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Loose Change

by | Apr 4, 2019 | Song

Some say that I’m not of these times.

I’m lost in recollections.
Some hear bells but I hear chimes.
I don’t ask for directions.
Now some would like to define me
as nothing but a hoarder.
But I see things that they don’t see.
And everything has order.
While they see piles and tons of crap,
each thing has special meaning.
An eight foot stack of magazines
they only see as leaning.
Each item has its history.
My memories are not crimes.
Inside each life’s a mystery.
I got five hundred dollars in quarters and dimes.

There’s baseball cards and movie stills
and paperbacks from France,
a shoebox full of teenage frills,
a corsage from the dance.
I even saved the glove from when
I shook a singer’s hand.
I don’t even recall his name,
but, man, he had some band.
I even have the knife and fork
saved from my dad’s last supper.
And here’s the poison bottle’s cork.
Not everything’s an upper.
See, everything is organized
by places, deeds and times.
In tins and jars I realized
I got five hundred dollars in quarters and dimes.
Here’s a sack of balls I caught
while sitting in the stands.
And check out all these postcards bought
and sent from foreign lands.
Got photographs of family members
going  back a century.
Yes, there’s some no one remembers.
But to toss is blasphemy.
Boxes labeled, cartons tabled,
bags and bags in many places.
Yes my movements are disabled,
but in all things I see faces.
Uncles used these decks of cards,
grandmas wore these jewelry shards,
Every word in this collection rhymes.
I got five hundred dollars in quarters and dimes.

Borderline Psychotic

by | Mar 27, 2019 | Posthumous Additions, Song

So here’s a song which could have subtitle new national anthem:

I’ll put a fucking wall
around you all.
I’ll toss your kids in cages
in the cold.
Paranoia has me in its thrall.
But I am made of concrete
and I will never fold.

Don’t talk about taxes.
What about the faxes?
Fake news! Dems are the colluders!
I have every right to cede
this country to intruders.

Pack up your investigation.
Won’t outlast my litigation.
Second term will be vacation.
Sell off many parcels of our nation.
What’s left will
have significant revamps.
And some amongst you
will be sent to camps.

Don’t mention obstruction.
The deep state’s big construction.
Witch hunt! The media committed treason.
I might just declare that this is
liberal hunting season.

Barsy

by | Mar 27, 2019 | Poetry

My mother died a year ago today.

I feel I need do more than light a candle.
I should sit on a rock and meditate,
but somehow feel that’s more than I can handle.
It’s been suggested I should plant a tree
but my yard is already over crowded.
I could walk through the streets calling her name,
all dressed in black or maybe even shrouded.
Some say that I should play her favorite song,
the one which almost mentioned her by name.
I think I could not handle that for long,
no matter who the voice is singing “Mame.”
The proper thing, of course, would be to go
into a church and sit down in a pew,
reciting prayers to her departed soul,
but that’s something an atheist can’t do.
And so my tribute will be quite low key.
No chants or songs directed up above.
I’ll just remember what she meant to me.
And try to wrap my heart around her love.

Scupper

by | Mar 2, 2019 | Poem, Posthumous Additions

There’s a lot to be saved if for drinking supper;
cycle all those liquids as if you’re human scupper.

Give me one more beer, dear bartender.
I’m still a few away from being on a bender.
When I start to ask for whiskey, that’s a sign I’m getting frisky,
and it’s best if you return me to sender.

I would live in a bar and become a drunk star.
I would detail my antics on line.
I’d abandon my house and then total my car.
Every night I’d mix whiskey with wine.

There’s a lot to be saved by drinking supper;
cycle them damn liquids around like a human scupper.

A man might dedicate his life to alcohol.
And his friends might tell him that he’s headed for a fall.
But what’s the sense of living your life up against the wall?
The great god of fermentation has provided me my call.

I am loved in liquor stores and cabarets.
My life is interrupted frequently by short jail stays.
I often see the world as nothing but a bottle maze.
But I’m much to old to change my sippin’ ways.

There’s a lot to be said for drinking supper;
run them liquids in and out just like a human scupper.

The Week Will Inherit the Earth

by | Mar 2, 2019 | Posthumous Additions, Song

It was just the saddest thing I’d heard.
Blue Monday’s sun was eaten by a bird.
It took off to the moon.
That light was gone too soon.
And now the dark’s just waiting for the word.
More bad news came the next day as I feared.
Ruby Tuesday up and disappeared.
Her dreams had all gone wrong.
She strangled in the song.
And then the restaurant: now that was weird.

Now there’s a weakness in the middle of the week,
a wrongness that wrecks words and makes it hard to speak.
And then the weekend comes, a three-day weirdness tweak.
But then it starts again, the bird with sun in beak.

///////oy couldn’t find a Wednesday connect except morning comin down /// if you can throw in WThF verses, then the last 4 lines could be chorus in this spot and at the end . ////// . we could have false names for writing credits, like Jah&Pa .
Stay tuned.