Why I Carry a Gun
My old grandpa said to me son,'
there comes a time in every mans life
when he stops bustin' knuckles and starts bustin' caps and usually it's
when he becomes too old to take an ass whoopin'.
I don't carry a gun to kill people.
I carry a gun to keep from being killed.
I don't carry a gun to scare people.
I carry a gun because sometimes this world can be a scary place.
I don't carry a gun because I'm paranoid.
I carry a gun because there are real threats in the world.
I don't carry a gun because I'm evil.
I carry a gun because I have lived long enough to see the
evil in the world.
I don't carry a gun because I hate the government.
I carry a gun because I understand the limitations of government.
I don't carry a gun because I'm angry.
I carry a gun so that I don't have to spend the rest of my
life hating myself for failing to be prepared.
I don't carry a gun because I want to shoot someone.
I carry a gun because I want to die at a ripe old age in my bed, and
not on a sidewalk somewhere tomorrow afternoon.
I don't carry a gun because I'm a cowboy.
I carry a gun because, when I die and go to heaven,
I want to be a cowboy.
I don't carry a gun to make me feel like a man.
I carry a gun because men know how to take care of
themselves and the ones they love.
I don't carry a gun because I feel inadequate.
I carry a gun because, unarmed and facing three
armed thugs, I am inadequate.
I don't carry a gun because I love it.
I carry a gun because I love life and the people who make it meaningful
to me.
Police Protection is an oxymoron. Free citizens must protect themselves.
Police do not protect you from crime, they usually just investigate the
crime after it happens and then call someone in to clean up the mess.
Personally, I carry a gun because I'm too young to die and too old to
take an ass whoopin'.
....author unknown (but obviously brilliant)
A Different Christmas Poem
The embers glowed softly, and in their dim light,
I gazed round the room and I cherished the sight.
My wife was asleep, her head on my chest,
My daughter beside me, angelic in rest.
Outside the snow fell, a blanket of white,
Transforming the yard to a winter delight.
The sparkling lights in the tree I believe,
Completed the magic that was Christmas Eve.
My eyelids were heavy, my breathing was deep,
Secure and surrounded by love I would sleep.
In perfect contentment, or so it would seem,
So I slumbered, perhaps I started to dream.
The sound wasn't loud, and it wasn't too near,
But I opened my eyes when it tickled my ear.
Perhaps just a cough, I didn't quite know,
Then the sure sound of footsteps outside in the snow.
My soul gave a tremble, I struggled to hear,
And I crept to the door just to see who was near.
Standing out in the cold and the dark of the night,
A lone figure stood, his face weary and tight.
A soldier, I puzzled, some twenty years old,
Perhaps a Marine, huddled here in the cold.
Alone in the dark, he looked up and smiled,
Standing watch over me, and my wife and my child.
"What are you doing?", I asked without fear,
"Come in this moment, it's freezing out here.
Put down your pack, brush the snow from your sleeve,
You should be at home on a cold Christmas Eve.
For barely a moment I saw his eyes shift,
Away from the cold and the snow blown in drifts,
To the window that danced with a warm fire's light.
Then he sighed and he said "Its really all right,
I'm out here by choice. I'm here every night."
"It's my duty to stand at the front of the line,
That separates you from the darkest of times.
No one had to ask or beg or implore me."
"I'm proud to stand here like my fathers before me.
My Gramps died at ' Pearl on a day in December,'
Then he sighed, "That's a Christmas 'Gram always remembers."
"My dad stood his watch in the jungles of ' Nam ',
And now it is my turn and so, here I am.
I've not seen my own son in more than a while,
But my wife sends me pictures, he's sure got her smile."
Then he bent and he carefully pulled from his bag,
The red, white, and blue... an American flag.
"I can live through the cold and the being alone,
Away from my family, my house and my home."
"I can stand at my post through the rain and the sleet,
I can sleep in a foxhole with little to eat.
