Category Archives: song lyrics

Plans Not Fulfilled

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They made plans for the holiday
Their respective children far away
Each left alone, they turned to their common bond
Of husbands long since gone
Of phone calls and lunches
Of shopping trips and excuses
Of growing older
 
Then one passes away
A month before the plan was to be engaged
And the one, who was already bereaving,
Bereaves anew, alone
And there is no communication
And there is no plan, anymore
 
What does she think, on this day?
What is she feeling deep inside?
What is the sorrow she is feeling…
For herself, her friend, or both?
 
They made plans for the holiday
So they would not be alone
 
 
 
 
 
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See Her

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Chasing Rainbow By Judy Underwood

See her

Fun is first nature

Wonderment and exploration

Dancing, twirling, laughing, tripping

See her

She won’t always be this way

Relish in what she delights in

What she marvels at

What she runs to grasp

See her

Keep this image in your heart

Share in it

Join in

Reclaim it yourself

See yourself

Chase a rainbow bubble

 

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Prompt from Bluebell Books

Thursday Flash Fiction Week 28: Innocence and Dream: Please write a poem, a prose, or a short story inspired by the image provided above

I’ve done their prompts before. Hope you enjoy.

Thirty Miles

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No matter what you want
Where to go
Where to rest
It’s thirty miles
That never ends.
 
The fog lays across
Even the brightest day
Obscuring the sights
All one, in the end,
All one.
Thirty miles still to go
Thirty miles
 
So why not stay where the tension lies?
The shouting barked at your back
Not respected nor needs met
With distressing sharp looks
With no one listening
With only loud, loud, loud
 
Yet you laugh
She laughs
At what is wrought;
Shake your head at some distant thought
The cut off point has come and gone
Thirty miles shouldn’t take so long.
 
Thirty miles to drive you on
Another thirty after that
Driven on, driven on
Thirty miles of fog

One Lovely Blog Award…Yes, It Is Too

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It was the 2012 Memorial Day Weekend, and I get a pleasant surprise: I have been honored TWICE with the One Lovely Blog Award, as passed on to me by Allan Douglas of Simple Life Prattle and The Write Stuff (and fellow Triberr buddy).

How could he bestow this upon me twice? One is for here,Tale Spinning, the other is for my Non-Fiction blog, BornStoryteller.

The “rules” are simple:

  1. Thank the person who awarded the award (Thank you Allan) and link back to their blogs: Click HERE and HERE
  2. Tell SEVEN things about yourself that no one knows (but two blogs… 14.. but…14? TMI)
  3. Pass on the award to (15) blogs you follow and like/admire/wish they were yours.
    1. I’ll do as many as I can.

So…

Seven Things :

  1. I’ve lived on the East Coast of the USA all my life, but have visited more than half of the states now.
  2. I read SciFi, Fantasy, Thrillers, Mysteries, and then the occasional other book. Existentialism, anyone?
  3. I wish the lyrics to John Lennon’s song Imagine were achievable.
  4. People find me unfocused in my field of interest (the arts); I find myself versatile.
  5. I believe in ghosts, but not vampires and werewolves. Especially not shimmery vampires.
  6. I like both cats and dogs; I do NOT like fish, as pets or otherwise.
  7. I have never gone to a demolition derby or a monster truck thingy; I’d like to, at least once.

In no particular order, blogs I pass this along to, and you should give them a look/leave a comment (tell ’em I said Hi):

Woman Wielding Words

The Eagle’s Aerial Perspective

Ghost Cities

My Rivendell

ZenCherry

The View Outside

David Powers King

Cherie Reich-Author

No Wasted Ink

Sweepy Jean Explores the (Webby) World

Daily (W)Rite

Raising Amelie

Sonia Rumzi

A French Yummy Mummy in London

Rock the Kasbah

When Did We Get So Old? (A Picture Book)

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When did we get so old?
I don’t mean the aches and pains
The loss of memories
Nor the furrows in our brows
The wrinkles and changes
Sagging skin
Shrinking
 
 
 
 
 
 
When did we get so old
That we shake our head what is new
And “tsktsktsk” like our grandparents
And hold onto regrets
Or retreat into the past
Saying goodbyes
More often?
 
