silent country song
fades beneath the changing times
noises fill the road.
Their shadows, daytime's, invite
A moral night.
Whilst these, as toweringly leaved
Family gatherings.
If tipsy, each, both hung wide
Over, blood shot eyed
The more accepted who toasts
Life; out real love springs.
Great Uncle was a musician
He chased his dream on a mission
He never penned a song
Folks knew him well down in Nashville
Though music paid no big gas bill
He had true ambition
His songs found a sweet rendition
He played with open admission
His true love was lifelong
John picked his guitar with goodwill
With joy, the music he instilled
Sharing tunes, his mission
To make music his tradition
Spontaneous compositions
If I could string along
I'd play it with my own free will
John Craig showed such a master skill
He strummed strings all day long!
John Craig rode as a musician
With grit and a deep ambition
Just pickin' it along
John would pluck out his chords at will
With six-strings he'd ride and travel
Playing good tunes, headstrong!
He was a slick string technician
A musical aesthetician!
He played for trav'lers all night long
I'm not sure he knew a playbill
His playin' was a sweet earful
John Craig's songs still roll along!
[Even if in my mind!]
Great Uncle was a musician
He chased his dream on a mission
He never penned a song
Folks knew him well down in Nashville
Though music paid no big gas bill
He had true ambition
His songs found a sweet rendition
He played with open admission
His true love was lifelong
John picked his guitar with goodwill
With joy, the music he instilled
Sharing tunes, his mission
To make music his tradition
Spontaneous compositions
If I could string along
I'd play it with my own free will
John Craig showed such a master skill
He strummed strings all day long!
John Craig rode as a musician
With grit and a deep ambition
Just pickin' it along
John would pluck out his chords at will
With six-strings he'd ride and travel
Playing good tunes, headstrong!
He was a slick string technician
A musical aesthetician!
He played for trav'lers all night long
I'm not sure he knew a playbill
His playin' was a sweet earful
John Craig's songs still roll along!
[Even if in my mind!*
The sun climbs the glass-faced towers, Mist rises from ploughed paddocks.
Buses exhale diesel into the air, Fresh-turned earth lifts its dark, clean scent.
Coffee and pastries tumble into the street, Dew beads cold along the crushed grass.
My shoes kick paper from the pavement, My boots wake dust from the track.
A siren threads its needle through traffic, A kookaburra cracks the stillness.
Rain blurs the lines of the streets, Rain wakes the sharp smell of earth.
Fences divide the street from home, Fence lines loosen into distance.
At night, the city refuses darkness; At night, the stars reclaim the sky.
I look between the towers for one clear star, I look down the road for one clear light.
Two spoked wheels, blurry sped;
A road's sky-way on.
Now feather-light, now a-flutter
Sat of me upon.
All that's blowy to feel
Within as without
Is this its rush - Freedom's.
Through a joyous shout.
old anglesea rd.c. 2002
From a dynasty of light
There came a glorious dawn,
A mighty king, a noble knight,
A leader of our own.
He shone to end the darkest nights,
He rose to help the weak,
A man of strength, of will and might,
His people's good he seeks.
A protector of all that is sacred,
A loving father, a caring brother too,
His light shines bright against all hatred,
And in our hearts, his love will grow.
Throughout his reign,
He lived by his word and never failed;
Each day brought forth a lasting gain,
As security, prosperity, and justice prevailed.
So stand with me,
And let us proudly sing,
As loudly as our voices can be:
Long live the King!
Long, long live the King!
Listen.
Once, you were a small room.
Your mother's arms were the walls.
Once, you were a seed
in the dark soil of her,
fed a little, kept warm.
One day you will be a box of earth,
and that is not the sad part.
Listen.
Say it with me:
a door, a door, a door.
Say it to the girl with a book by the window
until the glass melts into a road
and the road runs to a new land.
Say it to the empty plate.
Say it to the empty slate.
A hungry belly and a hungry mind
cry with the same small voice.
Listen.
They put the river in a pipe
under the school ground,
under the noise of the bell,
and told it: go here, go now,
stay in your line.
