2 Proems from ' 'Now, Heart' - Some Of What I Remember When I Listen
for Willie 'in the pocket' now of earth
A river is a process through time, and the river stages are its momentary parts.
—Willard Van Orman Quine
One [Remembering Chattanooga Days With Willie, Tennessee River Close By]:
One night Willie, much 'in the pocket'—an expression for being well onto drunk which I've never heard from anyone but him—wanted to dance to a Bessie tune playing, 'Back Water Blues', him recalling nights as a young man in rural Tennessee where he had worked hard days in oppressive vegetable fields then hit the after hours juke joints for 'colored, twas parting days, Jim Crow, ' he explained, where he would drink, dance then dive/delve into sensual mysteries of moist skin, hot breath, mutually open mouths, their commodious moans and mumbles, venial hands, always vital parts, private hearts mutually pounding ancient known rhythms, odors, tastes of gin and those slender, forbidden, now greedily stolen bites in those all too short nights with their damned intrusive dawns.
Jumping to his feet, Willie described 'powder dancin'' (pronounced marvelously, 'powdah') which I had never heard of. Talcum powder would be copiously scattered onto the planked dance floor where couples in stockinged or bare feet would ecstatically dance, gliding and sliding sweetly scented, muskily bent toward later glides and slides in slippery joy of momentary allure, amour on dimmed porches or in surrounding woods often enough and gratis upon delicate slabs of moonlight gratuitously dewy providing cushion for Passion's out and in, honoring, dignifying deities of skin wanting more making more skin, headlong Nature's frictional algorithms indelibly scored in every each his her yawing yen.
Two [Paean To Rivers]:
I know that wheat is anciently holy but now even more so for flour, the sight and feel of it, its unbaked smell, turns me again toward a Chattanooga 3rd street, its compass river swelling like bread nearby bearing witness still for one cannot say too much about rivers—their irreverence of edges scored, spilling themselves, proclaiming natural gods deeper than memory yet dependent upon it for traced they must be in every human activity no matter the breech, for something there is to teach even deity though it may be wrong to do so, or hearsay to say it or sing, but the song is there for those whose ears are broken onto bottoms from which cry urgencies of Being and between, dutiful banks barely containing the straining Word.
poem by Warren Falcon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Now, Heart' - Some Of What I Remember When I Listen
A river is a process through time, and the river stages are its momentary parts.
—Willard Van Orman Quine
From early poems,1970s, youthful indiscretions/attempts to vocally/poetically arrive at/derive a worthwhile writer's voice. Some explication might serve or enhance these under serving, undeserving though 'striving-after' poems hidden in old journals understandably unpublished but now so with apologies which are these expiatory explanations. Recently rediscovering these early arrivals, derivative yet aspiring I recognized and reembraced an enduring self maturing, arriving into late middle age:
Obsessed newly by jazz, mad about the many miraculous lady singers, entranced all too easily as youth are wont to be by sorrows and sexual infatuations which feel, emphasis on 'feel', like love, here are two of many 'songs' as tributes and life markers to jazz singers who provided soundtrack and felt expression to my angst and easily inflated/deflated sense of self, of beloved others, and of that new territory, independent life away from parental home and childhood community discovering, blundering into the fray of separate hearts and minds, irresponsible genitals and insouciant jouissance ('juiciness', in French) , discovering then and again and again that like Walt Whitman I 'contain worlds' and many disparate selves poorly formed, most of them collective projections and expectations of who or what I wanted to be, what others wanted and expected me to be, resulting in much confusion, tumult and multitudes of momentary throw-away selves. Thus singers like Bessie Smith and Dinah Washington became anchors, warm contexts and containers, for my daily fragmentation and re-formation.
I lived on 3rd street in downtown Chattanooga, a refugee from zealous, politically conservative white evangelicals and the vestigial yet still viral Southern Confederacy. Just a block or two from where Bessie Smith was born, I used to watch from my upstairs porch the steep hilly street's comings and goings with a glimpse of the Tennessee River between tenements across the street, its persistent rich aroma heavy in the air. I imagined Bessie Smith as a little girl playing up and down the street like the kids I saw then - once, two of them gleefully chasing a frighteningly large and confused looking rat.
