In days old, oral poetry existed
(When most people, including
the authors of poems,and stories, lyricists,
artists,....couldn't read and write.)
as a part of oral literature
which had no titles,nor were the authors known.
Yet, these are from the heart
captivating the listeners.
It flaws like a river ,
with streams falling into it along the way.
It is circulated from mouth to mouth,
from generation to generation,
from the past to the present .
By the way, the contents
of these oral poems have been added to,
and some modifications might have done.
They wove oral poetry while gazing at lush nature
or remembering a loved one.
The lines were tender,
and delivered emotional feelings to the listeners.
Besides,the basis of oral poetry
may also be a love story,an event of patriotism.
or any other event the poet knew.
These oral poems and folk songs
influenced written poetry and literature.
Written epic poems are also based
on oral poetry,literature, and folk songs.
These oral traditions are of high standard
and have laid the foundation
of our rich literature,art, and culture.
(verse 1)
I have really long hair,
don't understand why people stare.
I'm looked down upon by society,
they try to destroy my dignity.
The people call me lazy and low class,
'cause my mop is almost to my ass.
They call me a hippy refugee,
and try to discredit my capability.
(chorus)
I drive a beat-up old car.
I'm your back road man!
I live at the local bar.
I'm the back road man!
(verse 2)
My vehicle didn't pass emissions,
now I can't get tabs.
My car no longer has insurance,
now I'm chasing taxi cabs.
So, I borrowed plates from a regal,
that belonged to my ex-honey.
Now my mopar looks street legal,
what a way to save money.
(chorus)
I smoke hand rolled cigars.
I'm your back road man!
I drink beer from jars.
I'm the back road man.
Lyricists Inc.
D.A.P. / Digital Analog Productions.
Written: 1-27-1995 David A.Porter
©? 01-24-2023
I got a mountain bike
it sits on my side porch
it sits under a torch
it should go on a hike
I got free beans from Mike
There’s three beans in my jeans
That I’ve had since my teens
or since I was a tike
bought a psych trip to Wyke
I didn’t take my beans
left them on the side porch
all alone with the bike
Bike & Beans
Lyricists Inc.
D.A.P. / Digital Analog Productions
written: 09-30-2022
David A. Porter
lyricists are heaven sent
while poetry is the height of language
it does not touch the heart
as do the millions of songs
on a daily basis
that is because the heart is simpler
an organ than the brain
add delightful music
millions become unafraid to sing
and if we poets are to be honest
truth be told that Shakespeare
in all of his tavern days never heard
that's me on the jukebox
OKC 6/22
I am cutting ties
that I knotted to a faraway soil.
Exiled no longer at the tiller
of a long beached fishing boat
that bobs only on the legends
of ancient waves.
Those fluent in soul-breathing,
the Celtic poets,
those wind-chiming lyricists,
are pulling me
to the bottom of Lake Erie
where drowned sea-captains still quote
what the Irish once wrote.
And here’s me, even today
caught by the mouth
from their linguistic fishhooks
yet cutting myself away.
I am a handmade citizen of a land
that is my own meat and gristle,
a subsoil am I
and my father and mother
the grubbing worm and the turtle dove.
Still Irish, but rootless
with no anchor in Galway Bay.
I have cut the trap lines
become a jobbing teller
of tall tales,
not a keeper of any traditions
planted by hands not of my own.
And if once in a while
I lapse into the sod and bog-speak
of my unlearned brethren
it is no literary affectation
of a better education,
for I remain this common creature
determined to be tied to a smaller rock
of my own choosing.
First greetings gaily given
Fair days brighten with benevolence
Feathered beacons warble crystal incessance
Favour of lurid lyricists to gladdened ears submitted
Choral phenomenas divulge
Cherished ownership of full freedom
Chasing open hopes, bigger skies speed them
Choices expanded grandly in latitude bold birds hold
Twig feet hop on pavement
Tentative hunters approach tid bits
Thrown among human realm, morsel interest
Tweased piece crumb bomb swallowed is savoured
Message singers send, blatant
Mindfully stay in sweet place of praise
Melancholy has proximity but elation will prevail
Masters of opportunity, gloss winged indignant makes it
30th November
Words silent turn at the melodic tunes
Oozing from the lush lilts of your eyes;
Telling of stung lover’s anthems warm,
Of the rapt poet whose scribbling dies.
Windows into realms old lyricists laud,
Whereon Love and Truth twain thrive;
Each by doubtful duplicities unscarred,
Unsullied by decays of greediest drive.
See how the language of your look,
As some evanescent lover’s secret,
Amid rosy violets resistless shines;
Inviting once-bitten soul truthful yet?
Methinks your mien undeceiving sews
Back to peace yester-heartbreak's all;
Reshaping pulses' rhythms wounded...
Still-white breasts darkened by brawl.
Behold the splendor of another magnificent fall!
Every tree is adorned with a resplendent shawl!
All the trees have shed their abundant foliage of jade;
Umber leaves now - they once provided welcome shade.
The ancient Harvest Moon flaunts its ever mellow glow,
Inviting intimate tete-a-tetes for romantic souls below!
Frantic squirrels scurry about hiding their winters' fare,
Unrelenting in their quest since winter frosts are in the air!
