Staring, vapor locked, at my Hammond B-3 console organ, which dominates my
kitchen. Surely a symbol of my madness. I can't help, but think, if the keys were
the days of my life, and the black ones represented the bad days, are there
enough black keys?? Fighting petulance, self-pity...losing...
Wondering if I can stand another minute alone. Atop my organ, music books,
and the complete works of Edgar Allan Poe, another mad poet.
Plagued by physical agonies that merely complete a perfect circle of anguish
and distress. Even to worrying of misspelling a word again. Pure lunacy.
Remembrance of my 1863 death at Missionary Ridge, something I became
aware of as a young child before I'd ever heard of reincarnation. Or just an early
sign of the madness to come??
I am lost in a befouling miasma of deep despair. My life's hopes down to 2
desires; one last music band, and taking my son to Disneyworld. Money is
meaningless to me.
I am well aware that death is as natural as life. And I would venture to guess
that the loss of my father, my young cousin Billy, my dear friend Mark Trotiner, and
too many others, are "Business As Usual" in this universe. But not for me.
Being terminally ill myself is something I have long since come to terms with.
And what a reunion it will be!! But I must continue to go on surviving as though I
cherish this long and barren life.
My writing, especially my poetry, my poet friends, my music, my musician
friends, and a few relatives and others; these are the meds that work for me; not
the 30 or so pills I must deal with everyday. So thank you all.
And now an addendum, one which brightened my day:
Mark Trotiner long maintained that he gave Mark Knoffler (Dire Straights) the
idea for his hit song "Money For Nothing", when Mark Knoffler came into the
appliance chain store he worked in way back then, where he bought, and drove
off with several T.V.s, singing the prototype words he'd gotten from Mark Trotiner.
Over the years, I tested him repeatedly, looking for the tale-tell deviation in the
story one finds in a false tale. He never faltered, he never failed.
We broke in two and it amused him that I was still counting...
I could hear the night whisper beyond his ears, the bed we lay ourselves down upon and
passion was considerate when his mind let go....
she was direct and unforgiving and I...
I could listen to the tumbling of my heart for ages and I collected music as my lips split
in half, it was only to kiss him, you see, only to allow him to know...
how I bled.
I tasted myself as the night wore on, exhausted yet hungry for his arms, I studied my own
in the afternoon, multiplied my freckles and wondered if my child would be ashamed of the
scars that decorated my skin, prayed she would never know how years could bite, so I
reached for him when the clouds became cold and I became...
as I frightened myself to death in the realization that we....
were still so alive.
The ground we walked on spoke of faults and mistakes, there were cracks in the earth yet
my hand still held his, he was clueless and I was silent but we slept well, he and I,
after passion erupted and the sky split...
when the clouds collected my music and rain sang, just to show him, how the days
Today, I had a chance to ask his widow, Laurie, about this story. She
confirmed that it did happen, and he came home from work that day excited, and
told her and their 3 daughters about the event.
And sure enough, shortly thereafter, the song became a hit on the radio, and
M.T.V., in those ancient days when they actually played music.
This news brightened my day considerably, and I'm happy to share it with you;
so when you next hear that song, remember my good buddy, Mark Trotiner, the
uncredited genius behind it.
~When We Met.~
Battling everyday is so hard to maintain a healthy
brain to keep up with our everyday work our
thoughtful speculations of wanting the impossible
to take place,has to change,by gaining self confidence
and become independent.
When we just met at the hotel lobby for recollection
of work,accompanying us the sounds of 4 of July in LA.
Our ceaseless conversations felt flawless immediately.
A faultless intimate sharing took over a mixture of
work and pleasure.
When we just met,our loving nature coincided with
authentic sounds of fireworks plus its music filling
the sky with a huge combination of the most
beautiful Technicolor's of fireworks.
The sounds with musical lights combined together
allowed our eyes to sparkle more than ever,both
of us became in a pensive dreamy mood for a rightful
discussion about how love can start by romancing,
to evolve later into a durable long lived relationship.
He was so much my type of a man,an artist in his work,
very authentic,fancy,& has an unforgettable
sense of humor.
Smiling drinking and eating with our discussing,
constantly allowed us to remain in high spirits,
behind us the sky illuminated our joy of being
together,that delightful lasting closeness felt
like a challenge awaiting for the unpredictable
to happen,the tremendous sounds of fireworks
accompanied with a charming tempo ringing
in out thoughts.