William—he insisted on 'Willie'—an old man down the street who knew Bessie as a little girl, used to come up to my porch after one day hearing Bessie from my phonograph singing blues onto the always busy but attentive street. One of the first and permanent things I learned from my porch is that a city street has keen, observant eyes, acute ears, omnivorously seeing/hearing everything, indifferently, perhaps, but nothing escapes it, a roving, all-knowing urban Eye of God.
Extremely green and eager as green always is though stutteringly, and without apology, I enjoyed Willie's many stories and back pocket bottles of Old Mr. Boston Apricot Brandy, both of which—story and spirits/spirited story —dissolved or appeared to, age, racial, cultural, and sociological differences, along with those catalysts/cata-lusts, the forever alchemical Bessie and other jazz singers, Billie! Dinah! Ella! Sassy! Lil Ester Phillips! Nina Simone! to name only a few of the sensuous solutio chanteuses resolving sexual confoundaries by Miss-ambiguating sins' plethera with loose lilt and will- o-the-lisp whisper tongues.
One night Willie, much 'in the pocket'—an expression for being well onto tipsy which I've never heard from anyone but him—wanted to dance to a Bessie tune playing, 'Back Water Blues', him recalling nights as a young man in rural Tennessee where he'd worked hard days in oppressive vegetable fields then hit the after hours juke joints for 'colored, twas segregation days, ' he explained, where he would go to drink, dance then dive/delve, as it were, into the sensual mysteries of moist skin, hot breath, mutually open mouths with their commodious moans and mumbles, venial hands, always vital parts, private hearts mutually pounding ancient known rhythms, odors and tastes of gin and those slender, forbidden, now greedily stolen bites in those all too short nights with their damned intrusive dawns.
'Dawnus interuptus, ' I quipped, us both slapping knees, passing the narrative bottle fore and aft hefting moments re-grasped between us, offerings to the equally narrative river, the all-knowing hungry street.
Jumping to his feet, Willie described 'powder dancin'' (pronounced marvelously, 'powdah') which I had never heard of. Talcum powder would be copiously scattered onto the dance floor where couples in stocking or bare feet would ecstatically dance, gliding and sliding sweetly scented, muskily bent toward later glides and slides in the slippery joy of momentary allure and amour on dimmed porches or surrounding woods often enough and gratis upon delicate slabs of moonlight gratuitously dewy providing cushion for Passion's out and in, honoring and dignifying deities of skin wanting more making more skin, headlong Nature's frictional algo-rhythms indelibly scored in every/each his/her yawing yen.
Willie shouted, 'YOU GOT ANY TALC POWDER? ! '
...The jazz us trembled...
'NO! ' I bellowed, curious.
'YOU GOT ANY FLOUR? ! '
Even more curious, 'YEAH! ! '
'GO GIT IT! QUICK! ! '
He grinned an Old Mr. Boston juke-joint night-memories quaff-again grin.
Martha White, a brand of flour sold down South, has never been put to better use. Willie threw handfuls of 'Martha' over the tenement-planked living room floor as I half protested at the mess it (and me and Willie) was and would become. Completely gripped by his present-in-the-past brandy trance, a much younger man now, he suddenly grabbed me, brandied and tranced, too, my long hair flying, and danced me all over the floor the night through with swigs of Old But Now Spry 'n' Sprightly Mr. Boston with pauses to change record albums on the phonograph, 'catching up our breaths, ' he panted.
Next morning (more likely early afternoon) , Willie long gone, I awakened sprawled on the penitent porch—a cool concrete floor my sinner's bench—sweaty and thick as pan gravy, mosquito bitten, marinaded in Tennessee night mists. I staggered into the living room onto the ghostly floor powdery white, 'stroked' with two attached, or close to, sets of foot prints, heel slides and smears, a kind of 'Jackson Pollock meets Tibetan sand painting 'yazzed' yantra'**' with cigarette ashes flicked into the flickering impermanent mix. I've not powder danced since when we drank discovering oral history's joys, opened eager ears and fraternal arms forgetting fears of race and religion, age and expressed/ espressed Desire's multilingual disseminations.
