the pretty little girl and the hen...

there once was a pretty little girl
with a head full of long ringlet curls

satin ribbons and bows adorned her long hair
she much preferred just going all bare

the mother dressed her in crispy white frocks
pretty white sandals and sheer sheer socks
 

layers and layers of ruffles she wore
she hated it all when she was but four
    
staying inside was not her thing
she’d much rather be out on the big rope swing

pleasing the mother though was what she did
after all, she was just a little kid

then one day the mother left for a while
and out the door she raced with a smile

under the big oak tree she did sit
playing in the grass she could not quit

she sat and sat and wiggled her toes
and watched the clouds row after row

dreaming and floating and dreaming some more
all she wanted was the mother to love to adore

she thought if she had just one special gift
the mother’s dark mood surely would lift    

she loved the chirps of the little birds
if only she could sing without words

so she blew and blew and blew again
before she knew it she heard a sweet strain

again and again the sounds whispered through her lips
now she’d surely win the mother’s kiss

pleasing the mother was what she wanted to do
after all, she was just a little kid who needed love too

then the mother came home to her delight
and with her gift to make things bright

the little girl whistled and whistled with all her might
but the mother just looked down with her mouth all tight

 

and said to the pretty little girl

with the ringlet curls

a whistling woman and a crowing hen
always come to a very bad end!

mojo man...

it’s all true you know

those things you hear

about him

about what it is

that he does

what it is

he really does

you know what i mean

those “things” that he does

with that stuff he has

the stuff you can’t get nowhere else

you know the stuff

that stuff his stuff

it’s all true you know

those things i hear

when he comes near

when he whispers in my ear

when he pulls out that little

indigo instrument of his

when he stirs up his magic mojo

stirs up all those crystalline dreams

stirs ‘em all up into crimson streams

ties ‘em together with corrugated strings

all them beautiful things

you know what i mean

you hear ‘em too

don’t you

yeah, i know you do

you hear ‘em too

you know what i mean

when he pulls out his little stash

THE stash

yeah, THAT stash

all that sweet sugary stuff

that ain’t none never enough

that makes us beg for more

that trips us to that other shore

the one where life ain’t so bad no more

or the one where life’s shut all the doors

it all depends on his stuff of the day

the stuff of come what may

the stuff of findin’ the way

the way into the heart of things

into the guts'a things

into the deep dark black'a things
the divil'a things
the burnin' hell'a things
into the truth'a things
the beauty'a things
the real'a things
the real deal things

yeah, those things
those “things” that he does
your know the things
those things
that most of us
never even hear of
never know of
never deal
never feel
never fill
never will
never experience
even in the blackest night
let alone on a sunlit day
when life’s gone astray
has slapped us in the face
stingin’ our flesh like a squirt of mace
has robbed us deserted us
left us alone in the desert sands
without ev’n no layin’ on of hands
without no map no drink
sendin’ us straight over the brink
no shelter from the storms of life
leavin’ us in the midst of all that strife
when life has lost its everlovin’ mind
beatin’ us down and all our kind
but then just like the sunrisin’ on a misty morn’

like a breath'a fresh air
with all kinds’a love to spare
here he comes
yeah, here he comes
carryin’ his little magic wand
his magic mojo wand of indigo ink
danglin’ it in front of us
wavin’ it 'round
makin’ those marks of his
marks can’t no one else even compare

marks no one else would even dare
marks that take us round and round
makin’ us think we’re heaven bound
and just like pavlov’s dogs
there we go pantin’ and pawin’
salivatin’ motivatin’
whimperin’ whinin’
lappin’ up his stuff
all his stuff
lappin’ it all up off those virtual paper plates
sniffin’ snortin’ inhalin’ exhalin’

all of it 

all his stuff

yeah, you know what I mean

that stuff

the stuff that ain’t never enough

the stuff of all them magnificent mystical tales

you know what i mean

his STUFF
that indigo ink stuff

yeah, that stuff
every single drop every last drop
till there ain’t nothin’ no more
till all those words'a his
just slam shut the door
SLAM it shut
right straight shut
yeah, shut!
shut!
shut till the next time
you know what I mean
the time
yeah, that time
THE time
the NEXT time
when he next comes ‘round
makin’ us think we’re all heaven bound
givin’ us a fix on what is what can be
what should be
a fix on love an’ light
an’ all things right
slap through the day into the night
takin’ you to all them pearly heights
when he does his thing

you know the thing
that thing he does
with his stuff
that stuff that more ain’t never enough
that thing that he does
when he pulls out his magic pen
and it all begins
again!

again
with him...
and his magic mojo pen

for all’a us
yeah, you know who i mean
you know the ones - US
us - his junkies...
his WORD junkies 

[to jimmy in glasgow]

the call of the open road...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

the next few weeks will find the caravan on the move -

headed to fun in the sun on the sandy shores -

so i'll be in and out of cyberland but would love to have you

scratch little notes in the sand, there by the fire, while i'm gone - 

you know how i love hearing from you -

see you soon - 

the fallen forest...

ever so often

ever so softly

my thoughts
wander to you
the sight of you
the only sight
of you i have
that imitation sight
imitation flesh
carved from the
living cells of a
fallen forest

a fallen forest
where if you
are not there
and i am not there
and only the dreams
of our hearts
make themselves
known there

there
where if my
heart breaks
cracks crashes
like a fallen tree
under the cutting
edge of a
dark night’s axe
will the crackling
sounds
of my broken
heart be heard

when it rips
apart because
you are not
there

in the fallen forest

 ~

voices from 1975...

if i held you to my breast
and nursed you with the love
that men have ravished there before

if i held you closer to me still
and kept you from the frigid cold
that men have locked me in before

 


if i held you even gentler
and kept you safe within my heart 


if i held you ever sweetly
and shared with you my thoughts
that men have plundered many times before

could it be that you
would only follow suit

and

i
would be
no more
~