Instantly our touching hands felt permissive,
stimulative,devoted,his voice transformed into
an echo inviting me to later go up into his room
to heat up the bed and enjoy cooling off our desires.
Having asked me before about what color of roses I love,
Later on hand by hand once inside the room it was filled
with yellow roses everywhere,and layered on the
Suddenly, he threw my hand bag and held me so tight
to waltz to the sounds of music,a telepathy between us
and the sounds rang in our ears as a sweet mixture of music.
Immediately took my hand kissed it with his warmest lips
begging to love me tonight,what a gentleman our body
connection was authentic,flirting as a start was conceived
in an artistic way,kissing wise and making love was
memorable, slowly the sounds ended while gradually
our naked bodies parted in the morning when our
routine for work had to take place.
We parted with a long sexual kiss,emancipating
another brutal night with a candle light.
It was kind of nice having money all the
Looking back when I was seventeen,
I looked forward to going to work.
It is unlike what I feel about work now.
I did a lot of reading as a child.
I read all kinds of books.
I would consider Oak Lawn a safe
I can’t remember any times when I got beat up.
I did a lot of running home and telling.
I avoided a lot of suffering by talking to
My parents about the bullies.
It wasn’t until junior high that I had to
Take care of a fight that went way wrong.
I was scared to death of a seventh grader.
I fought him, and found out he wanted to
I wasn’t that good of a
I got better
In high school.
It was kind of chaotic, and the wrestling matches
Were more “fighting” than wrestling.
I hung in school and made a name for myself
At Oak Lawn Community High School.
My sister gave me a collection of albums
My junior year.
I was introduced to all kinds of music by
My first good introduction to music came
My sophomore year.
A friend introduced me to “The Police” with
“Zenyatta Mondatta” and “Ghost in
He told me what he did at his party
In eighth grade.
They sat around and played Gin.
They drank soda.
They went bowling.
I got off to a late start with music,
And I finally caught up with my tape-
Radio I got for Christmas my junior year.
I could have had a big party,
But I decided to wait.
I didn’t really have one except
The one’s I had in grammar school.
My friend thought he was going to
Get married to this one girl at O.L.C.H.S.
It fizzled out like my relationship did.
That girl liked someone else though.
I should have given up calling her,
It was no fun talking to her.
She didn’t talk to me at all in school.
I’m not sure she even knew who I was
I didn’t have anymore classes with her.
Her boyfriend went out for basketball
Like I should have done. I was pretty good. Maybe just
Doing my chess and studying was the best thing for me to do.
The atmosphere is electric with joyous anticipation
The musicians are readying themselves to perform
You know some of the pieces that are on the programme
You settle yourself down and switch off your phone.
The concert is starting - the atmosphere changes
An energy filters to all in the room.
A tuning of instruments, the looking at scores
Some rustling of programmes, a settling of bones -
The conductor emerges to a rapturous applause.
The greeting of musicians, old protocols fulfilling
This fuss gives importance to composers long dead
The excitement is rising – the audience is waiting - then
A gentle quiet plucking - a crash of brass cymbals -
Violinists synergistically wielding their bows.
Wind takes up some threads of the melody
Soprano in blue sings out from her soul
Her face is mirroring a wealth of emotion
Slow melody – a gradual build up - a crescendo sublime.
A solo on viola – entwined with some oboe -
Conductor is dancing – the harpist entrancing
- an excitement of sound
Invades your serenity –
Fills THE SPACE THAT’S WITHIN.
You sit up straight – alert to the music –
Absorbing it all with each cell of your being
A smile on his face, your companion leans over –
“Keep this in your mind for when you grow older,
It will delight you!”
Love's Symphonic Passion
by Odin Roark
Shimmering whispers urge forth,
A beginning seeks release from darkness,
The voicing of struggle proclaims arrival,
Like miniature cymbals of resolute announcement,
The humble cries of emergence
Clash ever so quiet with air and space,
Once portending grace,
Now its melodic genesis.
The matrixes of parent/conductor
Anxiously hum nursery rhymes
Through white enameled side-rails,
Vertical portals to unfettered ears,
Absorbing even when sleeping,
Evolving passion's invitation.