I know that wheat is anciently sacred but now even more so for flour, the sight and feel of it, its unbaked smell, turns me again toward a Chattanooga 3rd street, its compass river swelling like bread nearby bearing witness still for one cannot say too much about rivers—their irreverence of edges scored, spilling themselves, proclaiming natural gods deeper than memory yet dependent upon it for traced they must be in every human activity, no matter the breech, for something there is to teach even deity though it may be wrong to do so, or hearsay to say it or sing, but the song is there for those whose ears are broken onto bottoms from which cry urgencies of Being and between, dutiful banks barely containing the straining Word.
**From Tibetan Buddhism. Visual meditation devices,
Yantras function as revelatory conduits of cosmic truths.
1. To Bessie Smith,3rd Street Chattanooga (circa 1971)
Already the river begins its sweat.
April to September I'll be on the porch
Come sunsets listening to cars in the
Dark and you, remembering the flour
On the floor and me and Willie in
Stocking feet dancing till dawn,
An old man down the street come
To drink on my porch sometime.
You were singing one night
While we drank and he just
Had to dance and pulled me,
Reluctant, skinny ass kid
All over the floor that night.
But my feet did dance.
And the flour stayed down
The whole summer long.
Now, Karen E. and Dinah Washington are still too painful 'o' dirges to give but only the skinniest details about. Karen, skinny, too, like this account where the devil is, indeed, in the details; Karen, young, vibrant, brilliant, German literature Thomas Mann scholar, once a patient in a mental hospital I worked the night shift at, committed suicide. We both loved the divine divas of jazz, Dinah Washington in particular.
I used to read William Blake out loud, the voices of the school children on the playground out our window and in the nearby park so loud that I had to shout out his 'Songs of Innocence and Songs of Experience' to be heard. Karen would almost always cry when she heard me quote/shout now by heart, mistakes and all, holding her sad face in my hands, 'And we are put on earth a little space, That we may learn to bear the beams of love And these black bodies and this sunburnt face Is but a cloud, and like a shady grove, For when our souls have learn'd the heat to bear, The cloud will vanish, we shall hear His voice, Saying, 'Come out from the grove, my love and care And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice'...'
By then gin had replaced Old Mr. Boston, and thin Karen had replaced some earnest yet fleeting others for in youth there are ne'er too many, from Willie nights to other momentary eternities of lovers. We lived Blake's songs, and Dinah's. Karen died them. The gods and Thomas Mann love her. I still do. Die of them, that is. And love her, do.
2
Dinah Washington, All Alone On The Street Of Regret (circa 1977)
It was sunrise, October.
Karen had just done herself in.
I suffered it through with
William Blake and gin.
Over the fence across the street
Children ran to class and Blake,
Too, chased those kids fast through
Leaves in the chill school yard.
I thought - the ground's already hard over
You, Karen. To Charon, then, and keep
Yourself warm. My arms no longer can.
You left no note in the dawn.
Out of lime and song at 7 a.m.
I dress, spin down the steps like then
In this morning now thin with Spring.
There's green over you now.
I cannot help but see a thin mildew
Form around your fingers in the dark.
Blake's still down playing in the park.
I'll play some Dinah when I get back in.
