I used to ride waves on the deep blue sea,
A Sailor's life was the life for me.
It was the wildest thing I ever did,
I've been called Salty Dog and even Squid.
On a crusty deck, the hull painted gray,
We'd stow all the lines and be on our way.
A motley crew aboard the Dick E. Byrd,
Waiting for the Captain to give the word.
Heading South to the Indian Ocean,
Where the seas are calm and lacks the motion.
The only drawback was the blazing sun,
It was blistering skin for everyone.
The closer we got to the Equator,
The more we felt like a french fried tater.
You'd stand your watch by the light of day,
Or dead of night under the Milky Way.
When we could stop at a liberty port,
We'd all disembark for a little snort.
Some Jamaican Rum or Irish Whiskey,
A Tequila shot would make me frisky.
Then back to the ship with your heart content,
Thinking about the fun and money spent.
Cruising due North on a highway of foam,
Nursing hangovers on the voyage home.
In the Med aboard the Byrd,
Captain spoke and gave the word.
Rough course ahead, but still on track.
If not on duty, then hit your rack.
For Rob and I, we had to know.
So, topside bound to see the show.
Ship was pitching left and right.
Walking bulkheads with all our might.
Reached the fantail, but not alone.
Several Squids were standing prone.
With arms akimbo, we latched on.
With watered walls, the sun was gone.
Then up those walls to Neptune's peak,
To witness the chaos we did seek.
Shining sunburst on rolling seas,
With crashing waves and salty breeze.
Right back down to where we started.
Loved the rush the seas imparted.
Port to starboard, we felt the pause.
Ballast held to level the cause.
But when it froze for way too long,
Gut met throat to stifle song.
We broke from chain, one by one.
Back to bunks, like all had done.
Hours later, with humbled pride,
Will always reflect on natures ride.
Now I’m not a guy likes to dunk,
But this overseas backboard is junk.
For the costs I’ve incurred,
I should beat Larry Byrd,
Or hit a three-pointer, I’d thunk.
See, the front of the rim always droops,
And that makes it hard to play hoops.
Plus, the pole is too short;
it provides little sport
unless you’re a dwarf with the stoops.
But take heart and don’t ever fear!
Add hops to your hoops to bring cheer.
The more Hefeweizen,
The more you will wisen;
I’m a genius this time of year.
It’s not like you’re better; you’re not.
Just be happy that you forgot.
It’s bold and it’s yeasty,
so drink up your Wheaties.
Stop trying those darned three point shots!
—————
FIRST PLACE WINNER
For the Sad Backboards And German Hefeweizens Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Matt Caliri
Written on 04/17/2022
Mr. Seagull,
Have you seen Mr. and Mrs. Crow?
Oh my, I'm worried about them,
Where did they go?
The Ravens' answer,
"They didn’t say, we don't know.
Eviction dispelled them far away,
and with nothing to eat.
Nowhere to sleep,
and the last of the flock left for skid row.
Like the Byrd family, scattered.
They flew out of formation,
F.Y.I. they're beat, Broken.
In search of a new underpass.
A new city, such a pity.
Meandering, and struggling in tow.
To find shade in this scorching August heat.
Forced to move on and hide their pride.
Trying to begin once again,
A new start, an old low."
Black folk kept in sad condition
By owners without contrition.
What to do, what to do?
Wage war for emancipation
And forge a fresh slave-free nation.
The Forrest-Byrd Klan and Jim Crow
Surely are the ones you should stow –
What to do, what to do?
They rule and oppress your city
Blame them not ones who set you free!
Martin loved character content
With black and white talents lent
What to do, what to do?
Stevie and Paul in unity
Played in sweet keyboard harmony.
Smooth Barack cooed high in A sharp
As Hillary lowed in B flat
What to do, what to do?
So white folks, none playing a harp,
Chose the black, how racist was that?
Oppressed rainbow coalition -
All races rate full admission.
What to do, what to do?
Name trophy oppressor maestros
Amin, Mao, Adolf, and Castro.
Critical race theory, woke
Marxist, oppressive and no joke!
What to do, what to do?
Its rancid retro racist sin
Embalmed in landfill would fit in.
Hopeless
By Samuel K Byrd
A hot meal, a cold bed, and hopes
that tomorrow will be a better day
unemployed house foreclosed and the repo-man
arrived bright and early yesterday
tax cuts, tax incentives, stimulus package
all a little too late
get in line; get a plate, two hours later
you've forgotten what you just ate
classifieds job fairs Internet but nothing
seems to help
only good thing is that there is no wife or kids
I only have to provide for myself
just stay focused work the system
don't let it work you
keep your head high and your prayers higher
and soon you will make it through
The music begins, then the singing
I close my eyes, and even my ears smile
inhale.. humongous exhale, arms raise to the heavens
then my hands pose, lingering in jazz dancer's style
My mind begins to fly
Or perhaps as I glimpse the shadows going by
it's actually birds, yes birds fast forwarding to the rhythm
flying past majestic leafy trees beneath a dusky sky
Then the speed slows from 78 rpm
to 33 and a third
my body relaxes a bit more while I sway
becoming hypnotized to each note to each word
The clouds are outlined in smoke
a gentle breeze blows against my face
dancers appear, adorned in loosely draped gray chiffon
enchanted by the music, they swirl with finesse and grace
The wind picks up, so much so, that now, I'm flying
the shadowy scene about me is racing
it's as though I'm soaring through a vortex
unfettered, perhaps it's a virtual paradise that I'm facing
Feeling mellow with this
Byrd's band flickers in and out, the notes float and transcend
the song finishes but the music doesn't, not yet
I pen this piece as I peace out, so the music doesn't really end...