The precious first movements
Grow from those one-finger dissonant phrases,
Sometimes pounded upon the black and white landscape
Where an merging piccolo's infant smile
Finds support by paternal contra bass and maternal cello echoes.
Remembrances of tinkling melodies
Soon enjoin its pure and simple
With conflicted movements of trial and error,
Evolving the inevitable adagio of growing up.
The scherzo's innocence of adolescence
Crescendos into threatening measures,
Where layered tones of choices
counterpoint to independence,
or sympatric harmony.
The family of voicing
Develop love's thematic material,
And more complex harmonies,
Creating the free fantasia,
A coalescing of passion's varied workouts.
Its strings worn thin,
Arriving at life's largo movement of peace,
That place of reflective consonance,
The weight of its chambered containment
Rests forth its closing bars,
Housing now but the waning echo of a baby's chorus.
Its shimmering whispers
Float upon one last wave of the baton,
Stirring life's ethereal essence
Into heroic chorus
A higher bonding…
And the westerly wind,
Will blow a sea of waving grass
And the sea's fine mist
Will breathe drops like dew
And the sinking suns
Will cloak the sky's horizon
And the moons of Autumn
Will beckon the golden fertililty of the harvest
And the violet tinged edge of night
Will cry for the white bursting of the stars
And the carved thrust of the mountain range
Will challenge the forever yielding blue
And the hovering tunes of the dawn's awakening
Will mimic the lullaby of my dreams
A love that is stronger than my pride,
trying to keep feelings my heart can no longer hide
Emotional honesty is trapped within me,
relieve me, and oh please set me free.
How to give my heart if am afraid to be hurt
Turning my back on love ignoring what its worth.
Refused to reach out for his love, I ‘m all left alone, now
loneliness thrilled me to my very bone.
Playing the ‘hard to get game’, now I’m left like a clown.
Trying to escape from such a feeling; truth that my heart is revealing.
Silence screams music in my head, pushing me to switch on the TV
There came Beyoncé doing her show, singing her new song ‘Halo’
Amazed, her voice melted my frozen stare, so I sat down on the coach to listen.
Her music turns hypnotic and pulled me in, sending thrills all over my skin.
Her voice were clear as the Caribbean sky on a cloudless spring day,
and every word she says just melts my heart away, giving deep feelings that
Consume my tender heart, leaving only mystery with no ultimate attempt to define it.
Her word touches my emotion from the core of my soul, and it seems like
everywhere, only my lover’s face that I behold.
Then a happy time filled my mind, giving sensation of a summer breeze tickling my
skin and amplifies the deepest desire I felt within. This perpetual bliss, abruptly I
found myself in the arms of my love wth Enthralled Melodies making Passion
explodes into flames and from this very moment, I know my life will never be the
By kelleyana Junique.
MUSICK NONnude Review
Grand Funk Railroad was a fave group of mine the best time eye ever had was in
a house on a rug listening to this song of hard rock and rhinocerous thumps.
Wait. FOGHAT was the best for sex but lucky mee was never a Catholic. The
Horns blew for Chicago and there was lots of other groups to make this fable
bleed there was the Creedence Clearwater Revival so cool so wonderful a thing.
John Fogarty sure must have been a saint. Eye wish he had not got so mad and
left the other members of his group. But Creedence Song became a new fave
Daddy had a band
Played him a little guitar
Traveled in a van
Livin' that rock and roll
Night after night
People comin' up to the bandstand
Say you can't go wrong
If you play a little bit of that
It was late one night
Cruisin' on down the interstate
Stopped into a diner
To get him some chili and fries
Heard the waitress tell a guy
Standin' over by the jukebox
Hey you can't go wrong
If you play a little bit of that
Well daddy took a shine
To the lil' girl behind the counter
She movin' her hips to the swamp beat
Right on time
Said could he play her somethin'
Over there on the jukebox
She said you can't wrong
If you play a little bit of that
Daddy had a plan
He asked that girl to marry
With a brand new wife
They're livin' on rock and roll
Night after night
She whispers oh so sweetly
Hey you can't go wrong
If you play a little bit of that
This cold is touching me and I'm liking it
It hugs me real tight and I'm loving it
Now it's biting me real hard
From my foot up to my face
I wanted to let go but it won't
Though it realy hurts, I won't mind
The Evolution of a Note
The song continues and the listeners remain happy. The one note which is floating in the air will be heard! The change in the sound will be heard . The change in the sound will not be too drastic . The truth is something that that there are some things which time cannot destroy. The air is cold but the sun is shining. The one note floats in the air and takes shelter in the heart of a large tree. Feel this note in your heart . It has incredible power
The Enigmatic Middle C
by Odin Roark
Might that in between place be,
Where water from trickle beginnings
Modulates into wakes,
The upward span,
Then downward stretch,
Forging through minor and major choices,
Embracing half tones of engagement,
Carrying a merging forth of discovery,
Becoming a torrent
Containing both high
And low resonance,
Searching connective tremolos for oneness,
Finding innocence too must give way
As sensory reaches beyond comprehension,
Where the journey to ascending chance,
Converges proudly with the crescendo of eternity’s unsolved mystery.
