(first two stanzas are from Charles Messina)
I was sitting on the corner, stoned
When out of the blue, my dead aunt phoned
How could this be, she rests in peace
Right beside my loving niece
I answered the phone, and my auntie said
"I know you think that I am dead"
"I'm alive"- my auntie moaned
Or- could it be that you're just- "Stoned"
(These two stanzas are mine)
And then I heard my niece’s sweet voice
say, “Heaven’s a wonderful place to rejoice.
She crooned a Willie Nelson tune,
then chuckled: “Dude, we’ll see ya soon.”
Couch lock had got me; I couldn’t move.
I wanted to be back in the groove.
No munchies around! Things were all wrong.
Why did I use that stupid bong?
Note: Should I be fortunate enough to win, I give permission for the use of either one or both of my stanzas to be used by Charles Messina , even in reverse order if that were to work better
I turned on the radio and heard this country song,
The melody was steady, the feeling sure was strong.
A steel guitar was twanging, like memories in the night,
It painted fields of summer, gold beneath the fading light.
A voice sang about a heartbreak down on some old dusty road,
Of letters never written and love that once had glowed.
He crooned about a front porch, a dog asleep at feet,
A gentle southern sunset and a world that felt complete.
The chorus told of freedom, a truck and open sky,
Of chasing distant daydreams and never asking why.
There was laughter in the verses, and tears within the tune,
Old friends and faded blue jeans, memories gone too soon.
Each word felt like a story I somehow knew by heart,
About losing what you cherish and finding a new start.
I turned up the dial louder, let the music take me home,
In every line and melody, I found I'm not alone.
So here’s to country radio, where memories belong,
And hearts find some comfort in a simple country song.
Tournament for the UNO
Championship.
Tournaments two one
The west coast the other
On the east coast.
Semi finalist will meet
To crown the inguaral
Champion. Dinner ceremony
With a concert. There the
United Worlds Checker Championship
Chess Association championship
But the light of the evening
The Pro League Uno Championship
Will be settled. They will have the
Right to call him Champion!
Promotional sponsors
And commercial sponsors
Have made the prize. One audience
Member will win big!
Concert night performers includes
Danker Dimwitt and The Crunchy Carl Band
Singing""Doo woop ditty doo wop"
Songs crooned by Bacca Briskehisk
and the Twenty Won Orchestra
Bacca promises to sing
" Sooth Me" and " Got be Mine"
What a line up, bring your own napkins please.
Seat Coupons available at Baus and Save
Arena ticket show.
Sponsored by the All talk Music Group.
A Bizzy Man Production Co.
Day Job
_-----------------
My Song, it could not sing itself
And neither, friend, could I –
The notes they were – preoccupied
The lyrics lies, lies, lies
It struggled with a forlorn tune
With rhythms cadence-less –
Its chords were carried on the wind
Remote and powerless
From steeple tops it sought my ear
It strove for major scales,
Yet failed to lift this Chorister
– It sang to no avail
My voice was mute in silence
It was no song, no song
That I could ever sing along
– The song was wrong, all wrong
And so, I sought a newer verse
A Tune to fit myself
Without a tonal dissonance
Or timing out of step –
For harmony – I scored a Breeze
For words I fitted Truth –
The Tune a composition
An Opus could reboot
The cantos trebled at the strings
The lyrics crooned of Spring
Instinctively my voice arose
To meet this newer thing –
It rose, a Canta Libre
Familiar in refrain,
I felt a certain resonance
At recess in my brain
Advance in bright arrangements
And deftly play the strains
Of Anthems that I once had known
In glorious refrain
From sleeves of albums days gone by
Away on dusty shelves
And stirring now, My Song restored
As if it never left –
It’s dark here—
Pillars of rain hold tears in place
as the thunder bellows
lupine laments
succor for saccharine hiboux
murmurs of misunderstanding
malice on the mind of mayhem,
unaware of the daffodil’s proclivity
for imminent destruction,
the madness of sacral lilies,
petrichor hymns
crooned to She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named
ANGIE, that last slow dance in smoky haze—
you slipped UNDER MY THUMB like twilight’s ache.
The Rolling Stones crooned fate through tangled days;
I tried to PAINT IT BLACK for mercy’s sake.
But YOU CAN’T ALWAYS GET WHAT YOU WANT—truth stings—
just loaded TUMBLIN DICE in neon towns,
chasing HONKY TONK WOMEN on borrowed wings
while WILD HORSES dragged dreams to thorny grounds.
O RUBY TUESDAY, ghost in sequin sheen,
your laugh a roulette wheel’s bright, spinning sound.
The jukebox plays what might-have-been,
where every win was loss, and lost was found.
Stones still roll… but honey, in the end,
the house takes all. Even diamonds bend.
A sudden drizzle gushed along the street,
That I wiggled out , romping and playing
In my cotton jumpshirt as summer cooled,
To allow a downpour of monsoon rain.
Swerving through puddles where debris
Gathered around little tots' feet,
Our lithe bodies slip-skidded, glided
On a roller-coaster ride of muddy suds... what fun!
