Caint Complain
                       By Phyllis T.  Halle  February 26, 2006
Growing up in a tiny coal mining town in the hills of Eastern Kentucky,
I frequently heard a response out of the lips of stooped, arthritic miners, toothless women, old before their time,
wretchedly poor widows with six children to feed.
It was just a common reply to the courteous, "How are you?" -
"Caint complain."
The high pitched voices of those descendents of English, Scottish, German, Irish pioneers still echo in my ears and I wonder always at the tenacity, strength and wisdom which resounded firmly in those two words,
                                          "Caint Complain."
Very few people had indoor plumbing, telephones, cars or two pair of shoes. Health insurance, retirement plans, paid sick days, furnaces, pizzas, air conditioners, jet planes, paid vacations, job security, career planning were all unheard of unknowns.
When someone became ill, the ‘‘kindly old general practitioner would come to the house and dispense his little pills and words of encouragement and instruction, knowing the limitations of his skill and ability to heal.
Mothers and fathers still buried their little children who died from diphtheria, pneumonia, whooping cough, measles, diarrhea, croup ( a disorder known in later years as asthma).
Husbands buried wives who died in childbirth, at an alarming rate. "Caint Complain," they'd say gently, with a soft 'almost' smile and deeply troubled eyes.
Sanitation was fought for, vigorously, by hard muscled women, who scrubbed and washed, and swept and mopped.
They'd boiled the family’s clothes which had been worn for a week, in pots in the back yard, "to get ‘em clean."  
Killing germs was not in their vocabulary, but that is what they'd were doing. Ask that little old gal who was out in the yard, stirring the clothes around in boiling water, over an open fire, "How are you doin’?"  
                            "Caint Complain, " she would invariably say.
WHY couldn't they'd complain? Where did their tenacity come from?
Where did that philosophy of not complaining come from?
Where did they find the resolve to place dire, critical deprivation, hard labor and malnourishment behind them and place a smile on their faces and say
                                Caint Complain?

I knew some of those people when they had grown very old and faced birthdays in their late nineties. Without exception, they had the sweetest dispositions, most grateful hearts, kindest words and calmest old ages of any among the many I have known who reached that age!
When the pressures of their life had faded and they had nothing remaining that had to be done except to live out the final part of their life, they did not have a habit of complaint.
Some recent phone calls I have received were what prompted me to think about this. One right after another, friends called and for the first ten minutes of each call, I listened to a long list of complaints about the trials and travails my dear friend was suffering.
Each friend has: no financial worries, a wonderful primary care doctor, prescriptions to keep their heart pumping, eyes seeing, brain focusing, stomach digesting and body sleeping, each night.
They are protected from financial ruin, by medicare and/or HMO, social security checks, pensions, savings and inherited wealth. They have loving, devoted sons, daughters, nieces and nephews who keep in touch and are there for them.
They each one have lovely heated and cooled homes, apartments or condos with every convenience known to Americans; cars or taxi/bus services to get them out and around. More than that, each has beautiful memories which they can call upon to bring a smile to their face at any moment of the day or night. But somehow we find plenty to complain about.
Why haven't we formed the habit of Caint Complain?
Maybe the philosophy of always seeking more comfort, more possessions, more money, more- more- more- of everything, has driven us to achieve, accumulate and accomplish but it required us to never know what the word contentment means.
Contentment doesn't mean having everything at one’s fingertips. It doesn't mean lacking nothing. It certainly doesn't mean every dream and desire fulfilled.

