Once upon a time, in a land that wasn’t there
There lived a girl who traveled nowhere
From the hills of not-to-be-seen
To the shores of just-not-there
The girl traveled for years
Yet traveled nowhere
A girl shrouded by a dusk cloak, held my hand as we walked through the night in a green
pasture. Glowing green lights surrounded us as we walked; elusive little things they were; I
stretched out my hand to touch these things that seemed to be intangible. It almost
seemed that these green lights were stars and I was on the verge of grasping such a thing,
but my hands were held in place by the little girl. My body and mind stayed motionless by
the thought of disappointment, until she said “If you want to ahead and hold a dragon fly go
ahead. But beware of its sting in the turmoil of darkness.” She said it in such a sweet voice
that I was compelled to see who this little girl was, instead of me doing the deed she turned
around and showed me her pale face masked in the innocence of a child. All while smiling
with an unknown splendor.
THE BEE!
Not allowed to write about love
No reason or whys
This is about my first crush
The girl passed right by me
I smile softly to the one with curls
She is the cutest I’ve ever seen
Her face straight from a cover girl magazine
Her eyes are too much for this world
A honey made for me
I walk away to the other end.
I see, she really notices me.
I continue talking to my friends.
When another girl has her eyes on me
Dropping her books
Putting her ass where I can see.
In front of my friends, I had to pretend,
That It was a joy
I have one thing to say,
Why did I allow myself to be stung by the wrong bee?
**Phil J.
Been travelin' the country side,
punchin' cows and makin' my way,
Been weeks lookin' at cattle hide,
hotter than _ell 'n' not much pay,
It's up and at'em before dawn,
on a horse and saddle all day,
Money made, then gets gone,
with drinkin' and cards ta play,
Ain't seen my dear girl Betsy Lou,
for might near a year ta day,
I know someday gonna get back to,
her and her country girl ways,
Yea, we're gonna buy a spread,
something to call our own,
I'm gonna buy her a feather bed,
and never ever agin be gone,
On the trail means livin' rough,
it's a life what gets so old,
If cow punchin' cash ain't enough,
It's to California pannin' fer gold.
I am deaf yet music is my passion,
for the way each raindrop hits through ground
splashing it's very sound, the way
the the girl holds the saxophone in her hand,
playing something, I think, is sad
in a bluesy tune that I, too, can understand-
is something that I can feel.
For the way the traffic goes, when rubber tires
burn the cement and splash in puddles,
for the way children run and scream,
as one woman struggles to reach
for her red, drifting umbrella.
Yet all my attention is the little girl
blowing the saxophone
on the painted canvas.
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