 
 
Have we lost sight of fun
As vitality slowly takes flight
Of purpose more then money
Holding onto things
Letting people go
More afraid of dying
Then living
 
 
 
What is wrong with living young,
Being silly and thinking free?
Afraid more of the grey on top
Instead of the growing malaise
Of the grey reaching down
Sucking us dry
Withering insides
 
 
 

(c) Matt Brown

 
When did we get so old?
Time is a passing thing
We have no control
It is what it is
So let it pass
So let it pass
 
I have a kite to fly
 

 

Rusted Away

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Encrusted, Rusted
Someone I should have trusted
Someone I should have trusted
Gave in, Caved in
Now price is being paid
Should have mistrusted
Should have mistrusted
Just looked the other way
Really, the price to pay
For looking the other way
 
Encrusted, Rusted
Most times I should just leave
Most times I should just leave
Held out, hoped out
Now price is being paid
Should have mistrusted
Should have mistrusted
Not enough hours in the day
Too much not conveyed
Nothing left; so much to say
 
Encrusted, Rusted
Everything tumbling down
Everything tumbling down
Fanned out, Maxed out
Now price is being paid
Should have mistrusted
Should have mistrusted
Overwhelmed, feet of clay
Obligated, it does weigh
Obfuscate, betray

You Are Mine! (A Tanka Poem)

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YOU ARE MINE!

Something comes at night
Holding breath; no creaks, no sound
Covers drawn up tight
The moon peers in my window:
It, illuminated so

Saying: “You Are Mine!
From this night forward, believe
We are meant to be.
To the underbelly, fly
Nothing wicked to deny.”

Covers off, so tossed
A soft sprinkling of dust
Anticipation…
My mattress far below me
A smile lights up my being.

Out the window, soar
Swoop and laugh forever more
Reach the stars above
Quick! The morning sun comes fast
What is left behind?

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Author’s Note:

From Wikipedia:

Tanka consists of five units (often treated as separate lines when Romanized or translated) usually with the following pattern of onji:

5-7-5-7-7.

The 5-7-5 is called the kami-no-ku (“upper phrase”), and the 7-7 is called the shimo-no-ku (“lower phrase”). Tanka is a much older form of Japanese poetry than haiku.

About 1300 years old (I’ve seen 1200 too, so..why quibble), A Tanka has been hitting the poetry rounds lately.

This is my first Tanka, and I based it on a well loved story (see the tags if you don’t see what I was playing with).

ADDENDUM:

This is what cosmic synchronicity is about: I got, on Friday morning (the day after I wrote this), an email from The Purple Treehouse that their poetry prompt to express a different poetic form,  this week  to write a “WAKA” for you to think within 5-7-5-7-7 syllables and let your love know, how much you love…  or, one of its’ forms:

Chōka consists of 5-7 Japanese sound units phrases repeated at least twice, and concludes with a 5-7-7 ending.

The Tanka, as described above, which allowed a bit more expression

“There are still other forms of waka. In ancient times its moraic form was not fixed – it could vary from the standard 5 and 7 to also 3, 4, 6, longer than 7 morae part in a waka. Besides that, there were many other forms like Bussokusekika, Sedōka, Katauta etc.” (copied from The Purple Treehouse)

So, now I’m linking this piece up to their site and poetry blog hop. Please click on The Purple Treehouse link and take a look at the other poets expressing this poetic form. I Hope you like it.

You Ain’t!

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You ain’t gonna tell me what to think

You ain’t gonna tell me what to say

You ain’t gonna tell me what to read

You certainly ain’t gonna tell me how to bleed

What I care for; What I think

Mine to choose; I ain’t no sheep

 

What I choose, for my own good

Not hateful, it’s understood

Freedom to live, in my own way

Your condemnation will not sway

But try cutting me off

Try shutting me up

You ain’t…you ain’t…you ain’t…

 

You ain’t gonna tell me what to think

You ain’t gonna tell me what to say

You ain’t gonna tell me what to read

You certainly ain’t gonna tell me how to bleed

What I care for; What I think

Mine to choose; I ain’t no sheep

 

The Holiday People

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They come out of nowhere

The Holiday People

In their big bulky sweaters

And Big Bulky Coats

Carrying Big Bulky Packages

And Big Bulky Totes.