Yet there are many who have enough of everything except the common sense to know when they really "Caint Complain."
Happiness is a fleeting moment of joy. Contentment is finding peace in what you have, what you are and what you have accomplished.
Having the serenity to know which one brings lasting goodness into your life is wisdom.
A SMILE IS THE KNIFE GOD GAVE US TO CUT THE SIZE OF OUR TROUBLES DOWN TO A BEARABLE LOAD.    
Lots of love and hugs, Phyllis

Dear Black Men,
They have been throwing you away like a trash can.
Never to Understand
That you have value, and for your life God has designed a plan.
So Here I am with you, Side by side I place my hands, in your rough, calloused, laboring hands.
Merging together in solidarity just as a musical band.
As you are Always being placed under Servere Scrutiny
At this moment I stand with you declaring that we start speaking the healing language of unity.
Or This will be The End of Our Community.
Before our Village becomes Extinct
within a moments notice like the eyes that blink.
Removing The hate from our heart and brain that have formed into a kink
like the negative thoughts that we think
Overwhelming the mind drowning only to sink.
They are an Important asset to the family  just as the body needs Zinc.
They're An Esstenial Mineral.
Yet you label them as a Criminal, Cynical, Miserable, Pitiful,
A Creature deemed Unforgivable,
But if you look beyond the attributes of the physical
Take a glace At the mental and spiritual temple.
Resting inside is Gods Love that's Unconditional.
Then is when you will see what I see  Indispensable Individuals; Descendents From Israel.
Does the pigment of thier skin disqualifies him as being equal?
Is this Prince of Egypt's Sequel?
Or maybe its the fact that These Men are  Gods Royal people.

And Still you label them a Negros.
But when thier Tribe looks at them we See A heros.
Trying to lead thier people to the mental state of freedom just Moses did In Exodus from Pharoh.
If only it were that simple
To see inside The temple's window
You would see souls so beautiful.
conscious men awoken to what thier mind and innermen has come to know
Or hearts so rare its special.
And Like A super Moon painted on the black sky thier spirits will glow.

They are kings whom are kind and gracious.
Like a lion's Roar thier Words Are Boldy spoken into the atmosphere and Audacious
Their presences is contagious
Their spirit his courageous.

They are men whos wife and children watch intentively and admire.
They are the household provider.
In their minds he sparks a fire
A flame That Inspires.

He's The The soul that lives within.
Their Maghony skin has been dipped into Hersheys Rich Chocolate Melanin
Thier Deep Voice sounds like A roar from Lions Den , Vigorous and Masculine.
They are powerful like strength and of A thousand men.
Thier smile is as bright as the Radient sun warm and Golden.
From what Cloth was these men woven
that such a men of thier statue has not only been called but also chosen.
Theres something they are Beholding
They are just as a campfire in the blackness of the night glowin.

They are men of color
They are the cover for thier lover
They are My brothers from other mothers.

To The Blackwoman they are our
Batmen, Supermen, Ironmen, Tarzan, Patrolmen, repairmen, handymen, guardsmen, Businessmen and Gentlemen.
And We are your support system, your biggest fans.

You all are The craftmanship of The Most High's hand.
Constructed from the dust of the ground on which we stand.
Mixed with breathe of Life created a human being who bare feet ran,
feeling the warmth from the grains of sand, As he Walked among the surface of the land.
Adam, the Earths first black man.

I Wrote this to let you know we value you My Dear Black Man.

Born a King
Born a Queen
Born a Slave
Born into freedom only to be
Caged
Shackled bound confined
Scared
Caged
Far from the Motherland
A people
Made sculpt molded
In her image
Brown earth
Yellow sun
Mahogany dark
Like the stone unyielding
Proud like the Kilimanjaro
Minds open like the plains
Of the Serengeti
Free
Only to be brought here
Caged
Used abused overwhelmed exhausted
Caged
Thrown away when aged like broken toys
Broken minds broken spirits afraid of our own image
Caged
Here we stand today with all the technology the worlds knowledge at our fingertips
Caged
Brothers’ sisters’ fathers sons’ mothers’ daughters’ families ripped apart
Torn at the seams no village to be seen
Caged
We are at war with violence ignorance rage
A horrible legacy indeed ……Caged
Our once proud people afraid to face the future
We are creating to our shame the same source of fear ignorance and rage
In our most valuable assets our jewels our destiny
Our children
Our vision
In our cage we destroy each other
We are racist in our own race
We defame denounce deplore each other
Are we comfortable complacent satisfied in our cage?
Our history tell us no our descendents tell us we shouldn’t be
They say to us we have no limits boundaries restrictions
They found the keys to the cage
They urge us they encourage us they push us in the direction of the stars
Come out of your comfort zones
Embrace hold tight pull it in
The spirits of Our Kings Our Queens Our history
Teach if you can learn
Learn if you can teach
Open minds hearts souls
Receive your freedom
Unlock the
Cage.
Free! Liberate! Unshackle!
Black history is not a month it’s your life.

