From a misheard song lyric:
He softly spreads the niceties
The quiet lies that try to be
Inarticulate and meaning free
Lest someone somehow truth might see
But spurting blood and flames
The burning of innocent names
The bastards called heroes who came
To blot out all mem'ry of blame
The sun never sets on evil
So name it whatever you will
While with sultry voice she instills
A longing for something harmless to fill
The euphemist may call it love
The harlot may say it is just
But innocence ne'er once killed a dove
Though murderers justify their bloodlust
Monday, January 31, 2011
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
The Storyteller's Daughter
On a starry night he sat
Back against a fallen log
His hat pushed back, his pipe aglow
He spun the tales of old
A voice of gravel told the stories
Of stampedes, blizzards, gully-washers
Rock-slides, dust-storms, russlers
And open plains and mountaintops
While around the fire we smoked
And listened to the yarns
But I had my eyes on someone else
As she her father watched
Her warm gray eyes and nut-brown hair
Flickered in the firelight
And I, unnoticed, sat and pined for her to plight
Her troth to me and walk with me
Then ride into the distance
Tomorrow I'd ask, I'd take a chance
Her first, if she'd have me, and then her father
For the hand of the storyteller's daughter
Back against a fallen log
His hat pushed back, his pipe aglow
He spun the tales of old
A voice of gravel told the stories
Of stampedes, blizzards, gully-washers
Rock-slides, dust-storms, russlers
And open plains and mountaintops
While around the fire we smoked
And listened to the yarns
But I had my eyes on someone else
As she her father watched
Her warm gray eyes and nut-brown hair
Flickered in the firelight
And I, unnoticed, sat and pined for her to plight
Her troth to me and walk with me
Then ride into the distance
Tomorrow I'd ask, I'd take a chance
Her first, if she'd have me, and then her father
For the hand of the storyteller's daughter
Monday, January 17, 2011
Shot in the Dark, and You're Insane
I broke a pair of rules this weekend, and while I didn't gain anything tangible by doing so, I'm still glad I did. Speaking of poems being set to music, this one actually has a refrain!
A clumsy dancer she was, but pretty
In an unassuming way,
For unlike all the others
She was not here for show,
But to show us ourselves at play.
The documentary maker
Could have been a photography major,
But the picture behind the camera
Was finer than what the lens saw.
A clumsy asker he was, uncertain,
But resolved to take a shot.
Simply asked and simply answered
They had no game to play
Though the answer he wanted was not what he got.
The documentary maker
Could have been a photography major,
But the picture behind the camera
Was finer than what the lens saw
A pleasant evening it was, and merry,
Had the answer been different
He'd smile a little more
But for that dance with a pretty girl
He'd no regrets for an evening well spent.
A clumsy dancer she was, but pretty
In an unassuming way,
For unlike all the others
She was not here for show,
But to show us ourselves at play.
The documentary maker
Could have been a photography major,
But the picture behind the camera
Was finer than what the lens saw.
A clumsy asker he was, uncertain,
But resolved to take a shot.
Simply asked and simply answered
They had no game to play
Though the answer he wanted was not what he got.
The documentary maker
Could have been a photography major,
But the picture behind the camera
Was finer than what the lens saw
A pleasant evening it was, and merry,
Had the answer been different
He'd smile a little more
But for that dance with a pretty girl
He'd no regrets for an evening well spent.
Word and Question 8
Hosted again by the lovely Enbrethiliel over at Shredded Cheddar. Go read the rest of the entries here. She wondered if I could write something that wasn't musical. Since I never thought what I wrote was musical in the first place, I don't know if it's even possible for me to oblige. It must be something about the way language works in my ear.
I can say, though, that this post is at least musically inspired. There were a couple of directions I could have gone with my prompts. I've been a little sober in my poetry, lately, and that is the easiest path to take. There was also the possibility of some political allegory, but I spout my opinions enough in other venues. Poetry should be about beauty, not politics.
At the risk of prejudicing your reading, I'll post the two songs that I've got in mind as I write this
And now, enough putzing about.
Word: heavy
Question: What are we having for dinner?
Homemaker
Heavy knocking on the doors
One final glance all round the house
Chairs in order, lamps all lit
Stew singing songs to the goose on the spit
And her husband has thrown out the mouse
Brush the skirt, fix the hair
Glance at the man in the old rocking chair
Beaming with pride, flushed with delight
Blush at his smile as he lights up his pipe
And open the door to the guests in the night
I can say, though, that this post is at least musically inspired. There were a couple of directions I could have gone with my prompts. I've been a little sober in my poetry, lately, and that is the easiest path to take. There was also the possibility of some political allegory, but I spout my opinions enough in other venues. Poetry should be about beauty, not politics.
At the risk of prejudicing your reading, I'll post the two songs that I've got in mind as I write this
And now, enough putzing about.
Word: heavy
Question: What are we having for dinner?
Homemaker
Heavy knocking on the doors
One final glance all round the house
Chairs in order, lamps all lit
Stew singing songs to the goose on the spit
And her husband has thrown out the mouse
Brush the skirt, fix the hair
Glance at the man in the old rocking chair
Beaming with pride, flushed with delight
Blush at his smile as he lights up his pipe
And open the door to the guests in the night
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