sidhartha, a Budhist amongst us, up the side of his head.

And Sidhartha replied, “Behind a very valid and pretty pertinent assertion are centuries of cumulative Budhist insight into the relationship between the individual and the cosmos.”

“Yes, yes,” intellectually prodded Crockett. “And that assertion is?”

Sidhartha continued, “It’s just that errors in the realm of religion invite disasters in the external world. For example, embracing one creed rather than another can result in earthquakes and epidemics.”

Crockett scratched his head vigorously. “Sounds like superstition to me.”

“That’s because you’re an occidental oxymoron.” Sidhartha smiled benignly. “Another way of putting it is ~ your smallest remark, your slightest move can have undreamed of consequences.”

“Such as my kicking the can and it accidently hitting you up side of your head?” inserted Crockett.

“Exactly!” punctuated Sidhartha.

“But what about Osama bin Laden?”

“What about him?”

“He’s had quite an effect.”

“And so can you!” concluded Sidhartha. He staggered slightly from the blow of the can, straightened up, and went back to his chores.

Davy was left slightly dazed by this information so generously expelled by his fellow patriot, who was also homeless. The wisdoms exuded by this new found info, slipped like smoke through the mesh of Davy’s brain ~ ’til his initial dazementality transformationed into a brand new day between his ears ~ a clear day in which he could see forever. This broad landscape behind Davy’s eyes, which incidently became more n’ more gooey bright as his triggered intellect rapidly evolved, this broad landscape more n’ more resembled the Sonoran Desert ~ and Davy construed out of a certain memory a newly discovered truth.

Yes! The memory of a coyote in a thick winter coat trotting by Davy’s truck, which was parked by a dry-wash in the middle of a desert no-where one crisp morning, this coyote’s momentary appearance upon the scene, now, many moons later, made Bin Laden’s murderous antics less affecting than ~ than an ant!

~

http://crockettreincarnated.yolasite.com

~

The Sheena Vision

U.S. Army officers, Afghan village elder & citizens a few years ago

~

by Capt’n Chuck Fiddler

2014

~

My visionary blue print for Afghanistan

An architectural triumph of much down & dirty brooding

With Sufi flare & Hindu scare is ready now

To provide for ye people a future glowing growing & secure

~

~

Unfortunately the Taliban are still unruly & hostile

With an Al Qaeda sense of Wahabi blood-lust & overkill

Not just toward me but everybody like me

Not just here but across this nation’s borders as well

~

~

But with the imprint of Col. Sheena Johnson’s footprint

Upon the land high low & lightly wherever she go

I am able to present to you this enchanting vision

Of Afghanistan democracy meant to be & totally free

~

~

What the Taliban sons of this awesome nation gots to do

Is lighten up, stop being so tense & mellow out

All this blatant killing has got to go

So Habibullah & Sheena can slow dance in the moon glow

~

~

I want you all to sing scooby dooby dooo

Won’t you all bring some scooby dooby dooooo

Jus’ fling some scooby dooby dooooooo

Col. Sheena Johnson of the U.S. Army loves youuuuuuu!

~

~

Afghaneeland

~