I sing the woes of schoolyard crows.
You are no more bird than balladeer,
Crooning sonnets you compose
From gossip of the vanished year.
The gate I crossed, and now am lost
A guest where once I bore a name;
Iron bars are now with lacquer glossed,
But I am still the same.
It grows late to be without a nest
Do we return then? Do we dare?
My guilt hammers at my breast;
You and I, we are unwelcome there.
So sing with me, you sable host,
Of lessons from the years long flown—
For I, like you, am but a ghost
That haunts the yards where I was grown.
knowing...
if stars should fade when I'm with you
and darkness reigns in midnight blue
I would croon while we rendezvous
sultry lyrics in your ear...
love songs of a balladeer
whispers fondling your neck and face
caressing each exotic place
'til breathless in my warm embrace
there's teasing with finger tips
and tasting from parted lips
our passion stirs without disguise
your need escapes in moans and sighs
I kiss the lids of your closed eyes
there's beauty found in the dark...
when a kiss ignites a spark
our tongues entwine like flames of fire
for want of more, we both conspire
carnal fervor transcends desire
both yearning to sate this thirst...
ardor nearing a cloudburst
in night's gloaming, we were discreet
fulgent beauty, tryst in retreat
love evidenced with each heartbeat
dazzling hours of sweet torment...
in shadows our time was spent
sweet torment... in shadows
.
save
'twuz tuh feed
mine he
and here this tattered i
share storys with mine host
i to be the pingtan
imagine i
the balladeer
i
the jester
and tuh
share her'z
yep
This is the story of Norm and Nate,
And Hank Williams, the great balladeer,
And what was to be their horrible fate
As they spun on this rotating sphere.
Nate the needle played hits on a platter,
Spinning the sad songs Norm had made him.
Norm, as they’d say, was mad as a hatter,
But Nate the needle meekly obeyed him.
In a circle, the platter would revolve
As Nate would sing sad sounds he found there,
While Norm, crying bitter tears, would dissolve,
As Hank’s words and voice, he couldn’t bear.
Hank’s million-dollar voice came from on high,
But the Lord gave him a 10-cent head.
He wrote the song, “So Lonesome I Could Cry”
Lamenting leaves that would soon be dead.
On New Year’s, ‘53, Hank Williams died;
Norm could play only that song and not move.
Hank saw the light, while Norm cried and cried,
And Nate was buried in a watery groove.
Lo, Oh poet of mine admire;
Speak to the fire;
Converse open flame thine heart dire;
Arch-poet, ballad maker compose lovely lyric rhyme unto me prior;
Ballad singer, balladeer voice still cry;
I ballad monger, idolize beat poet, bucoliast, elegist shy;
Fair epic poet, folk singer gleeman, journey lands,
Idyllist speak unto me emerald skies;
Imagist, jongleur, laureate recite toss the voice bell righteous ringer;
Librettist, major poet, maker, Meistersinger, minnesinger;
Best-loved favored treasured vocal
closest to one's heart preferred chosen
Sightseer mishear appeal reveal wordsmith zeal
Mimic speak life Celtic minstrel bard of Avon, Shakespeare!
12/12/23
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2023©
Bard Poetry
Chente—mi amigo, compadre, hermano
Troubadour of our pain untold
Minstrel of our abandoned souls
Keeper of our traditions bold
So loved by La Virgen de Guadalupe
That she took you on Her day
Now heaven’s honored balladeer
For Her now, you may play
You leave us with our sorrow
Our inconsolable despair
So, with a soft prayer on our lips
We plead—Volver! Volver!
I Am A Bloke.
I am a bloke you see
that I happen to be,
from Terra Australis,
and who likes to write about
the many things I’ve found,
that it is of the bush,
the scrub,
and other places be.
however, it is most of all
the animals that interest to me,
who creep and crawl about
inhabiting our land,
and in the course of my days I’ve found;
bush turkeys:
make a bloody mess,
wombats:
are cute, in their burrowing ways,
kangaroos:
like to bound about regardless,
red bellied black:
highly venomous bloke,
echidnas:
are prickly folk at their best,
goannas:
simply like to run up trees,
daddy-long-legs
are really and truly scary hairy beasts,
platypus and platypi
are not really seen by many,
kookaburras:
like to sit on boughs of old gum tree,
cane toads:
squishy, squashy are best left dead under feet,
great white sharks:
need to stay in ponds;
but for me on the other hand,
there are many others I could write about,
who play their part and make
the Australian landscape
as the only one of its kind,
and for this I’m proud to be,
a blokes bloke,
a bush balladeer,
and a poet from the land ‘down under.’
