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In Mexico Down Past the Rio Grande

1— In Mexico, down past the Rio Grande,
I buried my diaries in the desert sand;
Now they lie lost in a foreign land —
Lost in LeBaron when I fled the clan.

Buried my poems in the desert’s brew too.
They now sleep in sandstorms that blew.
With each new windstorm sands accrue,
So adios muse babies, goodbye and adieu!

2— You lie in the land where I was born and grew,
There in LeBaron, the home I once knew.
I couldn’t find you when I fled then flew.
So part of me’s left now buried in you.

Buried where my past lies buried and dead,
Hidden with my heart that broke when I fled,
‘Cause all I’d believed had to be shed,
And I had to flee ensuing bloodshed. 

 3— But part of me’s still in my hometown,
Buried in Chihuahua, Mexico’s ground;
But I can’t go back, can’t traverse the Rio Grande –
The river’s too wide so I stay on dry land.

I remain in my world on this other side,
But so many lonely rivers I’ve cried;
Though most of my tears have finally dried,
There’re many old rivers still flowing inside. 

4- Too many rivers twixt me and those I know,
Gulfs too wide since I let them go;
Yet part of me lies there in Mexico,
Down past the Rio Grande I love so.

Divided and torn by the Rio Grande
Flowing between me and LeBaron land,
I wonder, is half my heart buried there,
In Mexico down past the Rio Grande?

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In Mexico, down past the Rio Grande,
I buried my diaries in the desert sand.
Now they lie lost in a foreign land –
Lost in LeBaron when I fled the clan.

Buried my poems in the desert’s brew too.
They now sleep in sandstorms that blew.
With each new windstorm sands accrue;
So adios muse babies, goodbye and adieu!

You lie in the land where I was born and grew –
There in LeBaron, the home I once knew;
I couldn’t find you when I fled then flew,
So part of me’s left now buried in you.

It’s buried where my past lies buried and dead,
Hidden with my heart that broke when I fled,
Knowing all I’d believed in had to be shed;
And I had to flee ensuing bloodshed.

Still I long for my friends and family too
Who couldn’t see things from my point of view;
Nor would they allow me my own voice –
They didn’t respect my freedom of choice.

Now in an abyss I traverse this earth,
Looking for meaning to renew my life’s worth;
Looking for Mother’s long-gone mirth,
Though she now sleeps in Mexican Earth.

So part of me’s buried in Mexico –
The part I lost when I left long ago.
It’s back where my heart lies buried alive,
Back where my past took a nose dive.

Perhaps it’s lying in my hometown,
Buried in Chihuahua, Mexico’s ground;
But I can’t go back — can’t traverse the Rio Grande.
The river’s too wide so I stay on dry land.

I remain in my world on this other side,
But so many lonely rivers I’ve cried;
Though most of my tears have finally dried,
There’re many old rivers still flowing inside.

Too many rivers twixt me and those I know,
Gulfs too wide since I let them go.
Still part of me lies there in Mexico,
Down past the Rio Grande I love so.

Divided and torn by the Rio Grande
Flowing between me and LeBaron land,
I wonder if half my heart’s buried there
In Mexico, down past the Rio Grande.

*NOTE: 
Above poem is result of major surgery on original poem –
I cut out over half its verses. 
Though painful,
the surgery was successful. 
Below is a less abridged version:

   In Mexico, Down Past the Rio Grande,
I buried my diaries in the desert sand.
Now they lie lost in a foreign land –
Lost in LeBaron when I fled the clan.

Buried my poetry in the desert’s brew too.
It’s now lost in sandstorms that blew.
With each windstorm, more sands accrue,
So adios muse babies, goodbye and adieu!

You lie where I was born and grew,
There in LeBaron, the home I once knew.
I couldn’t find you when I fled then flew;
So part of me’s left now buried in you.

Slowly the tears trickle two by two
Down my cheekbones like drops of dew,
Ever homesick but can’t ties renew.
Adios to my past — adios and adieu.

When will my loneliness ever end?
When will this pain fade away, my friend?
Where are my Journals and the poems I penned,
Then buried deep to protect them back then?

