In a thriving city a boy was born,
growing up melancholy and forlorn,
thoughtful, with a poet's sensitive soul,
he knew he was different and unwhole.
His life would be both rose and piercing thorn.
He took to the road, and he travelled far.
In the Summer of Love, he found his star,
and for the first time, he felt happiness.
a strange new world felt like a warm caress,
San Francisco and electric guitar.
His smile, like the sun, would light up the sky,
but that California Sunshine high
would almost break him and lay him down low.
But those days are gone, and so long ago.
Now, we can only cry, and wonder - "why?"
Rorie the rock star mouse ordered a big electric guitar
He was in a band in Wisconsin, but was Minnesota far?
Many begged him to join them, was one band enough?
Rorie’s head exploded with pride, he felt like hot stuff.
I was a late arrival
born in nineteen fifty-eight,
during the folk revival.
As a kid, music was survival.
Records then sounded great
on a platter or a plate,
like Peter, Paul, and Mary,
and Puff on a seventy-eight.
Later, having no place to go
and no one to meet,
Mr. Tambourine man would show
a wonder I did not know.
In my consciousness, he took a seat,
I listened o'er and o'er.
I put it on repeat -
something worth living for.
Chase dreams, he would entreat.
How I remember, in the park,
I heard my first live electric guitar.
At the sound of that spark,
something in me, no longer dark,
like fusion in a star,
with electricity instilled,
from where I was, it took me far.
Everything inside me thrilled.
That was only just the start.
There are too many bands to name,
who created musical art
to expand the mind and heart,
no two of them the same,
like the Airplane and Grateful Dead,
peace and love, they would proclaim,
and those sentiments would spread.
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.
Happiness is scattering herbs of kindness,
watering weathered willows in the wilderness.
Happiness is following lavender streaks of twilight~
gliding across cerulean skies, so bright.
Happiness, a synonymous noun for my precious son,
his lyrical laughter, mirrors the rose moon and sun.
Happiness is wildflower wishes that free flow~
woven with sunflower syllables, amidst inked woe.
Happiness is the dahlia sanctuary of my beloved’s heartbeat,
as home is a frangipani feeling in his poetic retreat.
Happiness is reminiscing magic within violet vapors,
recoloring mauve meadows on watercolor wallpapers.
Happiness is walking away from deceptive witches,
alone, wearing cashmere cardigans with no lethal stitches.
Happiness is indulging in the chocolate flavor, so sweet,
when my cousin bakes hearty muffins, together we eat.
Happiness soars from magnetic melodies of an electric guitar,
harmonizing diamond serenades of my twin-star.
Happiness is an endless emotion of peaceful purification,
when soul feels warmth through internal perfection.
My Muse awoke me,
I had been listening to a thunderstorm
from my warm bedroom.
She wanted me to write about
the storm.
The morning came fine and fair,
she was still pressing me
to talk about the thunderstorm,
but I am done retouching
and tweaking
dusty old images
that cannot be verified
in this very moment.
The present is a fact checker
and a sunny sky don't lie.
If you must know
there are peaches in the orchard
Squirrels are nibbling away the windfalls.
My son is almost playing a tune
on his electric guitar,
the smell of bacon
is pulling me toward the kitchen.
I turn on the TV
but all the shows are reruns.
The room which haven't opened in years,
Seen the light today,
In the old,dusty trunk,
Found an old guitar,
The memories flooded back again,
Near the lily yard,
A cute little instrument shop,
In which the electric guitar fell in love with a simple wooden one,
Its was like the thunder found a home in vintage heart,
But the faith wasn't in their hand,
Parting way was all they can,
Now may its not the same,
But
"I am old guitar with broken strings,lost in the hope that I will be still be called as yours"
~Riya?
(political tongue-in-cheek humor) (no political sense of humor...pass this one up)
Artificial Intelligence has been around a long time: before Biden invented the wheel, was first man to step foot on the moon...before he crossed the Delaware to rout out the British, thus saving the colonies. Before Pete Buttigieg made safe the railways of the US. Before Barack Obama ended Racial Injustice. Before my first wife said that I was an experiment failed (what did she know!?) – before my parents hated the electric guitar (hmm...) – before the Natural High of God was replaced by formaldehyde laced weed. Before Clinton invented bleach. Before Harris saved the Southern Border from invasion, and is now headed to our Northern Border by flatulence filled balloon to make her explosive presence felt there as well (reader, please feel free to comment with your own be-fores)....