OFTEN AS A STORYTELLER
Quite often as this storyteller bloke,
I like to play on words,
Seeing if it makes me to be,
In a sense of being
A wordy kind of fella,
Or am I just a plain
And ordinary wordsmith;
As the user and the chooser
Of what I put down
On the finest parchments found.
And then there is you see
As it escapes from me;
In short intervals be,
Many tales of sad,
And many tales of glad,
Told by someone
Of the olde school brand.
For I have come to realize
That of the many journeys made,
In order to relate
And wise wisdom words put on down,
In order to bless;
For there is another thirsty soul,
Awaiting, awaiting!
Therefore, I am at an age
It is a privilege to have attained,
To be a narrator so,
A teller of this man’s past;
And hopefully bless
A listener with me words.
And as we so do sit;
Around the campfires of life,
Where flickering embers glow
And sparks dance their last request,
Therefore, as we depart
And go our separate ways,
As you the receiver have listened,
‘Bout the many journeys made,
Coming from deep within
And from the soul,
Of this bush balladeer bloke….
Francis Cooper - Mac
You must love me sideways,
Desert island of poetry and lace
Embroided inside the fleshy
Tunes of the drunken balladeer.
The overcast day, my warm soul
Inside the cold bed of gloom,
Comes to inhabit the sunny side
Of your world, cracking the whip
Of the edgy tales of tomorrow.
Sane for me, insane for you,
Choose a picky battle to ruin,
With the gaze that turns me
Defenseless as Scheherazade,
Before the storytelling squad.
This is another modern age,
the one others will dream about;
a free spirit out of a cage,
a balladeer creating art.
Many ages ago they used plain paper and ink,
I use a keyboard and a computer at all times;
it's a powerful hardware that makes me occasionally blink...
then it's time for me to go to bed and wait for surprises.
Pens, pencils, pads and note books now are things of the past,
what if a power loss occurred and the screen went blank,
who could recover any work...wouldn't some beat on their chest?
Get used to saving your work, be diligent and don't strain your shank.
This is another modern age that will flourish as fragrant lime,
and to lead one must be determined, motivated and accurate:
counting syllables, checking iambic meter, stress and rhyme...
and the author will have a chance to become a Poet Laureate.
.
The old balladeer sounds
like a tired man.
Under the wind of an
electric fan,
he blinks his bleary eyes
as fast as he can.
His breath reeks of tobacco
and stale rum.
As he hiccups through songs with
a coarse hum,
the drunken audience gossips
and chews gum.
.
Blissfully, Blessed
Blithely, Brilliant
Blatantly, Brave
Bipedal, Biographer
Bilingual, Bibliolater
Beyond, Blasphemy
Before, Bespectacled
Benevolent, Benignity
Bending, Belly laugh
Betraying, Beelzebub
Betrothed, Beau
Bearded, Baritone
Barbate, Banjoist
Baptized, Balladeer
Badinage, Banter
Under the wind
of an electric fan
the old balladeer sounds
like a tired man,
blinks his bleary eyes
as fast as he can;
breath reeks of nicotine
and of stale rum,
crooning his song
with a gravelly hum,
the captive audience gossips
and chews gum!
(Dedicated to Waylon Jennings who died February 13, 2002.)
You were the balladeer in the movie 'Moon runners' that was made in the
seventies.
Several years later you became the balladeer in the Dukes of Hazzard on TV.
You guest starred in an episode of Married with children sometime in the
nineties.
You were a fantastic singer and I'm sure that most everyone agrees.
When you died, the music industry suffered a great loss.
You would've died in 1959 if you had won that coin toss.
Ritchie Valens won and he died in that plane crash instead of you.
You cheated death in 1959 but you weren't so lucky in 2002.
People loved you and they knew that you were a credit to the human race.
You were famous for years and now you're in a better place.
Oh, mournful, mountain balladeer,
Your plaintive, mountain song
Comes aching through
The tender evening sadness.
"White oak, red oak!
White oak, red oak!"
Oh, whippoorwill,
My soul echoes your sorrow.
Oh, spokesman for the broken heart,
Who taught you your refrain?
So eloquent your voice
Of soulful yearning!
"White oak, red oak!
White oak, red oak!"
I join you in your
Summer night's repining.
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