Patricia Harris-
Patricia Harris is a dreamer, crafter, gamer and digital artist who loves creativity in life. A half mad poet, her writing is found all over social media and various other websites. She is a devoted mom who can be found doing a variety of art when she isn’t penning poetry and writing words. She is owner of the indie publishing company Fae Corps publishing. For more from Patricia, check out www.Facebook.com/mouseypoet or pattimouse.blog
And for a reading list of her books go to https://books2read.com/rl/PatriciaHarris
And as Serena Mossgraves -
Serena Mossgraves is a twisted faery with a love of gothic settings and an urge to scare. She’s constantly on the prowl for new ways to twist old stories into dark tales that excite and terrify. If you’re also drawn to nightmares, come visit Serena on Facebook at www.facebook.com/serenitysfall Or check out her reading list at https://books2read.com/rl/serenamossgraves
I am fairly sure I have a sinus infection. I say that because I seem to be doing nothing but sleep for the last week. I am going to be doing the week schedule for the blog…but I’m usually more busy with social media and I don’t want to be missed. I am hoping to get over this quickly.
So I have not touched on this before…And it comes up every so often. I have an aunt who did my maternal family tree all the way back to 500 AD. She did it before the internet was a place.
So I have a fascination with my ancestors.
I only have vague information about both sides (as I was not allowed to see the huge tree. )
I found myself contacted on ancestry by a cousin on my father’s side. She invited me to a Facebook group for a common ancestor who came over to the Americas in 1647. I also have been told that I am an eighth Cherokee on my father’s side.
I know I am a mixing pot of cultures. The families come from all over the place. (well mostly European, lol) But I know that there’s English, German, indigenous, Norse, French, Irish, and a few more I am not sure about.
I have been thinking about doing one of the various DNA tests but I am not sure if it is safe to do it.
Let America be America again. Let it be the dream it used to be. Let it be the pioneer on the plain Seeking a home where he himself is free.
(America never was America to me.)
Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed— Let it be that great strong land of love Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme That any man be crushed by one above.
(It never was America to me.)
O, let my land be a land where Liberty Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath, But opportunity is real, and life is free, Equality is in the air we breathe.
(There’s never been equality for me, Nor freedom in this “homeland of the free.”)
Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark? And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?
I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart, I am the Negro bearing slavery’s scars. I am the red man driven from the land, I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek— And finding only the same old stupid plan Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.
I am the young man, full of strength and hope, Tangled in that ancient endless chain Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land! Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need! Of work the men! Of take the pay! Of owning everything for one’s own greed!
I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil. I am the worker sold to the machine. I am the Negro, servant to you all. I am the people, humble, hungry, mean— Hungry yet today despite the dream. Beaten yet today—O, Pioneers! I am the man who never got ahead, The poorest worker bartered through the years.
Yet I’m the one who dreamt our basic dream In the Old World while still a serf of kings, Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true, That even yet its mighty daring sings In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned That’s made America the land it has become. O, I’m the man who sailed those early seas In search of what I meant to be my home— For I’m the one who left dark Ireland’s shore, And Poland’s plain, and England’s grassy lea, And torn from Black Africa’s strand I came To build a “homeland of the free.”
The free?
Who said the free? Not me? Surely not me? The millions on relief today? The millions shot down when we strike? The millions who have nothing for our pay? For all the dreams we’ve dreamed And all the songs we’ve sung And all the hopes we’ve held And all the flags we’ve hung, The millions who have nothing for our pay— Except the dream that’s almost dead today.
O, let America be America again— The land that never has been yet— And yet must be—the land whereeveryman is free. The land that’s mine—the poor man’s, Indian’s, Negro’s, ME— Who made America, Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain, Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain, Must bring back our mighty dream again.
Sure, call me any ugly name you choose— The steel of freedom does not stain. From those who live like leeches on the people’s lives, We must take back our land again, America!
O, yes, I say it plain, America never was America to me, And yet I swear this oath— America will be!
Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death, The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies, We, the people, must redeem The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers. The mountains and the endless plain— All, all the stretch of these great green states— And make America again!
Today this feels like the statement that needs to be made. we are looking at An America taking steps backward instead of growing. I am descent from the men and women who walked this land before the USA existed….and I am ashamed of what it has become.
Born down in a dead man’s town The first kick I took was when I hit the ground You end up like a dog that’s been beat too much Till you spend half your life just covering up
Born in the U.S.A. I was born in the U.S.A. I was born in the U.S.A. Born in the U.S.A.
Got in a little hometown jam So they put a rifle in my hand Sent me off to a foreign land To go and kill the yellow man
Born in the U.S.A. I was born in the U.S.A. I was born in the U.S.A. I was born in the U.S.A. Born in the U.S.A.
Come back home to the refinery Hiring man says “Son if it was up to me” Went down to see my V.A. man He said “Son, don’t you understand”
I had a brother at Khe Sanh fighting off the Viet Cong They’re still there, he’s all gone
He had a woman he loved in Saigon I got a picture of him in her arms now
Down in the shadow of the penitentiary Out by the gas fires of the refinery I’m ten years burning down the road Nowhere to run ain’t got nowhere to go
Born in the U.S.A. I was born in the U.S.A. Born in the U.S.A. I’m a long gone Daddy in the U.S.A. Born in the U.S.A. Born in the U.S.A. Born in the U.S.A. I’m a cool rocking Daddy in the U.S.A.
My 2 cents –
This is one of the most misunderstood songs. I have heard quite a few people lately asking about protest songs, And I can probably do that and nothing else for years, as music is good for expressing reality in a manageable way. So many people see this as a patriotic song…I see it as a lament. Perhaps the antiwar songs will be making my blog more in the future…after all I fear that is the direction that the US is going.
I find myself introspective a lot more lately. I am going through my computer files and transferring stuff from my phone. I have been trying to clean up the duplicates and sort and organize it.
I am finding myself amazed by the sheer volume of files. They are pictures of my poetry and art I have made. I wish I could say that I see the progress in my art. It seems like I either draw or create art beautifully or like a brain dead kindergartener. There’s no middle line apparently.
I have been fighting a wound on my foot since October and now that it is healed I am allowed to do stuff. So I looked at the mess that my personal space has become because I was not allowed to be on my feet and I was so overwhelmed I didn’t know where to start.
I just sat down and went to pieces because I was too uncomfortable and overwhelmed to get anything done. I told my kid that. He kinda seems to be smarter than I am most of the time anymore, I swear. He just looks at me and says he is planning a yard sale. why not sort through the boxes beside the desk for stuff to toss to the sale? He literally just gave me a starting point. I did the boxes and I stopped there for the night. The next day I went through a corner that had been catching my craft supplies thinking it would be a small step forward and I have apparently done too much. My body doesn’t bother to tell me that I should slow down anymore …it just quits and I hurt for the next few days.
So I have been forced to go back to doing nothing. I hate that. So I am cleaning up my files and quietly trying to feel better about what I did get done instead of feeling like I failed because I pushed my self too much.
I need to find a way to stay out of my own head. it’s dark in there and sometimes it is terrifying to lose the light.
Pattimouse 