Sometimes a song lyric doesn’t look good on paper, so I’ll start with the song.
Here’s a sample of the lyric
The sun beats down like judgement on the armour-plated road I just called out God and the Devil and neither of them showed, and there’s a sour smell of whiskey sweat on the air-conditioned air sometimes I think I care too much and sometimes I just don’t care……
and it’s not where you’re going it’s what you left behind there aint’ a colour out there that could describe my state of mind
That’s John Mitchell on vocals, guitar and that’s his daughter Nikki on drums and background vocals. It’s part of a CD we made together, a little while back , (Crossing Lines , The Mitchell Feeney Project). I wrote the lyrics and John did everything else! It’s a dark lyric, I guess. Around the time I wrote it, a close friend of mine had recently died and also I was listening to a lot of Tom Waits and The Eagles. So it kind of morphed into a lyric, then with John’s input and some revisions it became ” The Road”!
Down by Locarno Beach two guys in camouflage pants are repeatedly checking underneath their parked Tesla they check, they get back in the car they don’t start the car they get back out they check underneath the car again what could they be looking for?
Snow-capped mountains an empty eagle’s nest in the bare branches of a tree is this a symbol?
Is everything a symbol?
Nope, the eagle is down on the beach searching for snacks in tide pools is this a metaphor?
Is everything a metaphor?
April’s Fools Day, and to the south of us The Sherriff of Tariffdom The Prince of Petulance The Toddler King is looking for his Sharpie.
The prompt over at dverse is :
“So for this prompt our writing will be in the Open Poetry Form, otherwise known as Free Verse or Vers Libre. This is not to be regarded as an anarchic free-for -all but rather poetry set free from the uniform straight jacket.”
Cyphers magazine has published my poem – “Crow Magnus”– in their Issue 98. I am really pleased as always to be published in Cyphers . Thanks to Eiléan Ní Chuilleanáin, for accepting my poem.
Cyphers is a Dublin based print only magazine which has been in existence since 1975. They publish poets from all over the world, both new and established. Sadly, Cyphers will be discontinuing publication at issue 100. I don’t think I would still be writing poetry if it wasn’t for the encouragement I got early on from Cyphers.
Seamus Heaney and Paul Durcan were also early contributors to the magazine. Not that I am in that league by any stretch of the imagination but it’s nice, metaphorically speaking, to have shared a bus with them!
“Writing challenge: Write a complaint using the poetry form made popular by William Dunbar, Lament for the Makers. Your theme is your own, be it unrequited love or a satirical poem on the injustice of the world.“
Me and the Lads are working the night shift in a frozen food factory somewhere in the south of England in the time before the time. It’s an historic night the English public is about to be introduced to frozen broccoli for the first time and we are there, knives ready waiting for those dark green clusters to tumble from the hopper onto the conveyor belt. Our mission, which we have accepted for a minimum wage, is to chop those clusters into bite-sized florets and send them on their way to be blanched, frozen and packaged.
And the dark green river flows and the dark green river flows.
Truth is, few of us have seen broccoli before, it not been one of the meat and two veg that we were brought up on but we do know that Albert R Broccoli is the producer of James Bond movies so we while away the time making up names for Bond girls mostly variations on Pussy Galore – Puss Ann Boots Holly Goodsnatch – puerile nonsense, I know, (from the Latin ‘ puer’ meaning ‘boy’) and that’s what we were really, boys.
And the dark green river flows and the dark green river flows.
Two hours in, we’re getting bored and uncut broccoli is starting to pile up at the dam at the end of the conveyor. Reg, our supervisor, tries some positive reinforcement. He calls us “a bunch of useless wankers”, picks up his knife and starts chopping like a man possessed. Inspired by Reg, we pick up the pace and as the pile up at the dam clears Reg, who is tall, skinny and prematurely balding, starts to tell us about his sex life: quickies with his next-door neighbor foursomes on the weekend with the neighbors on the other side knee tremblers in the alley behind the pub at closing time . And we’re lucky, he says, because we can go home at shift end and sleep but his wife is mad for it and he has to, you know, perform. We spend some time reflecting on Reg’s definition of ‘lucky’. He then alludes to the dimensions of his dingus, his dong, his John Thomas, dimensions an elephant would be proud of, which prompts us to shake our knives in his direction and Dec from Dublin says: “keep it in your pants, Reg, safety is job one”. Reg blushes shyly and for a brief moment he is one of the lads. It can be lonely at the top.
And the dark green river flows and the dark green river flows.