Then, I picked dingy ferns coiled by reeds,
Merrily smiling past waters, unclear…
Till Mom and Dad yelled "kids , clean up...”
O youth's play of bubble-pop made us blush.
Then soft winds crooned among the trees
Where only spellbound laughter can recall
This whimsical atmosphere: A time to reel,
To cherish the frolic in heat of summer days
Which spangled my childhood sprees aloft!
We weren't always dolls
Before the dolls - flesh was
RAW
and torn
Before we were dolls we could rip open our skin
and bare it to the world
and when a little girl peered inside
everything was new and unseen
but flesh got harder to dig into
and tear
and stretch over a canvas
and all the little girls grew impatient
for it had been a long time since they had seen something new
so the little girls tapped on our skin with gnarled hands
and crooned
open up
let us see
but we didn't
we couldn't
open up please
let us see
its been too long
but our skin was fully hardened then
plastic as a penny
LET US IN
they screeched
and clawed at our skin
but it didn't yield
when our pretty pink lips parted in protest
only echoes came out
and a little girl leaned in
maybe to peer through our mouths into our stomachs
maybe to taste the blankness
but when it did
it choked
its mouth filled with pounds and pounds of fluff and nothing
whispers of when skin was made
to be torn
and little girls didn't dull their fingernails down
scratching at doll flesh
Glenn Campbell sang of Wichita
Trini Lopez of Kansas City
Otis Redding crooned of Sausalito, CA
Sittin’ on the dock of a bay
Chicago was Sinatra’s kind of town
He belted out the refrain
Guthrie’s ‘City of New Orleans’
Turned out be an Illinois train
So why don’t they sing of Annapolis!
It rhymes with Minneapolis and Indianapolis
And fifty-four astronauts graduated the Naval Academy
~ Updating ‘Anchors Aweigh’ would gladden me
Enchants, “Dors, mon amour,” night of romance.
Long ago, he crooned, put hearts in a trance.
André Claveau, nearing fifty years old,
effulgence of French lips, Eurovision’s gold.
Some audience, annoyed, at love’s deep sleep -
need be left alone, or for love to leap…
The words, that poetically churn, nonsense
to the incensed, these verses of suspense.
Sleep, my love - will she awake or’s love passed?
He’s locked his princess in tower of past.
The contentment, of love, some find boring -
nuances “ever-after” adoring.
1958, Giraud and Delanoë,
do stare into the lover’s peace and joy.
Sleep is in the hollow of his heart. She
is together with him all night, in lee.
It is not just in movement, we give praise,
for the hope of birdsong clings to dusk’s blaze.
“With all the refrains of the night,” heart beats.
“The sun is still far from daylight,” its sweets.
Poet might interpret eternal love
as in moment or forever “above.”
Such love is felt so deep and stirred in sleep.
It’s present in a Frenchman’s tongue. I weep.
My mother’s wedding gown
in my closet, whispers a tale
of love and togetherness!
the gold embroidery
all over, done intricately,
dazzles like a star-studded sky,
picturing the glitter and pomp…
telling me story of that special occasion!
I caress the gown with tender hands,
It hums a song which my mother chose
for her wedding day!
The lustrous silk rustles,
The lace murmurs softly to my touch..
I close my eyes, to listen to the
melody that silky, satiny, subtle-hued dress sing -
a song which crooned in the heart of a
ravishing bride !
This Old Guitar
This old guitar still longs to play
his tender tunes of yesterday
that crooned to lovers in the night
beneath the stars and moon’s soft light
and gently stole their hearts away.
His strings now stretched with time’s dismay
and frets worn down as years betray
with aging ache that’s meant to spite
this old guitar.
Oh how he longs for past’s array
when life was but a chic cliché;
but now it’s hard to get it right,
while searching passions in the night
when no one ever wants to play
this old guitar.
August 2, 2023
Third degree burns? I just get hot;
Finally, deep enough to wound;
Painful skin grafts can't get a shot,
to my frequency you were tuned;
Beneath the surface desire crooned,
I'll be your willing apprentice;
Eyes flashing 'Danger' I just swooned,
thriving in a consuming kiss.
Blind to the words she heard
The written song he spoke
And though he spoke it candidly
The notes about her broke
The words were formed as music
They crooned, and sought the air
Alighting briefly by her ear
– They caught her unaware
The song he sang was breathless
Tumultuous, yet calm
Beneath the earnest candor
The truth a swirling storm
The message it delivered
Would satisfy a life
Did not her answer thunder
And – like lightning – strike!
So like the wave that crashes
Against the rocky shore
Whose churning sound is buried
Beneath the next one’s roar
His message fell unbidden
Without acknowledgement
And back into the ocean went
The bottle he had sent
Here I sit on this night so still,
not a rustle in the leaves
nor a stirring in the grass.
No whispers intrude; naught but mine.
Ill news after days spent ill,
unwelcome foreword to grief
inexorable more like than not.
No answers come; naught but malign.
A thirst I can never quell,
a gulp seeming to smash the silence
whilst whiskey spars with the fear.
No solace is on tap; naught but fake.
A call from inside breaks the spell,
an urging for sleep's cocoon
next to a lover's warmth.
No closure can I find; naught but striding on.
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