I can carry the weight of killing another,
Or lay down my life with my sister and brother."
Who stand at the front against any and all,
To ensure for all time that this flag will not fall."
"So go back inside," he said, "harbor no fright,
Your family is waiting and I'll be all right."
"But isn't there something I can do, at the least,
"Give you money," I asked, "or prepare you a feast?
It seems all too little for all that you've done,
For being away from your wife and your son."
Then his eye welled a tear that held no regret,
"Just tell us you love us, and never forget.
To fight for our rights back at home while we're gone,
To stand your own watch, no matter how long."
"For when we come home, either standing or dead,
To know you remember we fought and we bled.
Is payment enough, and with that we will trust,
That we mattered to you as you mattered to us."
PLEASE, Would you do me the kind favor of sending this to as many people as you can?
Christmas will be coming soon and some credit is due to our U.S.service men and women
for our being able to celebrate these festivities. Let's try in this small way to pay a tiny bit
of what we owe. Make people stop and think of our heroes, living and dead, who sacrificed
LCDR Jeff Giles, SC, USN
30th Naval Construction Regiment OIC,
__________________________________________________
A Bikers Thanksgiving Poem
submitted by Deb Driskill
I give thanks for good roads that run straight through desert or field. For
rolling roads that disappear over the horizon. For those that curve through
canyon bottoms where golden aspens bend over fast-flowing streams and for
roads that leap up the mountains in sweepers and hairpins to carry me high above
and far away from daily life.
I give thanks for the smooth roads and the cracked, the perfectly banked and
the off-camber. For roads well-known and those new met and soon loved.
I am thankful for the simple 90-degree turn at a stop sign out in the middle
of nowhere. The ones that say, "pause a moment, smell the moist green of
growing things and the rich soil beneath them, and think about how good it is to
be alive."
I give thanks for the way the concrete sings beneath my tires, the crunch of
gravel, the smell of rain on hot asphalt.
I give thanks for the way my leg feels as I swing it over the saddle, the
supple strength of gloves sliding onto my hands, for my electric vest in the
cold and jacket vents in the heat. The way the zipper slides up my jacket. The
way it feels, later, when I take off my helmet.
I give thanks for the dawn rides when the sun finds me on the road while the
cars sit still and cold in driveways and their owners turn over in bed and
hit the snooze alarm. The empty roads where the mist still clings to the low
spots and I can smell the sun starting to warm the air.
I give thanks for the long rides that stretch from morning to late afternoon
and into the evening. For the miles and curves that vanish beneath my tires,
those hours when time loses all meaning. For those days when I ride so long
my throttle hand is sore and I walk a bit bow-legged when I finally park the
bike.
I give thanks for the evening rides when the sunlight lays like marmalade
across the landscape. For those rides when the sun sinks past the horizon and
the world fills up with shadows until all the shadows meet and melt together
and bring the night.
I give thanks for night-time riding when the streets once again are empty
and silent and I feel as if they are mine all mine, and that only another rider
could know the joy I do.
I give thanks for the wind and it’s odd, irregular beat tapping on my visor.
The feel of the wind against my body as I ride. The way it blows the stress,
the pain, the uncertainties right out of me and blows hope and the belief
that anything is possible into my heart in return. I give thanks for the
freedom of the wind.
I give thanks for the lean, for that delicious, exhilarating sensation where
I realize I am one with the great laws of physics. I give thanks that I feel
the acceleration in every part of my body.
I give thanks for the machine beneath me, for the ability to be a modern-day
centaur, for the power and throb of the engine between my legs, the way my
hands feel on the grips, for the pull of the clutch and front brake levers.
For the way the geometry of the bike makes the algebra of the turns so sweet.
I am thankful for hazards recognized, for dangers avoided, for skills and
broken-in brake pads and good tread on the tires. I give thanks for the wise
riding tips and techniques my more experienced brothers and sisters of the road
have taught to me. I give thanks that I ride and live and live to ride again.