After what seems like an eternity shift end approaches and the sun peeks over the red-tiled roof tops of this musn’t grumble town and we’re thinking of heading back to our digs maybe stealing a few milk bottles from doorsteps on the way, when Rob, from Liverpool, looks up from the broccoli And says “Dawn Horne” We say “what?” He says, “the Bond girl name, Dawn Horne”. We say “yes, that’s it, that’s it”. And for a moment we bask in the joy of the collective creative process.
And the dark green river flows and the dark green river flows.
Note: The rules of The Lad’s Poetry Project are simple:
The poem must start with the phrase (or some variation of it): “Me and the lads…” and the tone must be somewhat less than elevated.
The rough beast is leaving Bethlehem Musk Ox and Meta Morf joined at the hip their android stares fixed on the horizon slouching into twenty twenty five.
And all across the world lonely men light up their lap tops and search for unverified facts formerly known as “lies”.
Meanwhile the Toddler King sleeps soundly dreaming that he’s on an ice floe off the coast of Greenland. In the dream he owns that ice floe and seals honk in what he interprets to be approval.
The rumors started just after he won the election strange happenings at his rallies the blind seeing the deaf hearing the lame walking the mute talking he began to take credit for the sun coming up.
Then those stories out of Mar A Lago how at one banquet he turned bread rolls into fried chicken and at another he turned water into Coca Cola then there was the time he walked across a pond to retrieve his golf ball and fishing.. don’t talk to me about fishing the people of Florida are lining up to go fishing with Donald.
Ingrid over at Experiments in Fiction has included one of my poems “High Plains Sushi” in the first issue of The New Lyricist Magazine. Thank you Ingrid!
You can read about how to order the magazine here.
Proud purveyors of country music to the English public, English country music, that is: no wide open prairies no dogies that git along no bucking broncs no honky tonks no pick-up trucks; the occasional encounter with a fox, a badger, a stoat…. perhaps, but that’s as wild as it gets.
Why, you must all recall, “Round Here, All the Cows are Called Daisy”, the Hedgerows’ greatest hit, written by Mr. Ramble himself or Bert, as his friends call him. Bert collects all the royalties and the Hedgerows seem to be okay with that except for Eric, the bass player (why is it always the bass player?). “What’s up with him?” Bert often asks, “All he has to do is stand there hitting C”.
Bert’s not a man for rules, he has one rule and one rule only – no cheating songs, just not his style, he’s a happily married man. There are rumors though, sightings of Bert hanging around the backdoor of the rectory while Vicar Derek is conducting a service; glances exchanged with Derek’s wife, Cynthia, while passing in the street. Just rumors, his friends say, what could he do in the forty minutes it takes Derek to complete the service and shake hands at the door. Au contraire, Bert’s detractors say Plenty of time, Bert’s detractors say
for a man who has mastered the art of the three minute song.
This poem was written back in the first reign of King Donald and now that he is naming a new collection of fall guys I thought it would be worth one more revival.
The Fallen
Today I thought about Reince Priebus not so much the man, more the strange music of his name; those slender vowels reversing that echo of wince the possible meanings a salve, an ointment put some Reince on that cut, son; the Latinate portliness of Priebus a writ to slap someone with – Habeas Priebus a complicated skateboard manoeuvre he executed a perfect reverse Priebus; then I thought of Anthony, dear Anthony, Scaramucci, Scaramucci will you do the fandango, you were not long with us but still the smell of aftershave lingers and it was you who let us know about Steve Bannon’s auto fellatio, alas, poor Steve abandoned on the side of the road like a rumpled sofa a rumpled sofa smelling of yesterday’s sweat and stale doctrine; and what about Spicer and Huckabee cartoon characters Plucky and Angry your souls will be in the repair shop for some time to come. They appear in waves, the arrested – Flynn, Cohen and Stone, the ones who once were serious people – McMaster, Kelly, Bolton. In years to come when men and women gather to talk of greatness your names will be long forgotten. The list of the fallen goes on and on
and now against all odds another crew is climbing aboard Starship Donald.
The end of the world has come and gone but you remain standing on the eighteenth tee feeling the gravitational pull of the Planet Odd there’s no smoke without mirrors, you remark and looking down you notice that you’re still wearing a green polo shirt your favorite plaid shorts and your faded white golf shoes. Golf is the only sport that requires blandness of its heroes you think and then you think …where is this shit coming from and shouldn’t that be “demands blandness”? There’s a low hum, you look up, a large flying saucer hovers over the trees to the left of the fairway on top of the saucer is a giant inverted tea cup complete with handle a door opens in the side of the cup and you’re sucked up, through the door and into a room that looks remarkably like the original Star Trek control room. A guy who looks like Leonard Nimoy walks over and says:
“How’s it going? We’re from the Planet Odd or to be more formal, Earth 2. You see, the Creator royally fucked up his first attempt so we are the newer model, the second attempt. Still a few things to work out, but we’re not doing badly at all. We have created some illusions to make you feel at home, but first things first , amigo. Can I call you amigo?” You nod. “First things first, amigo, let’s get rid of those plaid shorts!”