Now, Heart, don't you
Start that singing again.
poem by Warren Falcon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Dance
dance the river is there to rise
dance touch me and close your eyes
dance the winds will touch your feet
just dance and dance feel the beat
dance the river will find its mouth
dance east and west north and south
dance the river will find my lips
dance the poles to move my hips
dance the bees are dancing hives
dance the trees are swaying lives
dance the waves are breaking through
dance the sides for me and you
dance the birds are dancing flights
dance the stars are dancing nights
dance the currents dancing veins
dance in soils dancing grains
dance the last atom cutting a knot
just dance and dance until you cannot
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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I'll Never Smoke Weed With Willie Again
I always heard that his herb was top shelf
I just couldn't wait to find out for myself
Don't knock it till you tried it, well I tried it my friend
I'll never smoke weed with Willie again
I learned a hard lesson in a small Texas town
He fired up a fat boy and he passed him around
The last words I spoke before they tucked me in
I'll never smoke weed with Willie again
I'll never smoke weed with Willie again
My party's all over before it began
You can pour me some old whiskey river my friend
But I'll never smoke weed with Willie again
I hopped on his old bus, the Honeysuckle Rose
The party was Vegas, it was after the show
Alone in the front lounge, just me and him
With one parting puff grime creeper set in
I'll never smoke weed with Willie again
My party's all over before it began
You can pour me some old whiskey river my friend
But I'll never smoke weed with Willie again
Now we're passing the guitar, telling good jokes
I know ones a coming cause I'm smelling smoke
No I do not partake, I just let it pass by
With a smile on my face and a great contact high
I'll never smoke weed with Willie again
My party's all over before it began
You can pour me some old whiskey river my friend
But I'll never smoke weed with Willie again
In the fetal position with drool on my chin
I messed up and smoked weed with Willie again
song performed by by Toby Keith
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Warchild
Ill take you down to that bright city mile ---
There to powder your sweet face and paint on a smile,
That will show all of the pleasures and none of the pain,
When you join my explosion
And play with my games.
Warchild dance the days, and dance the nights away.
No unconditional surrender; no armistice day ---
Each night Ill die in my contentment and lie in your grave.
While you bring me water and I give you wine ---
Let me dance in your tea-cup and you shall swim in mine.
Warchild dance the days, and dance the nights away.
Open your windows and Ill walk through your doors.
Let me live in your country --- let me sleep by your shores.
Warchild dance the days, and dance the nights away.
song performed by by Jethro Tull
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Down On The Corner (feat. Lance Diamond)
Early on the evening, just about suppertime
Over by the courthouse, they're startin' to unwind
Poor kids on the corner tryin' to bring you up
Willie picks a tune out and he knows they gonna start
Down on the corner
Out in the street
Willie and the Poor Boys are playin'
Bring a nickel tap your feet
Johnny hits the washboard, people just gotta smile
Robby thumbs a gut-bass and solos for a while
Poor boy brings the rhythm on his kalamazoo
And Willie goes into a dance doubles on kazoo, hey!
Down on the corner
Out in the street
Willie and the Poor Boys are playin'
Bring a nickel tap your feet
Down on the corner
Out in the street
Willie and the Poor Boys are playin'
Bring a nickel tap your feet
Down on the corner
Out in the street
Willie and the Poor Boys are playin'
Bring a nickel tap your feet
You don't need a penny just to hang around
But if you got a nickel won't ya lay your money down
Over on the corner there's a happy noise
People come from all around to watch the magic boy
Down on the corner
Out in the street
Willie and the Poor Boys are playin'
Bring a nickel tap your feet
[fade out
song performed by by Goo Goo Dolls
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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By The Alma River
WILLIE, fold your little hands;
Let it drop, that 'soldier' toy:
Look where father's picture stands,--
Father, who here kissed his boy
Not two months since,--father kind,
Who this night may--Never mind
Mother's sob, my Willie dear,
Call aloud that He may hear
Who is God of battles, say,
'O, keep father safe this day
By the Alma river.'
Ask no more, child. Never heed
Either Russ, or Frank, or Turk,
Right of nations or of creed,
Chance-poised victory's bloody work:
Any flag i' the wind may roll
On thy heights, Sebastopol;
Willie, all to you and me
Is that spot, where'er it be,
Where he stands--no other word!
Stands--God sure the child's prayer heard--
By the Alma river.
Willie, listen to the bells
Ringing through the town to-day.