And then there comes the uncovering…
This state of mind where new lessons to be learned
Conjoin this forever gathering of cosmic virility,
Where energy’s often dissonant questions
Start from ancestral middle fulcrums,
Branching its reach beyond scale,
Dancing with lightness of weight,
Tip-toeing upon the notes of power
Into cautious voices forging ahead,
Always remaining of purpose,
Yet often clashing as contrapuntal mistakes.
A child might hear the echo,
As octaves of like innocence reaching skyward
Enjoin rising fathoms from below,
Becoming one in harmony.
Such is the improvisation of life’s exploration,
Searching for tomorrow’s final chorus,
Where one’s once center being,
Youth’s springboard arch,
Finally becomes the never ending center
Of perpetuity’s orchestral gift,
That striving to live what life can be,
And then what it might become,
That spanning far beyond yesteryear’s Middle C,
Where the measured spans of equidistance
Ascend the borderless boundaries of one’s inner-self.
Waking to murmurs
Hum of smooth white noise
Or waves slapping rocks
Through mirror-like glass
I see russet wings
Dampened by dewdrops
Walk to the kitchen,
my feet soft and bare
on tiles cracked, and
wish the sea
He is the sinking of the final red orange sun of the glowing summer
Warmth no longer oozing and seeping into the pores as I lie bare under the skies
Jeweled dewdrops on the morning grass to dampen bare feet all softness under
And the shimmer on the surface of the lakes like the diamonds in your eyes
He is the golden cusp pf Autumn's Fertility
The ritual dance of the scarecrow in the breezes
(Straw coming loose and flying towards you, most certainly
will brush up against you and tickle before he ceases)
And this thinner less lumpy all seeing scarecrow
Seems to be in no remorse: his knowing face will always grin
And his arms will always be raised in a wave to show
He will protect the yellow brown stalks that bend before him
He is the crisp wind that caresses the crinkled foliage
Their rustling like long flowing skirts on a 1940s ballroom floor
These winds chill the fingers and toes and your face with the stinging red roses
Yet when winter beckons the retreating light, we will be frozen at its core
He is silent snowfalls and many winter moons
And the brown earth beginning to expose itself
The uncoiling of green and mud beginning to ooze
And all new life breaking free from its fragile shell
Like a raindrops,
When racing October, smoothly,
Shaking upon ember pulse
Ah _ I adore its talk,
When fear roars into myself and calms
And when the minaret of the village,
Exclaims my name,
Like a successive waves,
On the banks of sorrow
And when my old friends,
Taking a farewell look,
It’s lying down next to me
As a white star,
Dancing between five sleepless angels
Upon endless greenery land,
Playing grief tunes; the tunes of the end
After the interview;
Each rider and horse,
move it off, all too quickly.
My head how it spins, around it.
As it works each day, with such beautiful hands.
None known here, can refuse it.
Here in this factory, they own it.
It are they, as they hang down, each cloud
and dawn like dew, each tip, now dripps with it.
What has it done.
What should it do.
Roles reversed, would you.
i look they say, like it.
I frown they laugh and i smile at it.
Upside down, they are all I see, and it's full with it.
They all watch it, as none can slip by it.
Explaining and swirling about, as it utters.
Looking at it, most like they, start to work.
One says it's simple mechanical, it's poetry.
