HAPPY BIRTHDAY, my blessed little Sister!
When we were young, Papa always called
You “Black Patti”! Now we know why:
A Senryu Quintet Tribute To “Black Patti (1868-1933): **
For My Sister, Sula “Black Patti” Baye (08/25/1943)
Water gives rivers life
I swanee, “Black Patti” gave
Life to the songs she sang:-
“Black Patti” felt that
Singing songs was to her, as
Sunshine to flowers:-
When “Black Patti” sang,
Flowers flooded world stages:
Concert Halls, sold out!
She was Mitilda
Sissieretta Jones: singing
Abolitionist!
Black Patti, rather
Than Adelina Patti, was
Their Era’s Greatest!
**When others sit down and do oursrorical research,
They will know why Papa gave you that honor. Go
And enjoy another blessed year, perpendicular to
Earth and Heaven. To God Be The Glory. In the
Onederful oneness of the onement of Extended
Family, Peace And Love, your favorite Brother,
Deac.
No more certainties
watch Labour release 40% time served Criminals
Dreams of wealth
manufactured out of thin air
whose funds will be raided?
Bleed the Private schools with a VAT Hike
The Countryside is not safe
building over sacred green ground
No oil rigging in the North Sea
are they eco warriors?
Net Zero is an agenda item
and the never Military expense at 2.5%
Voting out Tories
for alleged incompetence
we've got a voodoo chill now
Border Controls down the swanee
No more certainties
We have incompetence
on a national scale
The Labour Man smiles
he says your 14 years too late
his conscience clear
welcome to the rock world of politics
no certanities
The 1965 Chevy Impala with aqua dice
parked herself downhill against all advice
From Frankie, Old Tom, Red Angus and Swanee Bryce
Her wheels slipped on gravel that felt like hardened rice
Her green interior smelled like Old Spice
Her engine was infiltrated by squeaky hungry mice
Some main wires under her hood now have a splice
Her ignition key did not work once or twice
We could not sell her at any price
But we loved the smell of nineteen sixties Old Spice
For it reminds me of my Uncle Pete, dad of cousin Bryce
So I am keeping her forever, which feels kind of nice.
I'm an old fashioned guy with old fashioned ways
Hard getting used to the fast pace of today
Need to take a breath
Eliminate the stress
By singing “Swanee River” as my hair turns grey!
If you look at Stephen Foster,
who wrote songs for the minstrel shows,
you wouldn’t expect a genius
that all of the world would know.
He was another bookkeeper
for a steamship company,
until he started writing tunes
that to this day sound masterly.
Today those same minstrel shows
seem quite insulting to good minds,
they weren’t exactly ‘High Culture’
way back in Foster’s time,
but the man wrote Old Susanna,
and My Old Kentucky Home,
the Swanee River, Camptown Races,
and Hard Times Come Again No More.
Even Beautiful Dreamer,
and Genie With The Light Brown Hair,
the amount of hits this man wrote
can drive musicians to despair.
From throw-away entertainment
that never got a second look,
this man alone wrote the core of
The Great American Songbook.
That he still remains relevant,
even known at this late date,
show that we never can predict
who exactly will be great.
I'm an old fashioned guy with old fashioned ways
Hard getting used to the fast pace of today
Need to take a breath
Eliminate the stress
By singing “Swanee River” as my hair turns grey!
© Jack Ellison 2016
I detest writing on this poxy little phone
Hunched over a 2by3inch screen
Punching away at the imaginary
Glass keyboard
Boss eyed
Cross as hell... every time I lose connection
Hence half hour
Wasted ... oh well
Crucifying my wretched eyesight
And arthritic finger aching
Pleading
That I should go out and play
Unaware that this old bag is way to old
To enjoy herself
And throw caution
Right out of her cracked conservatory window
And slam dunked mind
Oh isn't life grand
Winding up ole misery guts
And driving her round the bend
Up the Swanee
Heading over the cartoon hills to
Bedlam by the sea
Tapping away on her poxy little
HTC
The scream
Assembly.
Disassembly.
Reassembly.
When the bell tolls
it tolls for me.
Alone I walk in crowded
concrete corridors;
feet, doom-laden,
slapping thermoplastic
floors.
Years we will do this.
Years we will be taught.
Years we all will walk in
concrete corridors.
Walking unto the light,
freedom's light;
walking unto the world of
women and men.
Armed with bestowed knowledge
that two and two makes four,
the Battle of Hastings was fought in 1066,
energy can neither be created nor destroyed...
wandering lonely as clouds...
Freedom fighters,
guerrilla's armed with this
potency
and so much more.
The echo of the concrete,
of slapdash feet on thermoplastic,
may well reverberate,
reaffirming their message of
doom.
Yet that is further away than
the eye can see.
Now is sweet honeydew Summer,
the best years of a life
yet to come.
Assembly.
Disassembly.
Reassembly.
Man,
are we up the
Swanee.
And though we know it
now is not
the time
to
care...