This poem was inspired by a challenge from Brendan over at the now defunct Desperate Poets :
“Here’s the challenge: Start with two oracles. You can follow my lead and use The Aenead as one source if you have a copy, but any classic text will do — the Bible, Shakespeare, a volume of your favorite poet or one on Native American myth, whatever. Open the book blind and let your finger fall where it may on the page and write down whatever lines you struck on. Or deal a Tarot card or iChing hexagram. If you don’t have any such tools at home, there’s a random Tarot card generator at https://randomtarotcard.com/. You can try an AI version of the Delphic oracle at < https://delphi.allenai.org/> and there’s an I Ching hexagram generator at https://www.eclecticenergies.com/iching/virtualcoins.
Next, cast a more self-referential oracle from something you created, a poem or journal or dream. Source a few lines in the same accidental manner.”
So I went to my book shelf , picked a book – “Daddy, Daddy” by Paul Durcan, opened a page and let my finger fall on the two lines that start the poem above. I then went to “Notes” on my IPhone which is where I record random lines, sayings, thoughts and found “the gravitaional pull of Planet Odd” and “there’s no smoke without mirrors” and I took it from there. Lots of fun, thanks Brendan!
(the Paul Durcan poem that provides the first two lines is called : The Martyrdom of Saint Sebastian.)
I’m standing in the liquor store staring at a bottle of Pinot Grigio when Wild Thing by the Troggs comes on the store speakers and I’m thinking, to quote Leonard, that song is a shining artifact of the past and just as I’m thinking that one of the Troggs launches into a bizarre ocarina solo and I turn around to find myself face to face with a large blue and yellow parrot perched on the leather-gloved hand of a lady who has seen hippier times never at a loss for words, I say, “that’s a nice parrot” and the lady says “I have three more at home one of them is a real man-hater but this one here is my favowite he’s a vewy, vewy, vewy nice pawwot” she says, nuzzling the parrot, nose to beak the parrot inflates its technicolor plumage let’s out an almighty squawk and displays its full wing span and I’m thinking “Wow, there’s a ocarina solo in the middle of Wild Thing, who’s that on ocarina I think it’s the lead singer what was his name, Reg Presley, I think, yeah, that’s it Reg Presley.”
halibuns about Haliburton halibuns about halitosis halibuns about Halle Berry halibuns about Halley’s Comet
halibuns about Spiritus Mundi halibuns about Rosamund Pike halibuns about Solomon Grundy halibuns just for the fun of it
halibuns at Sun Dance halibuns in Halifax halibuns about halibut halibundance halibundance halibundance
But he never took a halibun to a pun fight.
The Poet’s Circle Holds a Haiku Evening
an evening of
syllable counts and cured meats
sheer haikuterie.
The title is obviously a variation of “jiggery-pokery” which apparently is probably an alteration of Scots joukery-pawkery, from jouk to dodge, cheat + pawk trick, wile.(Wikipedia) or it can mean just plain “trickery”
After the time bell rings and the barmen start stacking the chairs Guitar George packs his old guitar in his old guitar case and Honky Tonk Harry closes the lid of that pub piano and together, still in sync they leave to catch the last bus home to their adjacent council flats where their wives await in front of the television with pots of tea and plates of chocolate digestive biscuits and later still in sync they both reach for that last chocolate digestive biscuit one eye on their gently snoring wives before retiring to bed and dreams of New Orleans and the muddy Mississippi River.
Apologies to Mark Knopfler for using two of his characters from one of the greatest guitar songs of all time….The Sultans Of Swing,
Thinking of it now, truth to tell
I should have said goodnight, turned out the light
I should never have started this villanelle
now I am stuck in verse form hell
everything I write seems totally trite
thinking of it now, truth to tell
I can check out but I can’t leave this hotel
(the Eagles, you get the reference, right?)
I should never have started this villanelle
mission bell, tinker bell, death knell
I’ve started to write total shite
thinking of it now, truth to tell
I have to get off this carousel
it’s been a struggle, it’s been a fight
I should never have started this villanelle
I need another word that rhymes with ‘elle’
final quatrain, the pain, the urge to yell;
thinking of it now, truth to tell
I should never have started this villanelle
Stopdraggingthepanda 