not sure how many words

[tungtied2u]

He is taller than me now
An amalgam of she and I
Her eyes
My chin and face.

He is taller than me now
Still looks up to me when he
Borrows a buck,
Holds the secrets of his unfolding as he
Drives and rides byways and highways
Thru the hills and valleys of his youth.

He drops in unannounced,
My home his home,
He's thin like me
We share clothes
To keep each other warm.
Always to keep each other warm.

Nice one EE-

 

[eagleyez]

Nice one EE-

Hey You-thanks! Im listening/watching DVD of Son Volt at the Orange Peel in Asheville.

AS we speak.

Great venue/sound/crowd.

Waiting....

Hope you are well.

T.

 

[wildsweetone]

I need to work on my Fmaj, I think I'm forever doomed to get that dull thud sound *giggling* Your song is growing on me ee, as all good songs do.

 

[eagleyez]

I need to work on my Fmaj, I think I'm forever doomed to get that dull thud sound *giggling* Your song is growing on me ee, as all good songs do.

Its a hand cramper for sure.

Thanks. I was just noodling.

 

[wildsweetone]

see, even your noodling is good.

 

[Angeline]

see, even your noodling is good.

One of my favorite things to do is listen to him fool around on the guitars--especially the 12-string. He switches around from folk to alternative country to rock and blues and jazz, even classical. He has quite a gift. And the songs are born.

I worked a killer schedule yesterday, but I'm off till Sunday and he's gonna play and sing that new one for me today.



(He tried to teach me Fmaj. My fingers just couldn't get it. I need nylon strings--steel hurts damnit. )

 

[eagleyez]

De-tuned 12, a
Samsara cave on
Rusty afternoons,
Son Sets on reverb kisses
From imperfect skies

Perfect Harmony
Strange luck
I wont fight it
But feedback
The prairie chord,

A western hero
Hank town
Hang Dogs
Lap filled with eternity
Busy hands
Lose my mind
Lose my mind.

 

[TheRainMan]

. . .

 

[Angeline]

Coming into Penn Station


With the late night drunks that wobble back from bars,
the train huffs and slows uneasily,
to steady itself for home.
This could be any station in America, any town,
any midnight with all its definable terrors.
I see everything that moves—a face hidden
in the shadows, waiting to mug me
for riches I haven’t got,
the homeless curled on cement,
shifting in their hard sleep, rolling over
to relive the miracle of being somewhere else,
a pretty, sad girl clutching herself on a bench,
trembling and balled up like a sick cat,
her eyes concocting an ending we all know.
And when she rises and shuffles off slowly
toward that bad place, that last chapter
she’ll improvise, her head low
like she wears the entire ugly world
on her skull, I want to say, wait, wait, don’t go,
not alone, not on a terrible night like this,
not with the sky cold and spinning
a darkness around you—unwrap yourself,
tuck your hands in your back pockets and walk
with me, to anywhere we can open
and find ourselves again,
where we won’t shrivel up and shake,
filled with tears we’re ashamed to release,
where we won’t mourn anymore
like a whole city lost in its misery and dreams.

Reminiscent of a night I spent in Penn Station once after missing the last train home. The bars close at 4, the drunks and scaries shuffle, yes, and the lost try to disappear into the benches. Very evocative, Rainy.

(And we won't even talk about the werewolf-lookin guy who chased me around the waiting room. The ladies room was NOT a fun place to hide!)

 

[eagleyez]

Coming into Penn Station


With the late night drunks that wobble back from bars,
the train huffs and slows uneasily,
to steady itself for home.
This could be any station in America, any town,
any midnight with all its definable terrors.
I see everything that moves—a face hidden
in the shadows, waiting to mug me
for riches I haven’t got,
the homeless curled on cement,
shifting in their hard sleep, rolling over
to relive the miracle of being somewhere else,
a pretty, sad girl clutching herself on a bench,
trembling and balled up like a sick cat,
her eyes concocting an ending we all know.
And when she rises and shuffles off slowly
toward that bad place, that last chapter
she’ll improvise, her head low
like she wears the entire ugly world
on her skull, I want to say, wait, wait, don’t go,
not alone, not on a terrible night like this,
not with the sky cold and spinning
a darkness around you—unwrap yourself,
tuck your hands in your back pockets and walk
with me, to anywhere we can open
and find ourselves again,
where we won’t shrivel up and shake,
filled with tears we’re ashamed to release,
where we won’t mourn anymore
like a whole city lost in its misery and dreams.

A horseman cloaked in Black rides thru Brooklyn
Faceless and fearless,

 

[cherries_on_snow]

Reminiscent of a night I spent in Penn Station once after missing the last train home. The bars close at 4, the drunks and scaries shuffle, yes, and the lost try to disappear into the benches. Very evocative, Rainy.

(And we won't even talk about the werewolf-lookin guy who chased me around the waiting room. The ladies room was NOT a fun place to hide!)

omg! I had that experience just three weeks ago after missing the last train to Jersey (coming home from an International Film Festival in the Bronx). Yes, spending the night in Penn Station is a more universal experience than one might at first assume.

 

[TheRainMan]

Reminiscent of a night I spent in Penn Station once after missing the last train home. The bars close at 4, the drunks and scaries shuffle, yes, and the lost try to disappear into the benches. Very evocative, Rainy.

(And we won't even talk about the werewolf-lookin guy who chased me around the waiting room. The ladies room was NOT a fun place to hide!)

that can be one scary place to be when the sun is down.

i think i know that werewolf guy . . . don't we all?

 

[RhymeFairy]

I know not
a hundred words.