That's for victory. Ah, no knells
For the many swept away,--
Hundreds--thousands! Let us weep,
We who need not,--just to keep
Reason steady in my brain
Till the morning comes again,
Till the third dread morning tell
Who they were that fought and fell
By the Alma river.
Come, we'll lay us down, my child,
Poor the bed is, poor and hard;
Yet thy father, far exiled,
Sleeps upon the open sward,
Dreaming of us two at home:
Or beneath the starry dome
Digs out trenches in the dark,
Where he buries--Willie, mark--
Where he buries those who died
Fighting bravely at his side
By the Alma river.
Willie, Willie, go to sleep,
God will keep us, O my boy;
He will make the dull hours creep
Faster, and send news of joy,
When I need not shrink to meet
Those dread placards in the street,
Which for weeks will ghastly stare
In some eyes--Child, sy thy prayer
Once again; a different one:
Say, 'O God, Thy will be done
By the Alma river.'
poem by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Down On The Corner
Early on the evening, just about suppertime
Over by the courthouse, theyre startin to unwind
Poor kids on the corner tryin to bring you up
Willie picks a tune out and he knows they gonna start
Down on the corner
Out in the street
Willie and the poor boys are playin
Bring a nickel tap your feet
Johnny hits the washboard, people just gotta smile
Robby thumbs a gut-bass and solos for a while
Poor boy brings the rhythm on his kalamazoo
And willie goes into a dance doubles on kazoo, hey!
Down on the corner
Out in the street
Willie and the poor boys are playin
Bring a nickel tap your feet
Down on the corner
Out in the street
Willie and the poor boys are playin
Bring a nickel tap your feet
Down on the corner
Out in the street
Willie and the poor boys are playin
Bring a nickel tap your feet
You dont need a penny just to hang around
But if you got a nickel wont ya lay your money down
Over on the corner theres a happy noise
People come from all around to watch the magic boy
Down on the corner
Out in the street
Willie and the poor boys are playin
Bring a nickel tap your feet
(repeat and fade)
song performed by by Goo Goo Dolls
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Blind Willie Mctell
Seen the arrow on the doorpost
Saying, this land is condemned
All the way from new orleans
To jerusalem.
I traveled through east texas
Where many martyrs fell
And I know no one can sing the blues
Like blind willie mctell
Well, I heard the hoot owl singing
As they were taking down the tents
The stars above the barren trees
Were his only audience
Them charcoal gypsy maidens
Can strut their feathers well
But nobody can sing the blues
Like blind willie mctell
See them big plantations burning
Hear the cracking of the whips
Smell that sweet magnolia blooming
(and) see the ghosts of slavery ships
I can hear them tribes a-moaning
(I can) hear the undertakers bell
(yeah), nobody can sing the blues
Like blind willie mctell
Theres a woman by the river
With some fine young handsome man
Hes dressed up like a squire
Bootlegged whiskey in his hand
Theres a chain gang on the highway
I can hear them rebels yell
And I know no one can sing the blues
Like blind willie mctell
Well, God is in heaven
And we all want whats his
But power and greed and corruptible seed
Seem to be all that there is
Im gazing out the window
Of the st. james hotel
And I know no one can sing the blues
Like blind willie mctell
song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The River And Her
in the slow history of the river flowing
she wants to mark her own name with her fingers
religiously she goes there on a ritual of her own
naked she dips her skin on the water
so soft are her feet on the bed of pebbles
deep down the fishes ask for more of her toes
touched the river begins to sing a song for her
the bamboo leaves keep watching what happens next
will love dance on the surface of flimsy reasons?
will passion appear and last forever?
the banks want to close in on them: the river and her
the sun is worried what will happen next
it did end, but it was sad, as sad as the butterfly that lost one of its wings.
the river loses its name as she plunges deep to the tight arms of death.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Chattanooga Choo Choo
Music By Harry Warrem
Lyrics by Mack Gordon
Featuring the Glenn Miller Orchestra
(Hi there Tex, what you say?)
