Castle Valley Rocks!
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Lullaby for Dreamland
Come now, little children,
Let’s turn out the light,
Lay down on your pillows,
Let’s go nighty-night.
You all must be happy,
And never be cross,
Think of white bunnies,
And pink candy floss.
Ignore all those vampires,
And dragons and gnomes,
They can be found in,
The finest of homes.
Those trolls in the closet,
I think they’re asleep,
And werewolves have other,
Appointments to keep.
Don’t fret on those monsters,
Down under your bed,
Perhaps they’ll eat Mommy,
And Daddy instead.
Those giants and zombies,
And ogres and ghouls,
They all are attending,
Appropriate schools.
So think of bright rainbows,
You must concentrate,
Forget all those bad things,
Before it’s too late.
I’m closing the door now,
To stifle the screams,
So goodnight little darlings,
And have pleasant dreams.
Let’s turn out the light,
Lay down on your pillows,
Let’s go nighty-night.
You all must be happy,
And never be cross,
Think of white bunnies,
And pink candy floss.
Ignore all those vampires,
And dragons and gnomes,
They can be found in,
The finest of homes.
Those trolls in the closet,
I think they’re asleep,
And werewolves have other,
Appointments to keep.
Don’t fret on those monsters,
Down under your bed,
Perhaps they’ll eat Mommy,
And Daddy instead.
Those giants and zombies,
And ogres and ghouls,
They all are attending,
Appropriate schools.
So think of bright rainbows,
You must concentrate,
Forget all those bad things,
Before it’s too late.
I’m closing the door now,
To stifle the screams,
So goodnight little darlings,
And have pleasant dreams.
The Distaff Side
Women are a conundrum,
Oh, they’re a mystery,
They really make no sense at all,
To fellows such as me.
One moment they are happy,
The next, they’ve got the blues,
They have the strangest mood swings,
And what’s with all those shoes?
They fret on their appearance,
And raise a lot of fuss,
They worry that their butt looks big,
When they look fine to us.
They have no sense of humor,
At least, like you and me,
They don’t laugh at the Brothers Marx,
Nor at the Stooges Three.
They don’t like Stan and Ollie,
They don’t like Bud and Lou,
They’d rather watch a chick flick,
Does that make sense to you?
They buy the strangest objects,
For reasons no one knows,
Guest towels no one uses,
Throw pillows no one throws.
They hate a messy kitchen,
There’s nothing could be worse,
They know where everything belongs,
Except down in their purse.
Yes, ladies are a strange breed,
A colossal mystery,
But they look and smell and feel good,
And that’s good enough for me.
Oh, they’re a mystery,
They really make no sense at all,
To fellows such as me.
One moment they are happy,
The next, they’ve got the blues,
They have the strangest mood swings,
And what’s with all those shoes?
They fret on their appearance,
And raise a lot of fuss,
They worry that their butt looks big,
When they look fine to us.
They have no sense of humor,
At least, like you and me,
They don’t laugh at the Brothers Marx,
Nor at the Stooges Three.
They don’t like Stan and Ollie,
They don’t like Bud and Lou,
They’d rather watch a chick flick,
Does that make sense to you?
They buy the strangest objects,
For reasons no one knows,
Guest towels no one uses,
Throw pillows no one throws.
They hate a messy kitchen,
There’s nothing could be worse,
They know where everything belongs,
Except down in their purse.
Yes, ladies are a strange breed,
A colossal mystery,
But they look and smell and feel good,
And that’s good enough for me.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Hank
From the cotton fields of Alabam,
To the lights of Ryman Hall,
Came along a Drifting Cowboy,
He’s the greatest of them all.
Strumming on an old guitar,
He somehow learned to use,
He mixed the styles of honky tonk,
Pure country and the blues.
He climbed up all the country charts,
And soon was first in rank,
His given name was Hiram but,
The folks just called him Hank.
His songs reflected country life,
And all its aches and pains,
Of cheatin’ hearts and cold cold hearts,
Of lonesomeness and trains.
Of crazy hearts and hearts with chains,
And teardrops on the rose,
Of jambalaya and crawfish pie,
And all those highs and lows.
But then one day while riding in,
A brand new Cadillac,
He was young but his heart was old,
And he never made it back.
He left behind a heritage,
To keep them on the track,
For Waylon, Willie and the boys,
And of course the Man in Black.
For all the ones who sing along,
The Grand Ole Opry way,
Though he’s been gone for many years,
He still is felt today.
For showing them the way it’s done,
They have one man to thank,
His given name was Hiram but,
The folks just called him Hank.
A few years ago a guy asked me to write a poem about Hank Williams. I thought it was an interesting comcept but put it on the back burner. I then started researching him and found him to be an iconic character. This is the result.
To the lights of Ryman Hall,
Came along a Drifting Cowboy,
He’s the greatest of them all.