(Lawns are carpeted with gold and crimson leaves to be raked!)
Flocks of geese wing their way south by the multitudes,
As they seek friendlier climes in the southern latitudes!
Limbs bereft of leaves lift arms beseechingly as if in prayer.
Lyricists, tho' gifted you may be - describe the beauty of fall if you dare!
Entry for John Hamilton's " Beautiful Fall Poetry" Contest
(11 September 2018)
New beginning
Lights in the dead of the night sky;
The music plays waking the neighbourhood.
Electronic radio-waves leave no place to hide;
Wipe away the sleep from your eyes for good.
The noise is inside you now and forever;
Words of poetry dig deep into your soul.
You take apart their voice in any weather
And you are found wherever you may go.
The hands that feeds reaches into your head,
Leaving you without will; enslaved by a song.
You have become the beautiful word, never will you forget,
Or forgive them for not arriving sooner. It has been too long.
Until now the sound had always been missing,
You were longing to hear the heart beat inside your chest.
Reawakened by love like you had never been listening;
They spoke to you like no other has ever said.
All the ends are now attached;
All the pieces fit at last.
All the words have been connected together;
Lyricists open up your head, releasing you forever.
(C)2017 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Kudos to Eagles for their wonderful pastiche that renders a polyphonic message to all,
Ranging from LaVey's Church (of Satan) through marijuana to clandestine corporate world,
Which – to think of it in retrospect – forced a war for oil with an add-on motive of double profit,
Seeing that the warheads used were American makes all!
The lyricists employed a contemporary idiom, echoing Blake, Browning, Eliot, et al
And composed, for subliminal appeal, a haunting melody plus a distractor-solo,
So that the lilt would easily sink into the subconscious, for the message(s) to follow:
Thus this pastiche serves a purpose, which a parable or parody possibly cannot.
To deconstruct, a lyric meant to deconstruct commodification
Came to be commodified—ironically!
— Ram, R. V.
Winner (III place) of the Iconic Song contest, sponsored by SO, September 4, 2017.
I am a person who writes poems
I am a person who posesses a specialty with writing poems
I am a person, a poet , troubador who loves poems
I am a person a lyricists who writes poems
I am a person who rhymes with ease that leads to poems
I am a person, more of a poet with a gift and want to share my poems
There’s not much music in poetry now,
the poets have taken an austerity vow,
thread-bare lines, no rhythm or rhyme,
con-man words, artistic pantomime?
Lyricists shunned, unless rocking a mike,
It’s not what the Professors like!
Too confused by much now written,
Like abstract art, the critics smitten
by works that display very little skill,
I'd rather view Andrew Wyeth’s hill.
I sang melodies and choruses for the choir
Written and composed by maestros
The harmonies soared for earth’s life time hour
Even those that proclaimed the holy cross
I sang Handel’s Alleluia Chorus
As I did the songs of us
Singing ‘Stand and Sing...’
To respond “Proud and free”
Mozart’s Ave verum corpus
Charmed me into the love of sound
That would fill the Church’s campus
And the fragile heart all round
In the sounds of the maestros budded
The sound deserving no apology
The voice clear; all rounded
The humming and bursts like a eulogy
Then I sang not to entertain
I sang to express
The truth I humbly contain
Oh! To be true, I do not need the press
I though may not forget
The words of life’s wisdom
From the lyricists of old
That ‘to thyself be true’
Copyright ©April.2012. Moonga Nsamu. All rights Reserved.
in response to his baptist cousin’s question
as to whether he had started looking to
religion
as a way of dealing with his newfound pancreatic cancer
of which
nothing medical could be done
he simply replied, “no”---
to one son asking if philosophy was doing anything for him
he repeated the same---
in fact, it wasn’t until he was asked if anything at all
had brought him meaning in those last days,
that he answered without pause---
“poetry.”
beyond all the vast reading that this brilliant man had done in his life
all the intellectual horizons that he had pondered
it was the
“slow meanders” & “stuttering embers”
which brought him life---
the flavors of words which he himself could never cook up
those rhythms &
rhymes
which the likes straight-up philosophers had never seemed to grasp
with the same
umph
that poetry did.
may the rest of us be so lucky as to “stockpile” our hearts & minds with the words of our
favorite poets
&
lyricists
who have formed the backbone of every step through this hopscotch game we call
life.
I am what you would call the last.
The outcast of a breed,
fading so fast
that people loose track of its original art.
Its original words spoken from the heart.
Twisted to form a dreadfully big part of todays young minded.
Twisted to make people live so frightened.
I am the last of a dying breed.
A lyricist set to bring people a new creed.
Hope that I will make the correction.
Hope, that I will become a legend.
The one. The only.
Francisco Martinez: Changed the game slowly.
Somebody once told me:
"your words will change a life."
He told me I will become this generations muse.
I took that in and believe I'll never loose.
Still, the last of a dying breed.
Give me a pencil and I'll personally plant the seed.
Will personally lead the next generation of the American Dream.
Bring back the history of the verse.
And don't be the first,to doe of the thirst that causes this curse to only get worse
and worse.
Follow me my fellow lyricists.
Believe that we will come back from this.
Pencil at hand, let's rebel out of the abyss.
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