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The Holy Ranger Poems

On, in reference to THE HOLY RANGER: HARLEY-DAVIDSON POEMS by Dr. Martin Jack Rosenblum, a reader from Florida wrote a Customer Review that gave the book's Ranger Evopoetic Poetry a Five-Star rating, which is the highest. Here is that unsolicited Review:

"Martin Jack Rosenblum in this collection conveys the thrill of owning and riding the pride of America - the Harley-Davidson. The reader also gets a glimpse of a childhood and a life in America's heartland, and frequently draws parallels between the modern biker and the horsemen of the old west. In the past, Harley lovers have fallen back on the old saw, "If I have to explain, you wouldn't understand" as a way to avoid putting words to something embraced so passionately".
Now they can say "Read Rosenblum; he explains ... and you will understand!"

Last updated July 1,2005.

The Blues

this gets played in twelve-bar progressions
on my old 12-string with its cherry sunburst
radiating notes that hit the morning sun just
like drops of rain on the backyard grass stepped
upon unmowed & stained where the dog squats to mark
his spot we all later sit with beer cans tucked into
the velvet guitar case which mats the grass like a coffin
would the earth for once we're done all we hear is the
blues muffled harking & splitting the night that drops in

The Heart Must Beat In An Accurate Hand

at fifteen feet or thereabouts
John Wesley Hardin shot playing
cards then autographed them right
beofre his death dating them in
his last hand -- today we have
General Hatcher's Relative
Stopping Power mathematics
which has sought to gamble
without an ace-in-the-hole
through multiplication of the bullet
weight in pounds times the square of
the velocity and dividing by ... well

last night a band of us pistoleros left
Greenfield where House of Harley-Davidson
was the fortress from which we rode for Racine
to shoot those nasty bowling pins that created
problems for bowlers all too long & now must
stand before the firing squad & those of us
in the posse who did well were gamblers not
mathematicians (with the exception of yours
truly who is neither mathematician nor any
gambler but who missed those rascal bowling
pins more than not even with that Silvertip
fodder feeding the hungry Colt Combat Elite:
for the art of bringing aim into splintered
wooden bad guys comes from mind to eye with

one's heart as the lens through which
intelligance gets focus & last night
this heart of mine beat to poetic
vision that of course is
material accuracy but still
unsuited for combat measure
so once the cards were shuffled
in the kinetic deck with an ace
beneath my fountain pen I imagine a Colt
Single-Action Army in my saddlebags & crank
my Harley against early spring weather
resistance to face objects in absolute

need of control & at fifteen feet the next day
or thereabouts I was delt an inside
winning hand so I bid on a heart &
raised some & shot
the center right
out of the rusty pot hanging on a fencepost.


the present fear of conflict is producing
reactions that weaken those who would
perfer freedom: if we choose to ride
our motorcycles without helmets
drive our autos without seatbelts then we
have an
insurance controlled legislature to reckon
with which creates laws that favor our own
best interests whether we like it or not.

this is not a proper function of my goverment
& especially since it operates out of scare

we learn that we cannot take care of ourselves
unless it is written that we are doing so well

:the point is not to go without a helmet
nor without a seatbelt but
to decide without assistance

around the family dinner table
in the absence of television
with the sun's final light
moistening homecooked
meat brought to the
table with a steady aim or
an honest dollar.

there is a natural order
to all things & the creed
must be to find it beneath
frightful camouflage designed
by those who cannot sense the
power without wanting to take
this form the rest of us now: fifty years ago
boys were boys,
girls were not,
assistance meant friendship & I mean bussiness.

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