They gave it lessons made of stone.
But water is a keeper of names.
It holds every song
it ever carried to the sea.
And one dry summer,
one grey morning,
it climbed up through the tap
like a word climbing up a throat,
and the river,
the river,
learned to read.
Traffic buzzing, racing and jamming brakes
People bustling on sidewalks and streets
Noise with everything, rushing, except for lines waiting
Voices, horns, a blur of activity all around
Then, there is the ride to return home
Empty road, widespread fields, open land
Mountain views with rivers and bright flowers
Peace settles in as my mind clears and heart slows
- It feels like heaven all around -
Heidi Sands
9/2/26
(C)opyright
Wooden signs, pickup trucks,
Bob wire fence, cattle herds,
Rows of corn, cotton fields,
Shelly beans, kinder words.
No town lights, no loud cars,
See the sky, see the stars.
Swimmin’ holes, catfish bite,
No work stress, live on less.
Peace of mind, country side,
Sunday church, decent folk,
Pretty girls, handsome boys
Fulfilled life, boundless joys.
Perched on top the telephone
pole, a cavity carved out there,
a family of Woodpeckers lives
on Prosperity Lane, a lightly
traveled country road. Here
one is blessed to see
black and white patterns
against a blue sky as these
birds fly between poles and
tree limbs in the delight of
an April breeze.
Their call is something akin to
a chuckle, a childish delight,
for surely they own this lovely
green land, lawn stretching
far out, dotted with dandelions
and blackberry vines.
On any given day one who walks
this county lane can hear the
drumming of these clever birds,
living alongside the Mountain
Bluebird, Quail and Wild Turkey.
They drum to annonce their
territorial claim.
As in Gold Rush days these birds
have their golden reward of
acorns which they bury in pantries
of trees, poles and fallen logs.
Once again, the drilling is heard
as we walk through these Northern
California woods. Look closely
at the Ponderosa Pine. You will
find it studded with acorns. The
Acorn Woodpecker, ever industrious,
is satisfied that his is the best
of all worlds.
An angel in heaven she'll be
Seeing her best friend Kenny
Another legend in the sky
Spreading wings so she can fly
She gave us songs of truth she told
That were about her life and bold
Along with cute and happy ones
That were catchy and so fun
She was an angel down here first
Her heart brought happiness to earth
She helped those who were in need
She was never rude or mean
She grew up poor but she was humble
Never a complaint or grumble
Just a country girl that stayed
To her unselfish caring ways
In heavens choir she is singing
An angel voice that is bringing
Joy and happiness above
With her gentle and pure love
In the arms of a lover's dream
The sensual grace, up close to your smoothe face
Maybe to never to know the truth to my obsession
A home-boy,who loved his mother
Like a scene from some love story
I melt,I wonder, it gives me all the peace I need
I am in love, but it's like dry wrought in the brain
I am not making out in the back seat
Why does that feeling have to sing in my face
All the king's men and his women
Couldn't drag me away from
I live for that feeling
You give me
Please let me repay
You see them rise while still in the suburbs,
the rings of hills, the wilderness buffer;
smaller, more round than what waits further on,
some sport cabins atop with views quite long.
Down on the road some houses still pop up
for folks who hate the concrete, noise, and trucks,
and at crossroads, small stores with country themes,
selling jerky, t-shirts with wild scenes.
Then small motels folks claim on the weekend,
cars with kayaks, across the ponds to wend.
Just down from that, a smallish petting zoo,
with local critters strutting in plain view,
the kind you wish you could see in the woods,
but they all hide, and that’s for their own good.
Then a small lake, stubbed with second homes,
the kind that you hope someday you might own,
weathered docks and fishing boats on the lake,
could the trout here be big enough to take?
But now the peaks are stretching for the clouds,
buildings thin out, the road the forest crowds,
the foothills gone, these mountains your escape,
a wild land, the kind owned by the state.
Country mouse’s unrestrained giggles drew the attention
of city mouse, too sophisticated to mention
that his cousin’s hee-hawing had city mouse
whipsawing between guffawing and prissy pretension
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