Inspired by; Constance La France’s Native American Portrait
Nikan is a man who once stood proud and true all across this land
in symbiotic relation with nature endowed by the great creators hand
passed onto him by his ancestors to never take more than his fair share
and always be kind to this land for it’s the Mother to all whom she shall bare
When times are lean we all will grow thin together for together we are one
with one voice to sing in harmony for bountiful harvest to our Father the Sun
and give him thanks and praise for warming and making fertile our Mother
who blessed new life into the birthing seasons for every Sister and Brother
Great spirit hear my song of hope that I sing for my people who will cry
we are mighty on the earth give us protection or your children they will die
and our people’s blood will flow upon our Mother like deep rivers of raging red
O’ Father I can see no solution will you spare us from the white mans dread
I could never make claim to imagine this great man’s woeful sorry or despair
Nikan's song is a lonely tune played for the spirit of his people upon the air.
Nikan traslation from the Potawatomi "MY Friend"
Baamaapii Nikan.......until we meet again my friend
Her breathing moves a strand of golden hair
that lays upon her pillow, next to mine,
yet in this evening birdsongs on the air
awaken me to listen and recline.
This errant bird, whose song dispatches sleep,
is laughing at a long forgotten jest
or maybe woos a distant mate who, deep
inside her feathered nest, finds better rest.
I watch the window, night begins to fade
and so do I. As slumber beckons me
I hear a distant answer softly made:
A dawn duet resplendent in our tree.
A single song brings answers in the air
as my beloved sleeps without a care.
The blue-grass music blares from speaker's face
as guys and gals entwine moon-round the floor,
she sits alone, ignores the dancers' pace
although her ears record the rhythm score.
He begged her love; he painted instant fame.
She nursed her song in dreams alive to wit,
she trusted him to give the verse her name,
and reasoned out they spun a perfect fit.
With traitor's greed intense, he stepped aside,
and claimed her song as his with no remorse.
He left her raw, his chest out-puffed with pride.
Disgraced, abased, her anger reinforced,
she writes another song, recounts the tale,
assured his star will now commence to pale.
Traversing passed a moonlit glade,
I spied a nook where dreams are made.
A twilight windsong filled my breast
and cleared a notch where I could rest.
My windsong trilled internal hymns,
as moonlight peered through oaken limbs.
A wise old owl cooed in my ear -
"Compose a song for her, my dear."
A soothing psalm that once it’s heard
will soon be sung by hummingbirds.
Melodic notes that swirl and rise -
akin to lilts in lullabies.
Now in this niche where dreams ensue -
A songbird sings my song for you.
Culture is beautiful when expressed in the right light
It is the drum we walk to, dance to
Everyday down city corner streets
It is the obstacles we walk through, run through
Everyday common as the passing faces we see
It is the temptation we indulge in, survive in
Everyday it rises
like the sun
and sets over horizons
It is the songs we hum to, succumb to
Everyday on the mornin' radio
constantly setting the mood
givin' that vision to our way of life
Beautiful culture yields to beautiful life
Tears In The Wind
Left hand deftly fingering strings on frets,
While my right hand is picking or strumming.
Composing a sad song about regrets
And searching a melody by humming.
I easily find a chord progression,
Played in a melancholy minor key,
Then add some dynamics for expression--
Reaching a fugue-like state releases me
Fleeting perfection is my endeavor.
Like tears in the wind, now lost forever.
Listen when you awake at crack of dawn
hear the chorus of all the birds singing
watch them as they scurry and dig the lawn
until a nasty cat sends them fleeing
How very dull and bland without any birds
silence would greet us with it's bleakness
less colour everywhere, half mast halyards
how lucky to have birds to add brightness
So many feathered friends around
delighting us with their wonderful songs
the sound of harmony our souls surround
for the sweet mellifluous songs prolongs
Tunes everywhere blending in harmony
sweetly combining sounding like honey
Come, sit here beside me – it’s where you belong.
Hand me my guitar – I’ll sing you a song
About roads I have traveled and bridges I've crossed
On destiny’s journey from where I was lost.
I can tell you of victories in faraway lands
Fighting for reasons no one understands.
I've written of dangers that no man should face –
I have written of things that time can’t erase
Wanderlust drove me, for so many years,
Through miles of wasteland and rivers of tears.
I've been there and done that in so many things -
I've written the songs that Destiny sings.
My last song will be about that shining star
That led me to Paradise – here, where you are.
Written by John Posey
Tears of a little girl
that's so young, that's in her childhood,
make a golden well, make a golden well,
but she doesn't realize
her tears sing a song so beautiful.
They sing a song of treasure,
they sing a song so wonderful,
they sing to worship God,
but she doesn't realize
she has a gift to sing.
She mustn't sing for anything
she must sing for the King,
but she doesn't realize,
she can sing so goldenly, (so as a golden well)
Listen now carefully, what do you hear?
sounds abound as you tune in to listen
universe of noise fills the stratosphere
birds singing, rustling leaves in transition
Blades of grass crackle sounding like gun fire
the trickle of the brook harmonious
I settle down by the roaring campfire
drinking in the sounds most melodious
As magically they blend together
creating music so soulful to hear
playing perfectly keeping in meter
in the background reed pipes clamor come here
Music around us abounds all the time
listen to it play enjoy the downtime
O why’d they misconstrue your colour against you?
When the song is swift imagination, so sweet and full
Why’d they whisper of weariness, of idiomatic blue?