They’re buried where my past lies buried and dead,
Hidden with my heart that broke when I fled
‘Cause all I’d believed in had to be shed;
And I had to flee approaching bloodshed.

Now I long for family and my friends too
Who couldn’t see things from my point of view;
Nor would they allow me my own voice –
They didn’t respect my freedom of choice.

Still I long for my life that was torn in two –
The parts that split when I fled and flew
So I could find life in the US anew,
Follow my dreams and hopes renew.

Now in an abyss I traverse the earth
Looking for meaning to renew life’s worth;
Looking for Mother’s long-gone mirth
Though she now sleeps in Mexican earth.

No sooner did I find life and rebirth
Than along came the ravages of aging’s dearth
Bouncing and banging at my backdoor,
Backing me downhill more and more.

 But part of me died many years ago,
That part I lost when I fled Mexico.
It’s back where my heart lies buried alive,
Back where my past took a nose dive.

Part of my heart’s in my hometown,
Buried in Chihuahua, Mexico’s ground.
But I can’t go back, can’t traverse the Rio Grande.
The river’s too wide so I stay on dry land.

I remain in my world on this other side,
Yet so many lonely rivers I have cried.
Though most of my tears have finally dried,
There’re many old rivers still flowing inside.

Too many rivers twixt me and those I know,
Gulfs too wide since I let them go.
Still part of me’s buried in Mexico,
Down past the Rio Grande I love so.

Part of me’s there though put to the test,
Back where many old memories rest;
Part’s with my past and part’s here with me,
Longing for home, where’er home may be.

Divided and torn by the Rio Grande
Flowing between me and LeBaron Land.
I wonder, is half my heart buried there,
In Mexico, down past the Rio Grande?

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Farewell to Floren McDonald LeBaron:
The Last of the LeBarons

FLOREN MCDONALD LEBARON 

Fourth youngest of thirteen children, 
Floren was my favorite uncle,
A one-of-a-kind.
They broke the form 
When he was born. 

Often I write about the
Dark sides of the Mexico-LeBarons. 
But I loved, still love my uncles—
Even Evil Ervil.

Though I grieve 
The ruined lives
ErVile left in his wake,
This criminally-insane miscreant
Schizophrenia did create. 

Why don’t we stop loving sinners,
Though their evil 
Turns us inside-out 
In seismic somersaults
That churn us about? 

‘Cause we all have 
Good sides and bad –
Some people lean more 
To one side than the other. 
But we don’t forget good deeds
Done by a brother. 

We try to reconcile the bad,
Wishing it weren’t so.
But can’t condemn the ignorant,
The mentally-off foe …
Compassion won’t let us 
And Hope springs eternal. 

So we try to understand,
Show where they went wrong;
Rant against their misdeeds
Our whole life long.
But in Judgment’s seat 
Creatons don’t belong.
God’s the final Judge 
Of our song.

My Uncle Floren loved
To cheer people up. 
He knew he would get a smile 
When he said:
“I hope for the best,
Look for the worst, 
And take what comes …
With a grain of salt –
For the best is yet to come!”

*Till then 
And till we meet again, 
R.I.P.
My unforgettable 
Uncle Floren.

---

Poetry & Songs
by Stephany Spencer-LeBaron:
Bio Ballads in Verse
for Better or Worse

Poems/songs I Wrote: Bio Ballads in Verse for Better or Worse

Bio Ballad in Verse for Better or Worse
by Stephany Spencer-LeBaron

I was born some time ago
Away out in the sticks
In Mexico’s Rocky Mountain Range
In 1946.

Then raised in Mormon Fundy cults
Where self-righteous hicks
Think it sinful
With the world to mix.

Like egotistical fools
In fanatic backwoods schools,
We thought ourselves
God’s holy handful –
His Saints and Chosen People.

But we were backward bigots,
Extremists and hypocrites;
Fanatics full of ignorance,
False pride and narcissism,
We fed on fear,
Self-denial and masochism.

One can lead a horse to water
But can’t make it think.
Same goes for blind followers
Being led to Hell’s brink.