Step Aside partner, it's my day
Bend an ear, and listen to my version
OF A REALLY SOLID TENNESSEE EXCURSION
Pardon me boys, is that the Chattanooga Choo-Choo?
(Yes, Yes, Track 29)
Hey would you give me a shine?
(Can you afford to board Chattanooga Choo-Choo?)
I got my fare
AND JUST THE TRAVEL TO SPARE
You leave the Pennsylvania Station by a quarter to four
You read a magazine and then your in Baltimore
Dinner in a diner
Nothing could be finer
AND THEN TO HAVE A HAMMER IN THE CAROLINA
When you hear the whistle blowing into the bar
Then you know the Tennessee is not very far
Shove a all the coal in
Gotta keep a rollin'
WOO-WOO CHATTANOOGA THERE YOU ARE
There's gonna be
A certain party at the station
Satin and Lace (Ooh)
I use to call funny face (Doo Doo Doo Doo Doo Doo Doo Doo Doo Doo Doo)
She's gonna cry
Tha I promise to never ever roll,
SO CHATTANOOGA CHOO CHOO
won't you choo choo me home
(Chattanooga Chattanooga)
All aboard
(Chattanooga Chattanooga)
Get aboard
(Chattanooga Chattanooga)
CHATTANOOGA CHOO CHOO
won't you Choo-Choo me home
CHATTANOOGA CHOO CHOO
let's dance
song performed by by Barry Manilow
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Time For Tea
Scouring through the wasteland
With an uge to take
Anything that comes into view
Only ten more puffs to tea time
Ive found eating so time consuming
Willie, oh willie she cried
Its time for tea
Willie, where in hell has he gone
Its time for tea
South of the wateland at your d.i.y.
The inconsiderate rings his till
Offering plans of easy credit
Claims hell cause a killing in the school half term
Willie, oh willie she cried
Its time for tea
Willie, where in hell has he gone
Its time for tea
And welly well well well what have I found here
A hiding place made by frigid air
I think Ill try it on and give my mates a scare
Theyll all be searching neither here nor there
Willie, oh willie she cried
Its time for tea
Willie, where in hell has he gone
Its time for tea
Long depress of autumn breeze
Sucking on a rubber back teeth
Plays into the hands of the hardware man
Who selfishly I dont care
song performed by by Madness
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Rambling, Gambling Willie
Come around you rovin gamblers and a story I will tell
About the greatest gambler, you all should know him well.
His name was will o conley and he gambled all his life,
He had twenty-seven children, yet he never had a wife.
And its ride, willie, ride,
Roll, willie, roll,
Wherever you are a-gamblin now, nobody really knows.
He gambled in the white house and in the railroad yards,
Wherever there was people, there was willie and his cards.
He had a reputation as the gamblinest man around,
Wives would keep their husbands home when willie came to town.
And its ride, willie, ride,
Roll, willie, roll,
Wherever you are a-gamblin now, nobody really knows.
Sailin down the mississippi to a town called new orleans,
Theyre still talkin about their card game on that jackson river queen.
Ive come to win some money, gamblin willie says,
When the game finally ended up, the whole damn boat was his.
And its ride, willie, ride,
Roll, willie, roll,
Wherever you are a-gamblin now, nobody really knows.
Up in the rocky mountains in a town called cripple creek,
There was an all-night poker game, lasted about a week.
Nine hundred miners had laid their money down,
When willie finally left the room, he owned the whole damn town.
And its ride, willie, ride,
Roll, willie, roll,
Wherever you are a-gamblin now, nobody really knows.
But willie had a heart of gold and this I know is true,
He supported all his children, and all their mothers too.
He wore no rings or fancy things, like other gamblers wore,
He spread his money far and wide, to help the sick and the poor.
And its ride, willie, ride,
Roll, willie, roll,
Wherever you are a-gamblin now, nobody really knows.
When you played your cards with willie, you never really knew
Whether he was bluffin or whether he was true.
He won a fortune from a man who folded in his chair.
The man, he left a diamond flush, willie didnt even have a pair.