Inspiration: Places & Spaces by Donald Byrd
2/4/16
I LOOK INTO YOUR EYES ONLY TO SEE PAIN, KNOWING THESE FEELINGS HAVEN'T COME IN VAIN. SEARCHING AND LOOKING FOR NIGHTS ON END, WONDERING IF YOUR ALIVE OR IF YOUR DEAD. WALKING THE STREETS, AND ALL OF YOUR PLACES, SEARCHING FOR YOUR FREEWILL, AND SPECIAL GRACES. A LITTLE BOY YOU ARE TO ME, ALL I WANT IS FOR YOU TO BE FREE. YOU SEE SCARY PEOPLE, AND ALL OF THERE FACES. ONLY WANTING BACK THOSE OH SO SAFE PLACES. I ASK MYSELF ? WHAT DID I DO ? WHAT DID I SAY ? FOR YOU AND YOUR MIND TO GO SO AWAY. SO , HERE I SIT AND SILENTLY PRAY , THAT SOMEONE REACHES DOWN TO GRANT YOU ONE MORE STAY. OH GOD, OH LORD , OH FATHER OF MINE, PLEASE LET HIM WAKE AND KNOW THAT HE'S MINE. WRITTEN BY: DENA MICHELLE BYRD
When I gazed upon the lavender SKY
The sun was there to get in my EYE
Blinding my sight for a short time
As I stared toward SPACE
My thoughtz began to RACE
Then something flew by catching my eye
It was a Byrd gliding by……
A sight easy to look at, impossible to HOLD
Gliding so smoothly, the gesture so BOLD
It kinda remindz me of my relationships with men…….
Who are easy to look at but impossible to HOLD
Gliding thru life smoothly with gestures so BOLD
Lookin at those Byrdz, a lovely sight INDEED
Similar to men in many wayz though different BREED
I love lookin up at Byrdz & sometimes men INSTEAD
But many men like those Byrdz will crap on yo HEAD
Written & copyrighted by Tone Jaxson
Within the hype of hop-head hitter's fear
Are bitter crystal lies of siren night.
The sight of city sounds will surface near
As frantic raging rhythms rise in flight.
And songs we play in honor of the horn,
Blue-blended notes and half-note incompletes,
Diffuse the blues to jazz where love is born,
Creating genius bound for easy streets.
The scintillated syncopated sound -
Dramatic Diogenic dreams so vast;
A vibrant vision vital and profound,
Improvisation purity, at last.
Another brother for the gutter dead -
Transcendent saxophone--your habit fed.
For fifty-seven years his life to Congress Senator Robert Byrd did devote
Upon his death the headline said, "Democrats Mourn Loss of Much-Needed Vote"
*Senator Byrd had served in the US Congress since Eisenhower was president.
Surprisingly I believed
pain wouldn't come to me
like a byrd I'm free
( dedicated to James Dalton Byrd and to his song "Old Man)
I cannot listen to your song,
It is too beautiful and sad.
Your voice so is pleasant and kind,
Like at good friend.
Indeed you are very far -
The big ocean is between us!
There is too much sorrow
and only a few friends In my life.
Good luck despises me.
Bad problems laugh at me.
My hope is tired by my tears.
But your song tries to protect me
From my sorrow and problems,
To remind me of the fine friend for my soul
And to ask my hope to not abandon me.
Centuries ago
Father Byrd crossed those worn and weathered mounts
into the wild untamed unclaimed Mississippi River valley, settled down
and farmed land in a place that came to be called West Tennessee
sent grandsons off to Franklin to die for the Confederacy, sat and wept
and said not a word until he died of a broken heart, let his sons and
their grandsons and their sons and their sons farm his acres
‘til TVA took half of it, and the mechanized farmers across the Mississippi made
the rest useless, and the next generation went off to college and got Yankee
jobs, and
his last son sat dying of Alzheimer’s in a Lay-Z-Boy in front of a TV screen, and
his brother drove the last stake of barbed wire fencing into the ground,
rolled over and died of a heart attack in the timeless pasture.
He was eighty-six. I’m seventeen and here I sit
using my hands not for plowing, not for splitting logs,
not for shooting deer, not for fencing,
but for writing the history of those who came before
and made this life possible.
dedicated
to James Byrd
from Georgia
-------------------------------------------------------------------
The wanderer with a guitar goes on the road in June.
Flowers and trees welcome him.
Birds would be glad to sing to the accompaniment of his guitar.
But they are disappointed:
Their songs are too cheerful and carefree
for sad-fine music of this romantic guitarist.
But I have sent to him a familiar swallow from Russia.
This small bird has a fine voice and kind heart.
That is why she can understand feelings,
thoughts and music of the June wanderer.
The swallow from Russia will be glad to sing
to the accompaniment of his guitar,
and she will give to him my greeting.
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