Senescence begins
And middle age ends
The day your descendents
Outnumber your friends.

the cascade of clear blue falls even in the midst of the furvous night
the call of a bird echoes cross canyons composed of ages of old
the glint off amber cliffs calls to the reflection of ancience
floors of sandstone riddled with stagnant ghosts of footprints
these paths were once walked by those larger than life

we search for purpose radiometrically
estimating the desperation in the dating
allowing our hearts to sink to an endless expanse of unexplored sediment
grasping onto the aching for the pleasure beneath the pain
self decay feels natural at the bottom of the ocean

peace comes naturally while disappearing into pieces
it will find me upon the return of the rogue daughter to the expanse in which she belongs
may my atomic descendents one day hold the fossils of my being between their fingers
let the earth shake under the feet of whom possesses my bones
and let them keep digging, let them excavate all of us whole

Dear Self,

For you it is November 9th, 2016. Despite all odds, Donald Trump is president. Mike Pence, governor of your home state of Indiana, is his VP.

You are 17 right now. You were born into a world run by George W. Bush. You spent your whole childhood hearing your parents yelling at the tv, angry at the Texas governor in the White House.

You grew up in Obamanation. You saw months of “YES WE CAN” and “CHANGE” stickers going up, and a magnet your family still has get put onto your refrigerator. You heard your mother’s sigh of relief when Barack Obama was announced the 44th president. That was half your lifetime ago.

You spent the last year following the campaigns. You were not surprised by Hillary Clinton running again. You “felt the Bern” of the somewhat radical Independent candidate previously unknown to you, Bernie Sanders. You laughed off the wild reality tv star Donald Trump’s campaign.

Months went by. Bernie and Hillary were fighting hard leading up to the primaries. Republicans slowly started to drop out. Big names like Jeb Bush, Mike Huckabee, and Chris Christie left the race. Bernie didn’t do good enough in the primaries, which was upsetting to most of your friends, your older brother, and your mom, who all voted for him. Ted Cruz fell off, defeated, in May.

It was down to Hillary and Trump.

You followed the comments made at their rallies. On their social media. You heard a lecture about the election from Josh Gillin of Politifact at Indiana University over the summer. You won an award for an opinion piece you wrote on Trump. As the election day grew closer, you watched every presidential debate. You analyzed them in class.

Last night, you stayed up until 4 A.M. to see the results of this election. You sat through excruciatingly slow interviews, political analysis, and different predictions. You couldn’t turn away from the blue and red maps, the aggressively American backgrounds, the anxious masses.

The tired tv hosts were right, it was a nail-biter.

As Trump gave his victory speech, you wept.

You wept for the months you spent wishing this wouldn’t happen. You wept for the 1920’s suffragettes, for the descendents of MLK and Cesar Chavez, for the Orlando victims. You wept for me. The people I joined. The people who will join me.

I am dead.

You learned in your final moments that homophobes look like normal people. They are not all rednecks with beer guts wearing ten-gallon hats. They are more elusive than that. They can be dressed smart. They can have friendly voices. Familiar names and faces.

A friend of a friend of a friend of a friend killed you. Someone you live near. You might have passed them in a car. In the mall. In the school hallways. It was someone that people you knew,  knew. You probably could’ve gotten their Twitter handle if you had heard their name before.

You were killed in a city that VP Pence had once stood in.