If they can’t lift their blinders,
And use their God-given head,
They’re not people –
Brainwashed sheeple instead.

That said,
In six years Ma’d born
Seven girls in a row.
When we went walking down the street,
My what a show!

By the time I was eleven,
She’d born kid number eleven!
Plygs believe birth control
Will keep them from heaven.

By the time I turned fourteen,
We were siblings twelve.
For everything I ever got
I had to dig and delve.

When I turned twenty,
Nearly fit to go under,
Synchronicity’s Serendipity
Wrought a miraculous wonder!

Big bolts of thunder
Suddenly tossed me asunder
Into the wicked world.
There a new life unfurled!

Now on the outside looking in
At those “Saints” knee-deep in sin,
I gaze at them and grin,
Thanking God He helped me win
A chance to begin again:

On hearing my cries
To self-actualize,
He gave me my own voice,
Freedom of choice,
And Liberty I realize!

I’m blessed I escaped that cult
And left the hell behind
To join the wicked world,
A better life to find.

Every year’s been better
Since I fled that bitter bind.
I’ve found in this wide world
A more compassionate kind;
People better-educated,
Charitable and refined.

So thanks wonderful world.
How you shine!
Thanks for your excellence
New friends of mine.
God bless you all
Kind Humankind!

---

Bio Ballad of a Cult Survivor:
My Bio in Verse
For Better or Worse

Bio Ballad of a Cult Survivor:
My Bio in Verse for Better or Worse
(Lyrics and music by Stephany Spencer-LeBaron)

1- I was born some time ago,
Away out in the sticks,
In a Mormon cult in Mexico
In nineteen forty-six.

By the time I was eleven,
We were a family of twelve;
For everything I ever got
I had to dig and delve.

Dig and delve?
Yes, dig and delve!
For everything I ever got,
I had to dig and delve.

2- We hid among the hicks,
Created toys out of sticks,
But thought we were the best –
God’s blest zygotics.

‘Twas the only life I knew,
All the while I grew;
To pass God’s tests
Was what we were here to do.

CHORUS:
Oh, a hick,
A dad-gum polygamist hick!
Born into a cult
“Plyg!” the ultimate insult.

But how was I to know
Someday I would grow
And leave it all behind,
This miserable life of woe.

Life of woe
Oh misery and woe!
So I left it all behind
Let the fandom go.

3- A masochistic life
We all did sow
It was the only world
I would ever know.

Till one day I did find
These people were blind
And sniffing after
Some false Profit’s behind!

5- So I fled that Fundy faith
Left rigidity behind
Into the world I went
A whole new life to find.

I settled in LA
And found a better way
And now I am a Graduate
Of UCLA.

6- When I fled that stoic sect
Didn’t know what to expect
Times were Herculean
Money hard to get.

But I kept pressing on
Though progress was slow
‘Twas better than I got
In Old Mexico.

7- Now here I am today
Living a better way
Than the previous life
I had to obey.

I’m grateful for each day
And the good USA
You’ve come a long way Babe
I sure can say.

I’m a cult survivor
Up from down under
A flourishing thriver
Life now my wonder!

---

 Pretty City Chic

Dearest friends and fans,
Please note:
Thistongue-in-cheek
Song I wrote 
Isn’t finished
So I don’t gloat,
But pray my poem
Won’t get your goat.

It’s late – Blog due mañana;
Check my song later on … uh 
You’ll find it “re-wrote.”
Needs work is my last quote.
But please enjoy what I wrote.
Now I humorously emote:

Hey! I’m a Hack
Who’s written this hit
Called Pretty City Chic–
A Hee-ha Comedy Song –
A bit o’ Bio in Verse,
For Better or Worse,
With Truth ‘n’ Exaggeration
Interspersed:

They call me “Pretty City Chic.”
But Hillbilly music is my shtick.
My Hillbilly ways are here to stick.
So you may as well git over it,
Join in ’n’ sing a bit
With Pretty City Chic.

Born in Mexican sticks
In 1946,
I’ve dual citizenship;
To add to my mix,
Folk and Classical music
Are among my shticks.