Fore their arms are off and their aft of it.
All just because, they make cream from it.
Factory chatter is loud and the clamor it grows
as each machine moves,
up and down, outside all around it.
The bottles once clear, are warm when they're filled,
and the milk comes out, quickly through it.
They try Calming it down, as too many hang
and around it, are those hands that confess it.
Each cow, you now know, has it's very own name,
and as Betsy stands there, don't confuse it
Is It Poetry
My heart stop sometimes and then it skips beats what is it
That my life is short and if I don't get you back it will stop
Come back to me and heal this froze heart of mine take me
into your arms
and embraces me with this pain
Give me that nice and understanding part of you bring the
sun into my darkness of love that I have because
of you life couldn't be better without use together so open
up them windows and let the sun shine in
Renew our friendship to inreplaceable pull together the
strength of love and forever keep use hole
Cool mountain streams reflect the cobalt blues and greys of sky
Restful twilight with stars scattered as if on a canvas
Fire cloaks the curve of the earth and golden fish swim nearby
Weeping willows in the field sway to an urgent sadness
The gushing wind that stirs etches the land, channels through boundless time
The carved thrust of a mountain range, maybe the Andes
Will challenge the forever yielding sky, vast as the horizon
Where rain batters the window and mists as far as we can see
It is a warm evening in a pub in Ireland
As the songs hover around us, I know this is what it is like to be free
And far into the night I crooned that tune.
The stars went out and so did the moon.
I stopped playing and went to bed
While the tunes through his head.....!
I know that you are gone
but I still hear your footsteps on the walk…
your key in the lock…the dog welcoming you home.
“What’s for dinner?’’ you ask
“I am,” I playfully reply and smile
as you sweep me up in a bear hug and I can hardly breathe!
Your clothes hang in the closet waiting for your return.
I listen to your voice on the answering machine
a hundred times a day to prove you are still here.
I never imagined when you left me that morning
That this would be the last time we kissed..
I never would have let you go.
This date will forever be a day of shame and heartbreak
The world and I will never forget
This September 11th
The day the music stopped!
Copyright©2001 Beatrice Boyle
(All rights reserved)
The Fourth Fable
The Fourth Fable
A Jesus Cowboy Song
Eye am a strong man iff strength is not physical alone,
but charachter and hope, love become my armour
my arm as gates once opened close now new ones open at a glance in poverty
of riches poor people there in Heaven sing to Jesus as they wave branches from
the richness of the trees beside the waters running in the trenches freely given
overflowing when a little lamb just wants a drink of water another drink the water
bubbles up so no one has to lift her she can reach the water carefully she drinks
and then she sings…'
'my holster is empty my life is complete my love is in Heaven
eye have plenty to eat and to drink '
life is not meant to be a shoot em up rodeo
life is not meant to be a shoot um up movie
my life is in Heaven my holster is empty
eye have LOVE'
THE VIOLIN PLAYER
Poised chin, resting warmly in the tailored cup,
Seals the union.
The smooth bow tenderly caresses each tuned string;
Fingers gentle as milk
Roam the slender mahogany neck: sweetly
The ebony hued harmonic vault echoes released passions
Of an innocent heart
Bleeding a mosaic canvas: coloring metered air
With cosmic rhythms.
Cosmic rhythms: teasing tympanic membranes
With melodic ecstasy.
if the music on
no matter if its bop
or hip hop or pop
its the music shop
has no corlor for all other
Once upon a time - not so long ago - encountered, was this exotic GU ZHENG. Fate, placed this lovely Instrument, into the hands of an old player, a musician who had been laid to rest, who had lain dormant, frozen in time, among the ashes of reflections of the music he once played, music that created the sights and sounds that made up the visions he now looks into, of his past.
This old man's abilities - decaying, flaccid from so many years of neglect and impotency - came to life, to life with such desire, that it made possible, movements from his tired old mind, mouth, hands and fingers that would play sounds, vibrations of heavenly music, that would sing to the ears of his lost old soul, lifting his spirit to heights once only known to his youth now to extro into the world of the living, once again, fingers - like that of the gods - gliding over this elegant, sweet Instrument, caressing her with whispered strokes, much like those of silent breezes on a clear, worm summer's day as they slide across the quivering strings of this beautiful GU ZHENG, that now - after so brief a moment, making such heavenly articulations -has given up the music, ending the dance, turning down low, the lights that once, where as brilliant as a million suns, and taking the music - silently drifting across the players recollections of tunes they once danced to -and slipping it into the hands of another .