They shove on by, they squeeze where no squeezing can be

They find their ways into places you’d rather not see

The Holiday People connect in an off putting sway

The Holiday People just get in your way

They take up seats that are normally free

They clog up the doors and aisle ways on shopping sprees

Nothing’s much needed, Nothing’s much given

They buy, they glutton, and few are shriven

But one month a year, they think all is forgiven

The Holiday People are coming your way

Then, like a winter storm, that creeps up fast

The Holiday People are gone with a blast

The Holiday People came out of nowhere

 

 

The Sanguine Milk of Human Kindness

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“He is so thoroughly mean and evil,” she said.

“Yes, he is.” After some more observing, he smiled, and added: “I like him.’

“So do I.”

They were enjoying the musical very, very much, and the male lead had the audience in his hands. William was dancing while dangling from the the main support beam; Hannah maintained her form, as she was in her best gown for opening night, and stood swaying from the flies. In shadow, they stayed out of the way of the stage crew, as they had done ever since they found the playhouse, soon after it was built in 1931.

Feeding gently on the various thespians and crew over the years kept them both sated and happy; never a death, never anything more than a slight “case of the vapors” (so long ago), or a need, now,  for extra vitamins and “recreational” medicines. This was bliss for the two, and they knew how to show their appreciation.

They had experienced many plays over the past eighty years, from joyous to downright dreadful. The really good ones sent them into flights of fancy; the horrible ones they hid from, cringing in the wings on opening nights, hoping against all hope that something would pull together. Those nights, they slunk off and drank their sorrows away, elsewhere.

Tonight was not one of those nights. This musical was magic, the leads were solid, and the cast’s enjoyment in their craft was infectious. Hannah did not have to convince William in the least. This was a night for celebrations.

“Time?” he asked, raising his eyes to meet hers. She was already changing shape, losing mass in the way their kind just did, and her dress transformed with her into bat like form. William always thought this revamp suited her well, but he was funny that way.

“Time,” Hannah answered, and off she flew, with William close behind her.

They both flew over the audience, causing quite the sensation. The audience “Ooooed” and “Ahhhhed”,  a mixture of pleasure  at the song being sung and also noticing the two Civic Center Bats (capitalized, as they were part of the mythos) flying overhead.

It was said when the Bats flew out, the play was a hit. When William and Hannah did not take to wing, the play was a flop, and everyone knew it. The actresses and actors, and finger crossed directors, collectively held their breaths, so to speak, trusting the bats on a wing and a prayer.

Well, two sets of wings, and a lot of prayer.

William stayed up high, as was his want. Hannah dove over the stage, circled once over the male lead, showing her approval, and then flew back to the flies high above the stage. William was already there as she misted back to humanoid form. He walked over, adjusted her dress just so, and gave her a kiss. Hannah returned the kiss, deeply, and the two of them watched the rest of the performance from way above the stage.

He had his arm around her shoulders and she had her arm around his waist.

When the show was over, they roundly joined  in the applause, shouting “Bravo!” and “Encore!” with the rest of the assemblage. Except for their extended canines and the fact they were hanging upside down from a catwalk, they were like the rest of the crowd: appreciative for a show well done.

The cast came out for it’s encore, and the theater quieted down. William and Hannah, who had been privy to all the rehearsals, knew the encore song quite well. They held hands while they sang along…

“The milk of human kindness is the loveliest drink in the world, the loveliest drink in the world, that’s what people think in the world…”

Soon, show over, crowds gone, the cast and stage crew packing up for the night… feeding time…

It was the loveliest drink in the world

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Author’s Note

I was told a tale by the male lead of the musical “Scrooge”, now playing at the Muncie Civic Theatre in Indiana. I met Todd Terrell many years ago at the Indiana Thespian Festival, where I was a Guest Artist, running theater  workshops for truly amazing High School students. Todd was in charge of it all at that time, a well respected theater teacher.

I am equally sure he is an excellent actor. If you live in the Muncie, Indiana area, RUN to get tickets. The show only runs in December.

Todd briefly mentioned the Civic Theater bats to me, how they flew out on his opening night, how he got a standing ovation on said night, and how when the bats (who lived somewhere in the theater) flew, that show was always a hit. The ones where the bats did not fly, well…there was guano on the stage, and the audiences knew it .

So…hearing the story and the theatrical superstition around it, I just took it that one (or two) steps beyond. Hope you like it.

The song lyrics of “The Milk of Human Kindness” are (c) by Leslie Bricusse and I only used what was freely offered on line. If you want the whole song, there is a thing called royalties. Pay them…it’s good karma.