I’m an all-American-mongrel,
Apple-pie girl –
A Hines-57 mixed-up mutt
With apple pie stickin’ to my gut –
But Red-necked reactionaries ain’t my thing.
I’m here for music and to sing!

Yeah, I’m an All-American-Mexican,
Scotch-Irish “Mick,”
With Welch ’n’ English,
So sure I’m a Brit …
Plus Norwegian, Swedish,
Danish, and Dutch;
French, German, Belgium,
Mohawk Indian and such.

If there’s no Tom Slick
Hidin’ in the pit,
Far as I know,
That’s about it.
Well that‘s my story
And I’m stickin’ to it!

Pa was a Veteran of World War I.
Those Vets were well-appreciated
For what they’d done!
He was an Artist, Creative –
Jack-of-all-trades;
Master of a few —
Good at many things …
What couldn’t he do?

Ma was a Creative too,
Artist thru ’n’ thru –
Poet, Pianist, Painter … whew!
Loved talking religion,
Old or new,
Long as it agreed
With what she already “knew.”

She graduated with a BA
In Journalism too –
Quite an accomplishment
For Ma was sixty-two!

She ran me competition
For I was still in College too.
Ma’s motto was:
“Anything you can do,
I can do better;
I can do anything better than you!”
And she meant it too!

Refrain:
They call me Pretty City Chic,
But Hillbilly music is my shtick;
My Hillbilly ways are here to stick!
So you may as well git over it
And join in ‘n’ sing a bit
With Pretty City Chic.

Shit-kickin’ music is my shtick.
Well, that’s my story
And I’m shtickin’ to it:
I’m Pretty City Chic!

By Stephany Spencer-LeBaron

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NOTE: The following is an iPhone video of me on March 2017– age 71– performing at the California Writers Club the above song I wrote“Pretty City Chic”… before I “re-writ” some of it:ShortcodeOpen document settingsOpen publish panel

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ADVERSITY’S STRENGTHENING
by Stephany Spencer-LeBaron

I was born into a cult.
When I fled that sect I‘d known,
I was shunned, demonized,
Left on my own.

Presently I’m steeped in pain,
Purpose that once shown
Now faces the abyss
Sitting on a throne.

The vicissitudes of life
Have left me loss full-blown,
Heartaches unquenchable,
And so alone!

Come! End this anguish!
Put Justice in its place!
Do not tarry long.
I can‘t bear the pace.

Once I had a mother
And father who did care,
Plus friends and family
To help pave each stair.

Now I’m dangling in the air
‘Midst stress and strife.
I’ve lost the scaffolding
And foundation for my life.

Once I prayed to be made strong,
A soldier in Your crew
But never imagined
The strengthening to ensue.

Now I pray deliverance
From a crushing pain. 
Bring back hope, bring back joy.
Bring heaven once again.

NOTE: 
The following is my first version of this poem:

Bright Childhood a Gift
by Stephany Spencer-LeBaron, age 21

Bright childhood was a gift on loan.
But today I wander back,
Wondering where that gift has flown;
Leaving me abandoned; on my own.

Steeped in drudgery to the bone,
Helplessly, hopelessly left to groan,
What am I now? Who took away
That life I once had known?
Who caused me to be so flung
When hope had almost grown?

Who finds it wise to lend me loss –
This misery once unknown?
Filled with heartaches made of stone, 
Who took me here to moan?
Who left me here, greatly lost –
With people but alone?

Come, end this anguish fierce!
Put justice in its place!
Don’t tarry long, I pray –
I cannot bear this pace.

You gave me once a mother dear,
A father who did care;
Plus friends and sisters near
Who helped to pave each stair.

But quick You took that life;
Left me dangling in the dearth
Of helpless stress and strife –
Still a mother; no longer wife.

When once I asked to be made strong,
A soldier in Your crew;
I hadn’t dreamt this was what
My energies were due.

Now I pray to bring me up,
 Out of crushing pain! 
Bring back hope;
Bring back joy;
Bring heaven once again!

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