The old musician slips into a cloak of sadness, of dark dirges he puts into his own words, plays from his instrument, - the broken heart - plucking at it's dead strings, bringing to life the blues, the song of his awakening .
B. J."A" 2
February 16th 2011
I’m dancing to my feeling, with a rhythm
Of music unsung
Listening to distant voices
Unsure of the message
Of love that ain’t mine, in the voice I hear
‘Here I am’, could that be the voice
That drives me to the unknown
To lands I fear to trend, in light and dark,
To catch the voices, and kiss the light
That sparkles, in darkness of love
I’m all but, biting the desires
And hidden feelings in my heart
Unsure of her feelings
And music in her eyes
That leaves me faint, and crippled with desires!
Some Paris Hilton wannabe laughed
At my cell phone
(which was missing the battery cover)
As if to say
As if to suggest
"He'll never get laid!"
The day was too gloriously
For me to care
About the trivialities of some
Electronic set of shackles
And the status of their condition
I was tempted to throw out some quips
Toss some facetiousness around
Just a little something to mentally gnaw on
While mockingly handing her the phone
"Oh, your girlfriend has something to admit to you."
While overanalysing her face
"Oh, nice 1986 pink skiing googles that you call sunglasses."
Why feed the absurdity with more
Of the same
The leaves were showing signs of new color
The air was crisp
The hummingbirds were in Mexico
The music in my head was excellent as
The breeze blew over my neurons
La muchacha con no alma
Para la Tierra
I hear the music of the heavenly angels
Coming softly through the blue sky from above
Blending with the music from on the mountain tops
Bringing to all earth's people messages of love.
The song birds are singing to the angels' music
Telling us to hear the words of truth very clear,
"All of earth's people are more alike than different
And to help each other will leave no room for fear".
Come listen to the music of quiet gentle breezes
And music from wild flowers growing on the hill
Whispering softly to awaken our spirits
Saying, "Only listen and let your hearts be still
I put the following piece of prose together as a single literary package after watching Hitchcock, a 2012 American biographical dramafilm based on Stephen Rebello's non-fiction book Alfred Hitchcock and the Making of Psycho. The film was released on 23 November 2012; I saw this dramafilm two years and two months later, yesterday evening 17/1/'151 on TV, in Tasmania Australia. In 2015 was entering the last decade of late adulthood, the years from 60 to 80 according to one model of human development used by psychologists. I wrote much more than what appears here, but space does not permit me to enter any more of what I've written.
Psycho was a 1960 American psychological thriller-horror film directed by Alfred Hitchcock starring Anthony Perkins, Vera Miles, John Gavin, and Janet Leigh. The film was released in the same week I began grade 11 at high school in the then small town of Burlington in Ontario's golden horseshoe. I had just finished one of my most successful summer seasons on the mound and at bat in Burlington's midget league, as well as in the Halton County baseball association. Readers with the interest can access all the details they require about the film at several websites.
Psycho's screenplay was by Joseph Stefano, and it was based on the 1959 novel by the same name. In 1959 I joined the Baha'i Faith and knew nothing of the novel, although I had heard of Alfred Hitchcock on TV several years before; I also saw the film several years later at some time from 1961 to 1963, my last years of high school.
Sir Alfred Joseph Hitchcock(1899-1980) was an English film director and producer. Often nicknamed "The Master of Suspense", he pioneered many techniques in the suspense and psychological thriller genres. After a successful career in British cinema in both silent films & early talkies, renowned as England's best director, Hitchcock moved to Hollywood in 1939; he became a US citizen in 1955. Wikipedia has an excellent overview of his life and I commend it to readers with the interest. The magazine MovieMaker has described him as the most influential filmmaker of all time, and he is widely regarded as one of cinema's most significant artists.2-Ron Price with thanks to 1ONE TV, 17/1/'15, 8:30-10:30, and 2Wikipedia.
end of document
going back in to time
the blues has shine
its sad and it bad
they pick quick
and play away the story
that come from within
GUITAR BLUES MEN