People tried to learn about your killer. Were they someone you knew? Someone who just went crazy? Someone who couldn’t handle who you held hands with?

You were too young, the local news anchors said. Your school administration said. Your mom said.

Mike Pence didn’t say anything at all.

Your friends didn’t say much. They cried. They withdrew. They wore baggier clothes. They bought switchblades. They washed “*****” and “ladyboy” off of your tombstone. They wondered about joining you, voluntarily and not.

The school newspaper’s headline: DEAD AT 17.

No one thought it would happen to you, except you. You stayed up late at night, imagining your funeral. The first thing you did in the morning was practice for your wake. Every time you left your house, you were a dead man walking.

No one  believed this more than you did.

The news anchors said it was just one of a string of murders. People said it was an isolated incident. Your friends said it was a hate crime. Your mom said it was the worst thing that  ever  happened to her.

There was no question that you were gone, even when they found you- chest jumping. There was only one thing to wonder: who was next?

Not an if, but a when.

I hope the when is  never.

All my love- to you and everyone else,

Yourself

Dear Grandad,

I wish I could take cancer,
and punch it in the face;
And every disease and drug that poisons the body and soul,
I wish I could drag to a grave.
See, those are the things that took you away
For years, when you were out of my life.
But I'm oh so glad that at your last,
you won the battle which was your strife.
Jesus there to pull you to his chest at your final breath,
You made amends with a call to the One on the Mainline.

I loved every moment when I got to see you again,
The time between these reunions nonexistant,
Outshined by the joy of spending precious time
with you.
I'm not God but I wish you were here for another chess session.
I wish you were here so I could steal a bit more wisdom.
I wish I'd had that chance to see you hold my children with love.
You were my last Grandad and I never got to meet the other one.
Now you're both great men who've been spirited away by that sweet angel of death,
Only residing on this earth  in the memories of us,
the one's you left behind for to Heaven you've gone to rest.
If I didn't have a job to do here I'd pray for God to take me next.
Dear grandad I'll miss you,
and you'll continue on in the stories We tell your great grandchildren
generation after to generation, every one of your descendents.
Every story about you teaches forever what is best to bet
on in life. After all you've played both sides.
And yet managed to tell my father no lies.
And managed to raise my mother like you, wise.
Truly you were heaven bound and heaven sent.
Through a fantastic wide round trip
you made it to those golden gates of heaven.
And on that note, dear Grandfather,
This letter, like you, will meet it's end.

Sergei, I want you to grow as an Overlord.
Sergei, who knows that I might be your Valkyrie of the North
that grants you all the stars
High on Descendents songs and never caves in,
that’s how I’ve always perceived you.
Villains of circumstance might win this time
and if you let them, they would rise above and you don’t want it,
you know that you’re weary of earth and its cores.
And if you let me, I would fight with transcendence
and I would beat the living **** out of the world,
yeah, the world that has always made you drown.
Sergei, if you ever want to die,
remember that I own the skies that make you feel alright,
all the thrones, all the dreams.
Hey, I want to see, how you’ve always wanted me
to go on and play all the songs that represent
the anarchist soul of mine, it made you feel alright.
Sergei, I want to grow up as a fighter that converges all the skies, all the worlds,
so you would see how I’ve always wanted life-changing days with you.
Say, I carved your name on my coat, beside that Black Flag patch
that you earned me when I saved you from the villains.
I, used to resist my urge to wake up from hell
For my fears of you leaving, yeah, it’s the real hell.
You know, I would give up my wings and my throne,
but you’ve always wanted to earn your own
So that you could take me with your forceful wings
and show me that you’ve got over those self-inflicted scars
and that you’ve landed safely in my heart as you fight,
and you no longer think of death, which means we’ve won.