Strumming on an old guitar,
He somehow learned to use,
He mixed the styles of honky tonk,
Pure country and the blues.
He climbed up all the country charts,
And soon was first in rank,
His given name was Hiram but,
The folks just called him Hank.
His songs reflected country life,
And all its aches and pains,
Of cheatin’ hearts and cold cold hearts,
Of lonesomeness and trains.
Of crazy hearts and hearts with chains,
And teardrops on the rose,
Of jambalaya and crawfish pie,
And all those highs and lows.
But then one day while riding in,
A brand new Cadillac,
He was young but his heart was old,
And he never made it back.
He left behind a heritage,
To keep them on the track,
For Waylon, Willie and the boys,
And of course the Man in Black.
For all the ones who sing along,
The Grand Ole Opry way,
Though he’s been gone for many years,
He still is felt today.
For showing them the way it’s done,
They have one man to thank,
His given name was Hiram but,
The folks just called him Hank.
A few years ago a guy asked me to write a poem about Hank Williams. I thought it was an interesting comcept but put it on the back burner. I then started researching him and found him to be an iconic character. This is the result.
Rendezvous
I received the news this morning and it hit me without warning,
That the man I knew as Bighorn Bill had crossed the other side,
Then I thought of when I knew him and the way I listened to him,
As he told his tales and showed the world his confidence and pride.
In youth I took the merchant trade for all the gold that could be made,
I hired on with a wagon train to meet the trapper boys,
We would have a rendezvous where they would trade their beaver plews,
For powder, shot, tobacco, and to make a lot of noise.
That band of men, that brotherhood, oh I recall how tall they stood,
To be among their company and know them was a thrill,
But the man who stood so big and tall he was the greatest of them all,
The grizzled fellow known to all, the top man, Bighorn Bill.
At night by firelight he’d regale us all with his romantic tale,
Of a land of beauty most of us would never get to see,
Craggy tors that quickly rise under never ending skies,
And what it meant to be a man, alone and wild and free.
Of the boiling geyser fountains ‘neath the ever present mountains,
In the place that’s fit for demons, the place called Colter’s Hell,
And the rivers and the creeks through the vast eternal peaks,
And the spirits of the nature there that held him in their spell.
Well, that was many years ago and as in time the ebb and flow,
Of life will change directions with surprises in its haste,
Demand for beaver plews went down so most of them moved back to town,
Except for Bill, for city living wasn’t in his taste.
He built himself a cabin there among the crags and crystal air,
And lived life as he wanted with the mountains as his friends,
The rest of us went back to striving, ever constant in our driving,
In full and wild pursuit of all our goals and all our ends.
Doing what a fellow can, I’ve become a wealthy man,
By working, ever working, my bank accounts have grown,
I’ve made a pretty penny, Bighorn Bill, he hadn’t any,
But Bill was quite the richest man that I have ever known.
This is a tribute to one of my favorite poets, Banjo Patterson, the national poet of Australia. I love his "Clancy of the Overflow" and this has a similar theme, rhythm and rhyme scheme.
That the man I knew as Bighorn Bill had crossed the other side,
Then I thought of when I knew him and the way I listened to him,
As he told his tales and showed the world his confidence and pride.
In youth I took the merchant trade for all the gold that could be made,
I hired on with a wagon train to meet the trapper boys,
We would have a rendezvous where they would trade their beaver plews,
For powder, shot, tobacco, and to make a lot of noise.
That band of men, that brotherhood, oh I recall how tall they stood,
To be among their company and know them was a thrill,
But the man who stood so big and tall he was the greatest of them all,
The grizzled fellow known to all, the top man, Bighorn Bill.
At night by firelight he’d regale us all with his romantic tale,
Of a land of beauty most of us would never get to see,
Craggy tors that quickly rise under never ending skies,
And what it meant to be a man, alone and wild and free.
Of the boiling geyser fountains ‘neath the ever present mountains,
In the place that’s fit for demons, the place called Colter’s Hell,
And the rivers and the creeks through the vast eternal peaks,
And the spirits of the nature there that held him in their spell.
Well, that was many years ago and as in time the ebb and flow,
Of life will change directions with surprises in its haste,
Demand for beaver plews went down so most of them moved back to town,
Except for Bill, for city living wasn’t in his taste.
He built himself a cabin there among the crags and crystal air,
And lived life as he wanted with the mountains as his friends,
The rest of us went back to striving, ever constant in our driving,
In full and wild pursuit of all our goals and all our ends.
Doing what a fellow can, I’ve become a wealthy man,
By working, ever working, my bank accounts have grown,
I’ve made a pretty penny, Bighorn Bill, he hadn’t any,
But Bill was quite the richest man that I have ever known.
This is a tribute to one of my favorite poets, Banjo Patterson, the national poet of Australia. I love his "Clancy of the Overflow" and this has a similar theme, rhythm and rhyme scheme.
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