Hard not to love Dylan Thomas’s tall tales
Each gloomy day may just tip those scales
Sends you off the rails when all else fails
Dilly dally schoolboys get cat of nine tails
Go doolally rally in the valley hard as nails
Don't cuss no faff or fuss for us Taff males
Knew along with a fair few Cymru crew's hue
Shared view that no where else has in spades
Cascades of so many gloriously grey shades
Dylan boozy villain mutters hip hop hooray
Gusts bluster beneath his sails on his travails
Trooping way this colour can't be kept at bay
Muster bulbous tinted voluptuous glinted bales
Proudly ride loudly in the night on his coattails
Very fond of merry vagabond's beyond the pales
Hail the true Withnail's escapades made in Wales
Don't harangue pang for meringue gang at play
Not a gimmick pray clouds don't go away hold sway
Rollick then frolic & fossick.. a limerick for any day
Outdoor foray adore bucolic score kaleidoscopic GREY
How come we are deemed as free
Though it isn’t clear from what
Can I get a guarantee
That it’s freedom on the spot
If I’m free to walk along
Crossing over every line
Free to think that I belong
To the place that isn’t mine
Free to count, and free to pay
Free to be checked up and not
Recognized the other day
Being lost in freedom’s lot
If my freedom were an item
I would sell it on eBay
Knowing it’ll return next Friday
And till Monday it would stay
Choice is free, though can’t be noticed
Laws unwritten, though obeyed
Who remembers the importance
Of the freedom, been downplayed?
Pilate’s question comes to mind
What is truth? The ages followed
The ephemeral reply
Of the Dylan’s wind blew hollowed
But I know, love, what to do
When at night the time is ours
What's my freedom, if not you?
If you hear me through the flowers..
Dylan’s Voice: An Assay
Bob’s voice is like fingernails
scratching a chalk board
but his voice fits his music
his voice is found in his words
life disguised in poetry
his themes of protest, love, life, death
created images carefully crafted
other singers and bands have been so
captivated by his voice they have covered
and copied its style and message
even the committee in Oslo, Norway paid
tribute to his voice with the Nobel Prize
in literature
Bob’s voice will carry on long after
his physical presence has departed
each new generation will emulate
what his voice started
Winds of Consciousness,
waves of ponderousness.
Particles always whispering,
transparent and yet listening.
Bob Dylan lyricized the wind.
Others have been equally determined.
Through karmic rebirth and purification,
one can transcend in the eightfold revelation.
Always returning to the mortal taste of sentience,
always ascending in awakening self-observance.
Realize we are the cause of our suffering.
Realize how we can be free through our discovery.
Cultivate an attitude of love and kindness,
cultivate awareness of momentary mindfulness.
Envisage wholesomeness, altruism, and selflessness.
envisage empathy, compassion, and fairness.
Speak truthfully with the harmony of rivers.
Speak never with cruelty, hatred, or anger.
Acting with the fragrant, mellifluous breeze.
Acting with loving and unconditional ease.
Awaken to the absorption of the heart.
Awaken to life’s intricate work of art.
Winds of consciousness bring resilience.
Winds of consciousness are the habits
for turning Dharma wheels into enlightenment.
Death Bed Poetry: Dylan Thomas
Alcohol and co-dependence make poor conspirators
Delivering more a life driven by inquisitors
Dylan Thomas poet and drinker
Part time lover and full-time thinker
In fading health and across the sea
He gathered himself for one last spree
The White Horse Tavern welcomed the man
And there he started his final stand
"I've had eighteen straight whiskies. I think that's the record!"
Alcohol, pneumonia, and Doctor Feltenstein were more than he could afford
Caitlin flew in to remark, "Is the bloody man dead yet?"
Comatose and failing, the bard was not quite there yet.
Still and silent, and lying abed
A few hours later and Dylan was dead
having gone "Gentle into that good night"
with no further words and such little fight.
Thus, the end of our Welsh poet Dylan
a bit of a rogue but not such a villain
who now learns Death does have dominion
in spite of the bard's differing opinion.
do not go gentle into that good race
Tired muscles should burn and ache by race’s end
Run, run against the slowing of your pace
How perversely exciting it used to be, in
the months after you made your decision
to abandon this hopeless situation
meaning [rueful laughter] the UK, not so much
the shattered bones of you and me
I was still hanging on, a faithful puppy
getting up early and heading out to Heathrow
to provide the welcome committee
and then I went straight to work? and where
did you go on those days?