I give thanks for wrenching on my bike: For that moment when the oil filter
loosens, the feeling when I dip my fingertip in fresh oil and slide my it
around the new gasket, of pouring in the clean, clear oil. I give thanks for the
soul-satisfying act of adjusting the clutch just right and of tightening the
last bolt on the frame. For that proper give in the belt and that tiny hiss
when the tire pressure engages. I give thanks that I can change my pipes or
the suspension or whatever else I want to do to make my bike my own.
I give thanks for road grime and the joy of washing it away. For the sensual
way the soapy water washes over the tank and down the heads and slides off
the fenders. For the way clean mirrors and windshield sparkle. For Simple
Green and Mother’s and Blue Magic, for scrub brushes and soft buffing cloths. I
give thanks for that moment right after I’m done and I step back and look at my
work. ***** the bike still looks pretty good, doesn’t it?
I give thanks that I ride it enough to get it dirty again.
I give thanks for the gathering of riders, for being able to recognize friend’s
bikes approaching by their sound, for seeing good companions slow and
turn into the lot. For the glad hugs and laughter, the banter, the growing
impatience to be out on the road again. I give thanks for that good company as I
see them ahead of me drift to the outside then dip into the curve,
one-two-three-four, like seagulls banking and then straighten up, one-two-three-four and
fly on down the road. I give thanks that I have had the opportunity to ride
side-by-side in the pack. For long lunches and short breakfasts. For cold
bottles of water and more laughter at a stop along the road.
I give thanks for the camaraderie of riders--those parking lot friends who
become such simply because I have a bike and so do they. The fellowship of the
road, the sideways wave, the circling back and stopping to see if there’s
anything they can do. The riders who gather at any old bar or restaurant or
eatery that welcomes us. I give thanks for those I come to know and care about
over the months and years of riding the same roads to the same places. I am
thankful for those who I love and who love me simply because we love the same
thing--to ride on two wheels in the freedom of the wind.
I am thankful for the sound of a motorcycle--any motorcycle at all--as I sit
so properly dressed, so professionally employed, so occupied with other
things. It’s like hearing my favorite song drifting from a stranger’s window as
I walk along the street. I stop what I'm doing and listen. Joy. Then the
growl of the bike is gone, but the happiness remains.
I give thanks for the sense of Being riding has given me, the freedom to be
who I am no matter what others think. The sense of empowerment and control
over my self and my life. The ability to take on risk and fear and triumph in
challenge. To ride my own ride whether in that good company of bikers or by
myself.
I am thankful that I have found my voice in the wind
______________________________________________
A Bikers Poem
Some think bikers are mean,
Some dressed in leathers and others in jeans.
You don't like our patches or the clothes that we wear,
You hate our bandannas and you hate our long hair.
You don't like our scooters and our loud noisy pipes,
You think we're not loyal to the Stars and Stripes.
You don't like our patches that are worn on our vests,
You think we're so different from all the rest.
But the truth is, Mister, we're kind of alike,
You drive a car and I ride a bike.
You have no tattoos painted on your arm,
But we fought side by side in Vietnam.
So the next time your children are running around,
Enjoy their freedom, and the fun that they've found.
Remember us bikers and all that we do,
We feed our lost veterans, we're red white and blue!
We bring toys for tots and toys for a smile,
By riding our bikes for miles and miles.
You see, us bikers have never forgot,
Our homeless veterans and our homeless tots.
We are loyal to our clubs and true to our bro's,
We will always wear black from our heads to our toes.
Society once said that long hair was for fags,
But you'll never see a biker burning a flag.
Now the tattoos and leather you don't understand,
Stands for free independence that us bikers demand.
Our long hair and patches and bikes with loud pipes,
Is a tribute to our freedom, the Stars and the Stripes.
So before you make up your mind on just what I might be,
Take a look in the mirror and what do you see?
The man that you see that is staring right back,
Is not much different from that biker in black!!!
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