Thank You For Comimg
I like it under these shady walnut trees
It is a restful spot where Time can sit and pause
And maybe breathe a little too
The casket is a beauty; alabaster and golden cream
My friends are here and I appreciate their presence
They are sitting in folding chairs in front of my coffin
Their silent heads are respectfully bowed as if in fervent prayer
Or maybe they are listening to the ghost music soaring in the trees,
Like electric guitar birds seeking shade with the night blooms
Maybe they are waiting for me to rise up from there with my song
But it is just a sad madrigal for strings and a prepared-piano—
My choice to share—as these dead leaves descend like lost stars—
Exploding with fire and memories and used-up words
Is my funeral finished now?
How nice of my friends to strew forget-me-nots upon my grave
If only I were truly dead and not standing over here alone
Then I could at last taste the discarded crumbs of life again
What a feast of bones and teeth and dust that would be!
I wanted to be
an electric guitar,
to vibrantly run my screams in
melodically riffs and solos...
Turning my pains into art...
But I'm just that... lone cello
how bitter and silent
dies of thirst in a corner
without performing any blues.... !
she double
parked in
new york
city running
with a hundred
dollars into a
music store
told the man
behind the
counter what
electric guitar
and amp can
i get with this
showing him
her money and
he showed her
the goods that
now i'm glad
i have after
she gave me
what she
got
the constant
music in my mind
melodic loops
and melodies
transposed lines
juxtapose the left
brain video that
could be a photo
of you
for you
to me
your face filling
the screen but only
your eyes blink
as your silver smile
stays the same
all the while
my soundtrack
plays back around
again and again
the electric guitar
synapse riff of
Crazy Train
Word Lyric #9 for Music
“Testimonies of Old Hippies”
We are still traveling by the speed of mind,
We’re the old freaks, and survivors of the great Be In,
Winsome hippie girls, now old and still kind,
Play pan flutes with feathers glued to their skin.
We were there when Joe and Jimi stole the big show,
With their mythic renderings cast in vinyl stone,
What was it? Where are we? We did not exactly know,
Janis and Pete and Alvin Lee lacerated the night alone.
And we heard The Bear boogie on down the wooded road.
Some of us saw magic mushrooms smiling on a giant toad.
Richie Havens and Carlos Santana let it all fly as we sat there,
Far away into mind space, their epic explosions resounded,
Electric guitar hysterics with screaming rants compounded,
We were all laid to waste there, in the rock n’ roll blare.
We old freaks still travel by the speed of mind,
Old dudes, and hippie girls hang around and are still kind,
We still secretly toke at midnight, all of us with the ghosts,
Of Joe and Jimi, when they sliced the sky, before that vast host.
One unread, there goes that heart again
Beating fast for no apparent reason
Two missed calls, there goes that brain again
Leaving me to my emotions.Where is the devotion?
I''ll be damned if i become a slave to them
Three knocks on my door, there goes my sanity
Flying out through the window i just fixed
Five vowels, three consonants and a croissant
There goes my pride, evaporating into thin air
Along with my self-control as you call out my name
Tame yourself before my morality listens to my body
Surrendering to its every desire like a liar
I cant afford to ruin this pair, its brand new
Though i cannot lie that you have me dripping
Strumming myself like am an electric guitar hooked to your bass
Tugging my breasts like i'm trying to find you on the radio
I better control myself before the beast in me escapes
You make it sound like the worst thing, feed the beast
Let it roar in pleasure to every naked thought you have ever heard
JGM
Her freckled face and long hair are caressed by a gold sun;
Lydia loves springtime, her adventurous spirit breathes joy,
and it seeks scented flowers awakened by the saffron dawn...
as she sings and plays a blue electric guitar praising His glory!
At noon she wears an amber hat which keeps off all sunrays,
and smiling she attracts crowds with keen interest;
" Play that song again! " It's a boy's first request...
" I will, cutie. " She answers with raw tenderness.
Lydia loves spring time, the smell of aureolin roses;
the lulling breeze dispersing dandelions on meadows
while singing the ballads she wrote on her travels,
and they appeal to those listening with starry eyes.
How lovely she looks in her cotton chartreuse dress,
how passionate she plays dreaming of being a success!
Lydia loves springtime when beautiful butterflies flutter by,
Oh, she would give anything to become one of them and fly!
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