And its ride, willie, ride,
Roll, willie, roll,
Wherever you are a-gamblin now, nobody really knows.
It was late one evenin during a poker game,
A man lost all his money, he said willie was to blame.
He shot poor willie through the head, which was a tragic fate,
When willies cards fell on the floor, they were aces backed with eights.
And its ride, willie, ride,
Roll, willie, roll,
Wherever you are a-gamblin now, nobody really knows.
So all you rovin gamblers, wherever you might be,
The moral of this story is very plain to see.
Make your money while you can, before you have to stop,
For when you pull that dead mans hand, your gamblin days are up.
And its ride, willie, ride,
Roll, willie, roll,
Wherever you are a-gamblin now, nobody really knows.
song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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What Would Willie Do
I was lost in trouble and strife, I heard a voice and it changed my life
And now it's a brand new day, and I ain't afraid to say
You're not alone when you're down and out
And I think you know who I'm talking about
When I don't know how I'll get through
I ask myself what would Willie do
What would Willie do, well he'd travel so far with nothing but a song and his old guitar
And a tour bus and some semi-trucks, thirty crew men and a little bit of luck
Well he loves all the people, the ugly and the randy
If you don't believe me take a look at the family
And they'll tell you that it's true
When skies are gray what would Willie do
Well long ago he came unto us, his words were simple but they went right through us
And the whole world sang along, but then they didn't want to hear his songs
He was gone and we thought we'd lost him
But he grew his hair and he moved to Austin
And all of the people smiled, they came to hear him sing from miles
Like a miracle all those rednecks and hippies
From New York City down to Mississippi
Stood together and raised a brew
When it's all gone wrong what would Willie do
You know sometimes I wonder when I ain't gettin' nowhere
What would old Willie do when it all gets too much to bear
And I can see him on his lonely old tour bus
And he's got his problems just like any of us
Well he'd just take a deep breath and then he'd let it all go
And he'd take another deep breath and let it all go
And he'd take another deep breath...and he'd hold it
Ah and I bet he'd feel hungry in a way that seems strange
Yeah hungry for all the things that he just can't change
Like the time he passed out in is own bedroom
And his wife sewed him up in the sheets and beat him with a broom and he forgave her
And you think that's rough, well then the IRS came and they took away all of his stuff
They took his golf course and his recording studio, and he just went out and did another show
So when it's all coming down on you
You better ask yourself what would Willie do
What would Willie do, well he'd take a little time
And talk to old rooser as he'd drive on down the line
And there's millions down that road, and with a word he's gonna lighten their load
He loves all the people no matter their races
Hell he even had a hit country song with Julio Iglesias
And that ain't easy to do, so when it's all too much, what would Willie
When the game gets tough what would Willie
When they call your bluff what would Willie do
song performed by by Gary Allan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Always Late
Hello honey, I just missed the train
My watch must have stopped I guess
Dinner is cold and the kids are asleep
I didnt mean to get you out of bed.
Always late (always late)
Yes, its always the same
Procrastination is my middle name
But the rest of the world is ahead of the game
And thats why Im always late.
Wont somebody give me a ride
Ive been out of gas for hours
My mother-in-laws flying in from the coast
Shes probably in an ambulance by now.
Willie, its time to get up
Willie, you get out of that bed,
Youll be late for work again
Willie, willie!!!
Come on honey, give me a chance
I promise to mend my ways
Lets go out for an anniversary dance
You say our anniversarys yesterday?
song performed by by Utopia
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Transmission
Radio, live transmission.
Radio, live transmission.
Listen to the silence, let it ring on.
Eyes, dark grey lenses frightened of the sun.
We would have a fine time living in the night,
Left to blind destruction,
Waiting for our sight.
And we would go on as though nothing was wrong.
And hide from these days we remained all alone.
Staying in the same place, just staying out the time.
Touching from a distance,
Further all the time.
Dance, dance, dance, dance, dance to the radio.
Dance, dance, dance, dance, dance to the radio.
Dance, dance, dance, dance, dance to the radio.