I forget you had other friends, and
that strangely I wasn't the epicentre
of your multiverse
30 years have passed
the children you had with Wolfgang cycle shorts
may even have children now, but
Facebook won't furnish me with that information
On those airport journeys I always listened to
the Blood on the Tracks cassette
I found in the office 'library', a source of much wonder
which also included rare volumes, magazines
and actual vinyl. They didn't appreciate what they had
and neither, here comes the punch-
line, did I
Ain’t Gonna Go To Hell For Anybody by Dylan
I find your lines like wine
Making me drunk with love
You toy with my mind
And I’m infatuated enough
But when I think about it
I cool off and pray with faith
Sex and lust is lousy
If you don’t love me God’s way
It’s better to marry
Than to burn like fire
Real love is carried
In red heart of desire
I know we can fool around
And likely have a good time
But hell is a long way down
I don’t want to lose the divine
The love I deserve
The love I desire
Found in holy word
Not from the pit of fire
I’m not going to hell
For any one over flesh
I’d be just as well
Waiting for true happiness
I ain’t gonna go to hell
For anyone no sir not me
God has a plan and well
I’d rather belong to Thee
An Even More Minor Tribute To Mr Dylan
Bob Became A Christian
But
Jesus Was A Jew.
"You've Gotta Lotta Nerve."
-Gray Squirrel
05-23-2025
Thinking About the Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan
1963-A new voice appeared in the folk music scene,
his songwriting skills came into play with this
album. Eleven of the thirteen songs were his
original writings. Songs like “Blowin’ in the Wind”
“A Hard Rains a Gonna Fall” and “Masters of War”
sparked a new revival and direction in folk music and
began the prolific career of one of musical history’s greatest
songwriters. Freewheelin’ was my introduction that led to a
life long fascination with the man and his music.
Robet Allan Zimmerman
a native-born Minnesotan
he changed his name to Dylan
and now he is worth millions
Dylan Tribute
Dylan
Poems
Great
Music
Nobel
Prize
Newport 1965
(Or Dylan Goes Electric)
This was the dream concert
folk was at its peak
Pete Seeger, Joan Baez,
Odetta, Peter, Paul and Mary
Bill Monroe, Johnny Cash,
Gordon Lightfoot, Ian and Sylvia
But the prize, the dream was
to see Dylan play Blowin’ In the Wind
acoustically.
The folkie purists were shocked,
the dream had died.
Dylan played Maggie’s Farm with an
electric guitar and their world came
to an end.
In Dylan Thomas's word play is read,
That hunched houses, blind as moles, are spread,
Like covers, feather-downed,
To hush and muffle any sound,
The moon dares make, sneaking overhead.
Town named 'Bugger All' backwards, parades
Its hang-over from late night charades,
Not a voice can be heard,
Not a breath, not a word,
As the moonlight creeps in, wearing shades.
In Under Milk Wood it's black as black.
It's crow-black, bluesy black, harking back,
To times long gone, dispelled,
When tiny towns were spelled,
For one to reconsider its quack.
Seas are fishing boat bobbled to rage.
Boys dream bad, on jolly roger stage.
Shops in mourning do moan.
Dumbfound town folks do groan.
Too late cock, morning's long up on page.
Robert Zimmerman
American Poet
Heard the tambourine man play today
as I was knockin’ on heaven’s door.
Like a rolling stone she could not stay.
Her boots of spanish leather made me sore.
I was knockin’ on heaven’s door,
old mighty Quinn had much to say.
Her boots of Spanish leather made me sure,
That like a rollin’ stone, she could not stay.
Old mighty Quinn paid me a visit,
and left me blowin’ in the wind.
Positively 4th street isn’t it,
while I watch the river flow, again.
And left me blowin’ in the wind,
when she told me it ain’t you babe.
While I watch the river flow, again.
Watch her float past as I wave.
When she told me it ain’t you babe,
I had to go back to Maggie’s farm.
I’ll watch Maggie float past as I wave,
when a hard rain’s a gonna’ fall.
I had to go back to Maggie’s farm.
Desolation row had lost its charm.
When a hard rain’s a gonna’ fall,
the hurricane ruined Maggie’s farm.
Desolation row had lost its charm.
Her leather boots made me sure.
The hurricane ruined Maggie’s farm,
I was knockin’ on heavens door.
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