Sergei, don’t dethrone me, for the lord of the flies hasn’t seen you alive as a knight, and when you’re at the peak, tell me that you’ve won.

heiress to the strange castle,
Francis ascended the high stone stair;
her ancestors had lived here from the beginning of
the country's history;
her family was older,
its history vivid in the dark of time
to those descendents
who were Francis' immediate family
all fallen to old age & death
except she youngest of the brood;
inheriting Frankenstein's Castle
the first place she went was to her
ancestor's laboratory,
long disused, old fashioned
& out of date, but flipping the
high-voltage switch bringing
the whole place to light & life as the thing
moved on the table & rose;
the doctor's last project
before being driven mad in the arctic sea,  
the woman, who upon seeing young Francis
falls madly in love; Francis
seeing the gleam in the monster's
eye takes the time to get to
know her body & the monster likewise
got to know hers;
two beauties came out of the gray castle
looking like a pair of princesses
in the sun broken through the permanent clouds

Here lie the sweet, arrested buds
scorched by a sudden frost.
Withered now those unborn blooms,
sweet scent forever lost.
Reposing here, such shrunken bones
descendents will forget
lie undisturbed in silent tombs,
promise untested yet.
Here we find unyielding knots,
perpetual sand-swell dunes,
thorns that pierce the unaware,
scars thickened over wounds.
Should they reside in endless peace,
not see the light of day?
These dusty relics locked within;
the things we didn’t say.

Lord
we came
in the
belly of slave ships
where
our
African People
were forcefully
kidnapped abused
***** murdered
and tortured
before and after
the long journey
to the New World
even though
we are
the
direct descendents of God
Children of The Sun
Black Gold
the
aboriginal man
the lie
spread around
the world
the curse
upon
the
Children of Ham
oh
Lord
we
come a mighty
long way

Sturdy as the mighty oak, I withstood
drought, deluge, dishevelment, deliverance
my once vibrant leaves became crisp,
shattered, scattered, veins crumbled, crumpled
all that was left ... gnarled old roughened bark

revitalized, I am now trod, that old tree,
sawed, sanded, slatted, varnished  
to perfection, reflection of owner's pride,
care is given to keep me supple, strong ...
cover me not; let my beauty shine,
sparkle and please all who see me

In the vast oaken families of ancestors,
descendents, those yet to root, while
our beauty be ****** out of rich soil
to praise the God who created us
we joy in our present, treasure our past.

Wide rolls, down the window, they're looking in
Away from the walls, lights off, **** i feel like i never win
But i have to realize, there's only 1 winner, the rest is his dinner
Pleasantly, things have foregone me from me reaching the desert
Am i the main course, or something sweet, (horrible) the dessert?
But i swerve right left,
Write from right to left til the words leave and i feel right
But not for anyone else, just me
Until the quill can only be written in blood for my will
In testament, i digest powers from the unknown
Where do they come from?
Spiritual in a Physical world
Mental in a Cultural world
Why do you all do that?
Descendents descend from the heavens and rise from hell
The ruse is over, we can break it all apart
No it's not a trap, everything can be turned around
This is no race way with a racecar going forever left
If that was right, i would have left this world a lot sooner
If that was true, blood will follow the heros and martyrs
If that was false, happiness would be the easiest thing to obtain
If that was left, then someone else will take it
Monotonous leaves me livid
And boom baps bang better because ******* love it
But why, we teach to love the intricate and shun the fundamentals
Uniqueness is slowly waning, more people popuate the world
They ask you, "how are you different?"
But I've been feeling the same
Since i was a little kid, since i had that big bib
Teeter totter on this stool, toes dangling off
Foreshadowing the rest of my body
But my shadow casts a bigger picture on the scene
Playing with the steering wheel on the highway
Letting go, and it going from left to right,
Ending up sideways
I do do it.
I need to cut it, out.

I think I will
zip line across the creek,
there are some people over there
I'd like to meet.
I smell patchouli
& hear music,
voices giggling
& I think I see
flowers
in their hair
& they're covered with mud.
Surely they are
descendents
of primordial peoples,
look at those dreadlocks
& luscious curves,
young boys
with
their
pretty girls.

