Lo, Oh poet of mine admire;
Speak to the fire;
Converse open flame thine heart dire;
Arch-poet, ballad maker compose lovely lyric rhyme unto me prior;
Ballad singer, balladeer voice still cry;
I ballad monger, idolize beat poet, bucoliast, elegist shy;
Fair epic poet, folk singer gleeman, journey lands,
Idyllist speak unto me emerald skies;
Imagist, jongleur, laureate recite toss the voice bell righteous ringer;
Librettist, major poet, maker, Meistersinger, minnesinger;
Best-loved favored treasured vocal
closest to one's heart preferred chosen
Sightseer mishear appeal reveal wordsmith zeal
Mimic speak life Celtic minstrel bard of Avon, Shakespeare!
12/12/23
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2023©
Bard Poetry
teen magazine was popular in 1965 when I was thirteen
mom had Better Homes and Garden, Redbook and Women’s Day.
it was only right that my identical twin and I would have Teen.
mom’s magazines were about housekeeping; ours were about fashion.
we all wanted to grow up and become Sally Field or Tina Turner.
the Beatles shocked our parents on the Ed Sullivan Show.
folk singer mama cass’s voice and looks were known to all of us.
we were listening to the Beach Boys sing about California girls.
Los Angeles teen movie stars showed off mop-tops and Twiggy cuts.
daisies and yellow happy faces were sprinkled lavishly throughout.
subtle hints were showing us what to wear.
hip huggers and bell bottoms were in; plaids were out.
teen Magazine teamed up with Dick Clark’s American Bandstand.
together they taught us a bunch of dance moves.
the Loco-motion, watusi and smashed potato to name three.
our super models were Twiggy and we loved Sonny and Cher.
.
now we knew how to dress, how to dance and what to eat.
our favorite teens were advertising things we needed to be groovy.
we were eager to follow their lead, not having our own identity yet.
Bello was his name.
He was a great singer.
He sang better than some in fame
but nobody knew him.
When he played his old guitar,
all the birds would sing,
for his tunes were so bizarre;
It quenched the drought with rain.
But one day he took a voyage,
faraway, amazing grace.
The heart that lacked the courage
bade farewell to those who praise.
I wish those voices came in fame,
for they were pure and golden.
They were like birds in early spring
that sang a tune from heaven.
Dedicated to the memory of my uncle Bello, the greatest folk singer that I've ever known.
Edited January 22, 2023
For:
Loved and Lost Poetry Contest
Sponsored By: Regina McIntosh
Joan Chandos Baez is an American singer
Eighteen years old, first of the later date
protest folk singers
Famous before Bob Dylan!
Songwriter, musician, and activist.
Folk music of protest and social justice,
in the fields of nonviolence, civil rights,
workers' rights, and the environment
Made over 30 albums
Fluent in Spanish and English,
recorded songs in at least
six other languages
March on Washington for Civil Rights
Supported Cesar Chavez and his
United Farm workers Union
Protested Vietnam War, and supports
homeless veterans
Fundraiser for the Ukraine refugees
Eighty years of age, Joan is still
performing for cherished causes
History will teach us
"The Purpose Of Life" through
the genius women such as Joan Baez.
I’ll never make a folk singer, I carry too much weight for that,
you have to be lean and hungry and wear a stupid hat.
A beard would help, an old check shirt and jeans with a rip or two,
well worn trainers or old scuffed shoes and the look of an ingenue.
How about a rock and roller? No, that ain’t gonna happen,
shirt opened to the waist and all that fat a flappin.
Not to mention the skin tight pants, the make up and the hair
the stomping and all the hip gyrations, too much wear and tear.
I could try rappin’ if I was so inclined but I think my rhythm’s shot,
and my pop star years have disappeared, I’m tepid rather than hot.
A romantic crooner? That boats sailed along with most of my hair,
and everything else is heading South, sometimes life ain’t fair.
So I’ll just strum my old guitar and sing the old songs to the wall,
and think back to the days, through youthful haze, when I coulda had it all.
When the arthritis gets worse I’ll sit and curse and blame it on the strings,
but I hope that I still have the will to hum and strum til my heart sings.
Irelands' famine, England chose to ignore
The potato blight caused devastation
Michael stole corn from a granary store
To stop loved ones dying from starvation.
Arrested and charged with theft from the crown
Judge passed sentence and he got twenty years
Outside prison walls in old Galway town
His wife Mary and family shed tears.
Ne'er again see the fields of Athenry
Sent to prison thousands of miles away
He would ne'er again see the free birds fly
From that harsh prison in Botany Bay.
The ship sailed that day on the evening tide
His dreams for the future had all but died.
Written July 26th 2019.
Inspired by the song 'The Fields of Athenry ' The music and lyrics were composed by a Dublin folk singer Pete St John.
Fairly
Squarely
Rarely
Barely
Shot from the hip fairly, squarely true
Loaded clip but, rarely, barely drew
1-19-2018
Once was a folk singer back in the sixties
It was surely my time to shine
Along with the great Peter Paul and Mary
They seemed like good friends of mine
A group of six, The Canadiana Folksingers
Appeared on Canadian TV
A couple of albums and two or three shows
Played banjo, sure looked geeky
Hi Jolly was our biggest success
Wherever we went they clamoured for it
Did I tell you Bruce played a one string bass
It added some charm I'll admit
Wife Linda was one of the two girl singers
Sure prettied up the group I'll say
Didn't make much money but that didn't matter
The joy hasn't left to this day
Not everyone can say they were part of a group
Twas a very special time in my life
Wish I could go back and relive it again
A great time for me and my wife
© Jack Ellison 2015
will it pass this way again?
nobody knows because the community
library
has to many paperbacks and the clouds
to many sins.
will twain swirl in the rain?
will steinbeck hit the deck?
will it pass?
will a folk singer from the north play the
harmonica
piss into a gutter and give some simple
remedy?
Now there is baptist marmalade in the
sun.
Now there is rye bread in the oven,
but in a cafe on main street
there is still.....
black coffee.
white porcelain cups.
thick calloused fingers.
all the regulars gathered there just like
every other day.
an old tv flickers over the counter just off
to the left of a
warped mirror that has labor union and
mason stickers
from the early 90s on it.
Nothing makes or breaks now.
I will not know you
on the lake. The clouds and shoreline shudder.
There was no speck of endurance. The wind
falls with agonizing thud.
The dusk was hoisting the white waves.
Time to make peace.
Moon will make an appearance
with a veiled threat.
A bleached skeleton on the sand
wriggles to become alive
like the bitterness.
After a midnight death of a battered
probe, it was time to give a final call.
A fire will freeze like a rose
in the wraps of black waters.
The folk singer was coming.
SATISH VERMA
Nothing makes or breaks now.
I will not know you
on the lake. The clouds and shoreline shudder.
There was no speck of endurance. The wind
falls with agonizing thud.
The dusk was hoisting the white waves.
Time to make peace.
Moon will make an appearance
with a veiled threat.
A bleached skeleton on the sand
wriggles to become alive
like the bitterness.
After a midnight death of a battered
probe, it was time to give a final call.
A fire will freeze like a rose
in the wraps of black waters.
The folk singer was coming.
SATISH VERMA
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