Dance, dance, dance, dance, dance to the radio.
Well I could call out when the going gets tough.
The things that we've learnt are no longer enough.
of the show
And we could dance.
Dance, dance, dance, dance, dance to the radio.
Dance, dance, dance, dance, dance to the radio.
Dance, dance, dance, dance, dance to the radio.
Dance, dance, dance, dance, dance to the radio.
song performed by by New Order
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Kissing Willie
Breaking hearts in a market town. she eats filet of sole
And washes it down with sparkling wine.
Nice girl, but a bad girls better. qualifies in both ways
To my mind. but now shes kissing willie.
She shows a leg --- shows it damn well. knows how to drive a man
Right back to being a child.
Well, shes a --- nice girl, but her bad girls better. I can read
It in her cheating eyes and know that in a while --- well,
Shell be kissing willie. (my best friend, willie.)
Willie stands and willie falls. willie bangs his head
Behind grey factory walls.
Shes a --- nice girl, but her bad girls better. me and willie
Just cant help come, when she calls.
Now shes kissing willie. (my best friend, willie.)
song performed by by Jethro Tull
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Critic
I always heard that his her was top shelf
Lord I just could not wait to find out for myself.
Well don't knock it till you've tried it.
And I've tried it my friend.
I'll never smoke Weed with willie again!
Now we learned a hard lesson in a small Texas town
He fired up a fat boy and he passed it around
The last words I spoke before they tucked me in
I may discount Bungee jump but,
I'll never smoke weed with Willie again.
Chorus:
I'll never smoke weed with Willie again
My party's all over before it begins
You can't pour me some old whiskey River my friend.
But I'll never smoke weed with Willie again
We hopped on his old bus the Honeysuckel Rose
The party was Huntsville, but it was after the show
Alone in the front lounge, just me and him
I took one friendly puff and the grim creeper set in
Chorus
Now we're passin' the guitar, we're tellin' good jokes
I can tell one's a comin' 'cause I'm smellin' smoke
No I do not partake I just let it pass by
With a grin on my face and a great contact high
Chorus
In the fetal position with drool on my chin
We broke down and smoked weed with Willie again
song performed by by Toby Keith
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Dance Alone
I dance alone with the night,
the moon holding me close,
beneath the starlight.
My feet moving slow to every
sad song I know, playing over
and over, as alone I go.
The night embraces me and
the winds whisper sad
words to me.
I dance with the tears that fall
from my eyes, they help
me make it through the
lonely nights.
Sighs, I hear in the distance,
as I dance within darkness,
shadows move slowly, as
I miss your tender kiss.
One step, spinning around, breezes
capture my heart, as to the long
night I am bound.
Broken memories spilling on
the ground, as this heartache,
twirls me around.
Wrapped in the arms of the night,
this dance must go on, as without
you again, I dance alone.
poem by Ruth warren
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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To Dance And Sing
what do we need
to be happy?
no props
we can always dance
on bare feet
under the rain
no microphones
we can always sing
the songs of our
hearts
we live, dance and sing
naked deep in the night
the moon watches
on the river
waters splashing
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Give Me Dancing Music(Song) :
I've been tempted.
And it's not so good.
I'm gonna pick up the pieces.
Then mend my ways.
So give me dancing music.
Let me dance all day.
Let me lift my feet up.
Then dance across the floor.
Dit-dit-dit-dance across, dance across.
Dance across the floor.
Let me dance across, dance across.
Dance across the floor.
I've been waiting.
For you to arrive.
And I was wondering.
If you were mine.
I can go on forever.
Or take my time.
Go on forever.
Or dance till nine.
So give me dancing music.
Let me dance all day.
Let me lift my feet up.
Then dance across the floor.
Dit-dit-dit-dance across, dance across.
Dance across the floor.
Let me dance across, dance across.
Let me dance across the floor..
Dance Across The Floor-Song-By Kim Robin Edwards
Copyright 1987,2009..
All rights reserved..
poem by Kim Robin Edwards
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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