When pause is ponderous play not a dark silent lull
It is the bluebird’s song that warm thoughts entice
That unexpected exuberant bout of welcomed joie de vivre
That instant intoxication of all virtue and all vice
Oft’ heard from coffee’d morn till the day’s end receive’
When beguiled by melody left to lilt through wistful air
That beacon of curiosity which so quickly is consume’
Cheery embrace – the listener enraptured is divided ne’er
Till the final bar closes only then may the day resume
Though for tunes of waking night the bluebird composes nigh
Alas, her song is for bright day not for moon’s sleepless sigh
A lyric drawn of passion’s longing, lit,
shall flow in spirit to thy avid mind;
faint apparitions swirl and bait thy wit
with drifting light, a joint rapport to find.
Soft silky ribbons braid a chiffon song,
of gloss and gold as bright as twilight star,
that soars on high on winds that sail along,
to carry forth a wish to lands afar.
Anticipation rising with dawn’s glow,
as wait, for now, is all that I can do.
Oh can, of windblown song, a kinship grow?
and can that song of one now sing for two?
Of windblown song across a world so vast
I bid it sing an aria to last.
Originally for Nikko Palmario's 'Without U and ME' but since edited & now has just one little 'm' ;)
Keeping—the Syllable Count
Knowing—How to Rhyme
This – is—What keeps is a—Sonnet
Annoying – Iambic—Line
Constantly – Chiming—and Gushing
Blowing—in Merciless – Gusts
And Yet—Still always reminding
Attend to it—While it lasts
Stemming from – Nature’s Rebellion
Or – Simply—Pressuring Air
Or If it’s Heaven—is Gentle
Just Quietly—Whispering There
Flying and Swimming—in Space
Gliding—with the – Utmost Grace
Oh, write tae me of the highlands,
the crisp air and the damp.
Write tae me of the heather'd fields
'ere Bonnie Charlie danced.
Oh, place yo'r quill upon the page
and dream a fey song wit me,
of rock tor's an' crags an' fiords
which join the raging sea.
Of fair Iona, the Isle of Sky
the Inner Hebrides.
Hike yo'r kilt, strap on the uilleann
and keen a sweet song for me.
Oh, dinnae tarry beyond the pale,
with the wail of the brash banshee.
*Written in dialect in the style of Robert Burns
**Dedicated to our Jamie our own Highlander
So here you come, our back's against THE WALL,
and UMMAGUMMA, you're the worst we've seen,
you'll MEDDLE in our lives, that says it all,
but please BE CAREFUL WITH THAT AX EUGENE.
I'd ride my BIKE, but there is too much rain,
if you SEE EMILY (she'll) PLAY for you,
and RELICS that you leave will be a pain,
if Roger Waters more what will we do???
Your ATOM HEART, MOTHER is stone and cold,
and US AND THEM you might be blowing soon,
like ECHOS of Camille, now dead or old,
you'll blow us to the DARK SIDE OF THE MOON.
Before you're done, we'll see PIGS ON THE WING,
SMALL FURRY ANIMALS, I'll rhyme this thing.
© ron wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet
----WOOPS, sorry, there is no song title
of DARK SIDE OF THE MOON by Pink Floyd,
it's title is BRAIN DAMAGE, the 9th track on
the DARK SIDE OF THE MOON ALBUM.
Sirtuins, an enzyme I think, has the ability to rejuvenate
human cells; but it is very expensive to produce. Hence
only the elite can use it and thus live to be 500 years.
People shrink after two hundred years the fortunate
will be as tall as five years old and demand door bells
and light switched placed on the skirting board.
We, the mortal, will have to bend down as we always
have done to the powerful who are related to divinity.
Lottery in the future will not be about money but win
the right to be injected with Sirtuins. But the winners will
not join the elite, but alone face the horror of watching
family and friends get old and die out while they continue
to live in a world that is and echo of yesterdays anguish
devoid of laughter, love and newness.
You've changed your song again and sing it through
I hear it in the night it clings to me
just as the song before, the same old you,
yet different are the words and melody.
Though you've re-done your hair, and beautif'ly
and how you walk and talk is all brand new
you've changed the way you whisper things to me
so different, yet it's still the same old you.
In all my life I feel the you in me
and changes you have made in all you do
though different in your way, you'll always be
lifes tragedy and still the same old you.
Though changes that you make seem fresh and new
I see you in your light the same old you.
If I was a song would you play me
Or just let the pages be
Blowing across an empty table
Like some unread worn fable
Would you filter through and read each page
Direct the words as if I was on a stage
Tell me what and where to go
Or whether to come to and fro
If I was a song would you sing me
And find the chords that has to be
Take the time to make it right
Or would you put me out of sight
I wonder as I look up at you
Do you even feel like I do
The pages lie here for you to see
I am your song come and play me
A saddest song within me idly pursed
Is lodged in lyrical melancholy.
A muted voice attempts to sing a verse
But only soundless words escape from me.
Its somber composition might as well
Be blank without a pleasing melody.
The lyrics are lost as sinners in Hell.
The couplet verses filled with self-pity.
An aria within my doleful soul;
A piece that never will be heard by ears.
A single opus creation, surreal
And limited, saddening with no tears.
A song without a voice to sing it's sad
Refrain-enough to drive me raving mad.
When bird song rumored dawn, I climbed a hill,
A hill I've climbed before, again, again.
I came to learn a song so glad and still
It only sounds at dawn, just when...Just when.
I climb because He said the shadow lifts
Like mist is burned from silver mirror lakes,
Then new reflection on the surface drifts
As all below the surface breaks. It breaks.
A breeze strummed grass, and gold announced the dawn.
The common graces seemed to chant the start
Of day; yet only this day breaks upon
The symphonies inside your heart. Your heart.
Among the miracles that Easter gives
Are songs of Always. Listen now. He lives!