I do know
the feeling of loss.
The bone to skin tearing
of pain, from being without.
Show me someone
anyone who has always gotten
what they deserved.

Show me a man without the knowledge
of a mothers love.
I shall show you pain
and hurt, heartfelt ... bone deep
humiliation of lost love.

A child who knows not
how to reach out
to take the chance of another loving
caring for them, without the hit
slap of old memories dredging up
and choking them.

A woman who tries
without ever knowing if the fruition of her labor
will ever come to pass, to love
safe and sound.
Always a patch to cover
old bruises left open
to the newness of another pain.
A quality never known to be
... to just be .

 

[wildsweetone]

that can be one scary place to be when the sun is down.

i think i know that werewolf guy . . . don't we all?

i know i do.

i read your poem, again. i like it better now than when i first read it aeons ago. did you tweak it? and, what has made you not split it into different stanzas - curiosity still getting the better of me, among other things.

 

[TheRainMan]

i know i do.

i read your poem, again. i like it better now than when i first read it aeons ago. did you tweak it? and, what has made you not split it into different stanzas - curiosity still getting the better of me, among other things.

you couldn't have read it aeons ago . . . i just wrote it before i left, 3 weeks or so.

yes, it's been tweaked a lot. i don't know what version you saw.

there are no stanza breaks because it feels better to me without them . . . it seems like one straight run of thoughts, and when broken (it had been broken, in various versions) it didn't flow as well . . . it's hard to answer that question, since i think it is a matter of instinct.

 

[Angeline]

that can be one scary place to be when the sun is down.

i think i know that werewolf guy . . . don't we all?

I'm just relieved to hear it wasn't YOU!

I don't miss him. I do however miss the woman in full Valkyrie regalia who used to stand outside Lincoln Center and sing. She has been gone for years methinks.

My little one was in NYC with her aunt and uncle yesterday. Color me very envious.

 

[Angeline]

A horseman cloaked in Black rides thru Brooklyn
Faceless and fearless,

That was just you riding in tonight from Arizona to pick me up and take me to Coney Island.

(Extra kisses if you get BOTH song references!)




Edited to Add:

1. Someday Soon, Judy Collins ("He's riding in tonight from Arizona")
2. Coney Island Baby, Tom Waits

Ya didn't get either cause yer half asleep, but c'mere anyway.

 

[eagleyez]

over the falls in a barrell
That where all the answers have gone

Ride the blue wind, high and free
Ride them down to misery.

 

[wildsweetone]

you couldn't have read it aeons ago . . . i just wrote it before i left, 3 weeks or so.

yes, it's been tweaked a lot. i don't know what version you saw.

there are no stanza breaks because it feels better to me without them . . . it seems like one straight run of thoughts, and when broken (it had been broken, in various versions) it didn't flow as well . . . it's hard to answer that question, since i think it is a matter of instinct.

golly it seemed longer than 3 weeks.

i see what you mean about the straight run of thoughts... it flowed so well when i read it this time that it felt like a 'finished patrick poem'. *smile*

 

[eagleyez]

It is a nice piece of work Pat! It goes together like a freshly built deck, water sealed and even, nails all countersunk and only a couple of small slivers.

 

[eagleyez]

Oh the great American morning,
Miles symphonically intreprets
Porgy and Bess,
Windows open on sleeping Sunday
Holy Rollers and some with hangovers
Glavanized bridges into the endless continent
And I, Yes I, listen to her breath in time to snare slap
While rivers teem with fishes and Nebraska grasshoppers
Wait in dew stained grass.

The south swelters,
But Fall has riden into town here,
Like a limo full of angelic working girls
Snug under blankets of strange fur and asking "Where are we Charlie."

"We are nowhere, but in America. "
A room for 39 bucks, check out time 2 pm,
Clam draggers and lobstermen watch over cheap steaming coffee
from diner naughahyde swivel seats,
"must be heaading back to Canada" says one.

The tv with all its American news sits dark,
Gershwin and Miles make love in the domestic morning,
I will work on the Sabbbath, Oh sinful American,
Cook a meal, read the paper, after my shift,
And wait for my American Girl to sway up wooden stairs.

Night then, twilights and visions of Navajo caves
Filling my American head, under blankets with birds flying across me, alone.

 

[Angeline]

Let the sun rise.
I'm lost deep down
where the Canadian Geese are still.
They cover me while the honey man
plays keytaps for America,
which ain't necessarily so--
just miles of stories and coffee
brewing the Sabbath awake.

Awake.

I make asanas to the blues,
stretch and raise my praise
to trumpet. The end
of summertime tips the trees
in orange, droops the pines
and scrambles squirrels to action:
fat fur flash gray on the deck.
They're nutty. I'm calm. I listen
to crows, think I might be thirsty.

This is how my America goes,
in jazz twisted symphonic.
Gershwin says there's a boat
that's leavin soon for New York,
but my day moves north,
dreams south.

 

[cherries_on_snow]

Beautiful visions of America, Eagleyez and Angeline. Keep that TV dark; no news is good news.

 

[wildsweetone]

It is a nice piece of work Pat! It goes together like a freshly built deck, water sealed and even, nails all countersunk and only a couple of small slivers.

deck slivers are a bitch - sorry, that word is on my mind a lot lately.

 

[TheRainMan]

It is a nice piece of work Pat! It goes together like a freshly built deck, water sealed and even, nails all countersunk and only a couple of small slivers.

thanks, T.


and i like very much your 'snippet' of America above this post, and also your lady's -- i miss both of you writing here very much-- you do every now and then, and Ange a little less so -- but both of you, not enough.