"Inside she writes a side of herself
She won't let me see
Such a hateful little girl
Her little book is her whole world
It's all there in her little book
And I can't help but wonder"
-The Descendents

*I was finally going to show you a poem today

Born I live,
happy and free.

Roaming the houses like a chimpanzee,
but I'm a Gecko, how can that be?
I chase after the insects and all pests that be,
for the sake of my stomach, and friends-that-be.

Eventually I grow,
a long tail and a ***,
larger than the biggest cockroaches that roam.
I live completely peacefully,
no **** to be seen,
nor scaring the daylights,
out of the family with me.

My life is short,
but I am happy.
Insects and friends,
who always join me.

The same family every day which I see,
giving me a job,
and leaving a warm house for me.

I live in peace,
up to my end.
Living and leaving,
a legacy to defend.

Passing the torch on to my descendents-to-be,
I close my eyes,
never to open them again.

May all that know me,
by sight or by scent,
live happily like me,
to their own life's end.

The descendents of the unwilling few
Affection is there but it's never reach them
A killer whale stuck in a stagnant pool
Made by the ruling Harmony
They're not ready for reality
They're not ready for the real you
Understandably painful
Utterly colonial
Yet here I am loving you

Courtesy food pantries
Saint Eleanor's Saint Mary's,
Our Daily Bread,
the missus and yours truly (her spouse)
well stocked with good n plenti of
soap, shampoo and detergent.

Spongebob squarepants
would be in seventh heaven,
where sudsy clouds (resembling
Mister Krabs, Plankton,
Sandy Cheeks, Squidward, et cetera),
would drift across celestial vault.

Gratitude bequeathed to prophets of virtue
benevolent good samaritans
who trend righteous true
to the calling of helping hands who renew
faith (mine) in goodness of humanity
assisting not only yours truly
and the missus, but people
from South American country named Peru
or even indigenous tribes
accorded recognition comprising
population of inhabitants occupying New
Zealand, offered reparations

under the Treaty of Waitangi,
a process of reparation allowed
Maori to be fully recognized
at political level in lieu
of unfair practices inflicted upon
original occupant loosely similar
to descendents of long lost tribes of Israel,
endowed with (pure tin) pride
wishing I too could call myself proud Jew,
nevertheless attraction manifests destiny
(mine) someday to learn Hebrew.

Courtesy atheism more so Unitarianism,
I need not adopt
an explicit dogmatic, fanatic, humanistic...,
lunatic, narcissistic, puritanic... paradigm,
but only tout poetic justice (mine)
to recognize laudable traits
linkedin to orthodox faiths,
albeit rationalistic rubric
that caters to selflessness

for no other reason
than allowing, enabling, and promoting
random acts of kindness
without any forthcoming great expectation
downplaying remuneration,
no matter destitution begot mein kampf
hard times living within bleak house
slight hyperbolic exaggeration
poor as a cheesy church mouse poet.

Lemme coast to a fitting conclusion
bringing reasonable rhyming blather
originating courtesy me noggin,
within which wool doth gather
thus I a halt and
dial down philosophical lather,
cuz most likely
ye dear reader would rather
experience palmolive oil slather
preparatory to full body massage.

Two broken branches in a cave
Both are just stories
Lies
Built by slaves
For slaves

A Golden book about a lost puppy
Men try to gather other men
Toss women into a lake,
and spit on them!
**** on them!
Worthless!

Both just stories
Both worrisome works written weakly by left handed men.
Barely men, I say!
Barley had more importance than paper penned by them!

Jews and gentiles...
Worthless spit
Of man's self importance!
All descendents of the same two arbitrary arses
Who made a break for a planetary
Singularity.

Cell division ******* by partisan politics
The very miracle of humanity ruined
by worthless people who couldn't
Feed themselves outside of a boxed lunch

But it's just a hunch...
Take Jesus off your cross and live.
Or, you can die....
Two ***** and a **** I don't give!

In the dark
They bring life
And guide our lives
I hope in my heart
My descendents will see them as I have