Dusti Rodes

2014-03-04 12:00 am

From 'Fixin' Fences & Paintin Pickets


It’s all very well having a south-facing postage stamp sized front yard. Picturesquely encompassed by a white picket fence. But that makes the prairie outback a north facing wilderness that requires a multitude of feather-board panels six feet high by eight feet wide to prevent range wars with my neighbours. And after nigh on nine years now, they need painting.
There's only one thing really wrong with this place in my opinion. The layout of the land.
It's They say that there is something therapeutic about hand-painting fence panelling with a four inch brush. Long stroke up, long stroke down. Never side to side. Time spent alone with your thoughts. Having the opportunity to be able to meditate and commune with Nature. Well, after nearly three days of trying I for one haven't found what it is yet!
Having spent most of the day sorting out the two compost bins, causing friends and family to hastily stand upwind of me whilst in conversation, I finally started my self-appointed task late Saturday afternoon. At the time the warmth of the Spring sun made the job a pleasant one, and even aided the drying process!
But Sunday ... well, that was a whole different ball game!
As I have said, the back area is North-facing. At this time of the year the sun doesn't get to most of it till much later in the day. so while to all intent and purposes Sunday's weather was beautiful, I spent most of my time shivering in the shade. And as for yesterday, Monday to you mere mortals, it was that cold all day that the brass monkey that had kindly offered to give me a hand had to have two emergency welding repair jobs!
Come about three o'clock when I finally finished painting the interior of the fencing, all I was fit for was getting to a HOT shower in order to stave off hypothermia which I am sure had started to set in previously! When I was telling a friend about how bitter the weather here had become, she aptly described me as a 'human icicle'.
All I've got to do now is start on doing the outside of the fence!
Oh, Happy days!

Dusti Rodes (2007)

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-04 12:00 am

Jazz Duellin'


"Some people spend their whole lives, and not hear the sounds stored insides 'em. Forgits the notes, jist plays the music.
We's alls gots 'em. Black notes, white notes, notes that's been done stretched, even bent ones. Theys orl ins there.
It's hows youse use 'em, that's the trick! Whethers you beats 'em, till they is blue; or you coaxes them out gently likes fine wine from a bottle, it's up to youse. Some folks puts 'em in orders that mosts don't even finks of! And that's olrights too. It's up to youse. Jist gotta finds your own ways o' makin' 'em sounds... It's orls I kin tells yer..."


He hadn't played the piano in a long time.
Disillusioned, downed by the drugs,
That ran riot in the community and company that he kept.
He had drifted away.
Somewhere. Anywhere.
But there.
Harlem could frighten even the strongest of souls.
And he'd never claimed to be that.

They called him Cajun.
A remnant of time spent in New Orleans.
The honky-tonks, the seedy bars and the backroom bordellos,
That he had often frequented while down there,
In what seemed now like a hundred life-times ago.

But he was back in the old neighbourhood.
He'd come for the funeral.
One of only a few true people,
He could call friend.
Word spread like wildfire, as it does in these times,
That he was back in town.

At the graveside some of the old crew ambled over to him.
Asking the usual stuff.
How's he doing and the like.
Told him they were holding the wake at Creole's Place that night.
And would be sure pleased to see him there;
The brother being a friend and all.

When he walked into the Place that night,
He was greeted by a sight he had almost forgotten.
The air was thick with the smell of stale beer,
Rotgut rye whiskey and weed joints.
The lights, they were turned down real low.
But people saw him standing there,
And still took the time to say hello.

He hadn't even been nowhere near a piano,
In a long while.
They had seen to that.
Six years in the slammer cramps a man's style.
Lithe fingers, gone fat.
The used-to-be so supple sinews now taunt.
He flexed 'em.
They fought back.

The spotlight on the stage area,
Reminded him of those damned searchlights,
That had sent their searing shafts of light skyward.
Cutting into the darkness outside his cell,
Night after night.
Robbing him of the only escape available,
To the inmates of the hell-hole.
Where he had been incarcerated .... Sleep.

Creole, the 'Fatman', on bass fiddle,
'Bleedin' Lips' Murphy, blowing blues horn.
'Skins'Duval, up there on drums.
The Fatman called out, coaxing for him to come up on the stage.

Most folk never really hear the sounds inside them.
But some can't help but create,
The music they were born to make.
Cajun was one of those.
He hears the roar rising from the void within.
Like a volcano.

Molten music,
Stirring deep in the depths
Of his frame.
That must come to the surface,
Like lava, straining to escape the confines.

A piano is made of wood 'n' wires.
Hammers big and small.
Ivory keys that need gentle,
Or sometimes even firm coaxing;
To give their best or better.
To some, it's just a piano,
A boxful of sounds.
A mechanism for making music.
For others, like Cajun,
It's an extension of the soul.

The drums, they spoke something.
Grumbled, mumbled low.
Real low.
The fiddle responded with a taunt strain.
The horn blew for all it's worth.
The note long and very low down.
Somewhere deep, deep in the depths.
They were having a conversation,
Wanting Cajun to join in.
To leave the safety of the shoreline,
And strike out for the deep water.

Then Creole started beating the box,
With his waxed bow.
Stacking the blues.
Coaxing, urging, Cajun to take up the thread.
Waiting for him to do things on the keys,
That showed he was wading in the water with them.
And Cajun answered them all.
With authority.

The dialogue became a monologue.
The piano was doing the talking now.
All everybody could do was but listen.
In awe.
The riffs and licks spoke with an urgency.
They told of places,
That none of the others had ever been to.
Describing pain, that few else had ever felt.
Diving to depths of despair,
Unplumbed by mere mortals.

But Cajun had been there.
Seen the sights.
And he was telling everyone.
That which he had experienced.
Reliving the roller coaster ride,
That his life had been so far.
And he took all those,
Gathered there, that night.
On the journey.


Dusti Rodes (2007)

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-04 12:00 am

Bayou Blues

As I ramble through my sorrows, 
Drifting aimlessly, 
On Life's road that seems to me
As being many miles too far.
I'm living in yesterday's tomorrows.
And seeing things as they rarely are.


Dusti Rodes (2007)

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-04 12:00 am

Tinning Tobacco

I know it ain't your problem, 
But jist sometimes, 
This is one hell of road
To be moving down, all alone.

It has caused me to be in places, 
I never wanted to travel to.
And view lots o' sights, 
I never did need to see.

So I'm gonna try
An' buy me a ticket
At the next station,
Then I'll be travellin' the first train out.

Yes, I'll be on that train out, 
One way or another, even if, 
I just ride the blinds.
Like I gone done, oh so many, 
many times before.

An' when that there ol' Devil, 
He comes a'knockin' at my door.
Thens they is gonna tells 'im
I'sa don'ts live here, anymore.


Dusti Rodes (2007)

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-04 12:00 am

Jist Jammin'

The lights are low.
Smoke is so thick; 
You can just reach out
To take a handful, 
To put in pockets
Of faded denim.

Somewhere, 
Deep in the mist, 
A solitary guitarist sits.
Slouched on a beaten up bar stool.
Strummin' slowly on an acoustic.
Bottle-neck slide wails from the pressure
Of a real bottle.
The gob-iron moans, 
In harmonic reply.

The air is filled, 
With the smell of tired sweat.
Formed by hard labour
Of a day in the field
Or on a hot factory floor.

Bootleg booze, 
Piedmont cigarillos, 
and Cheap cologne.

This is blues, 
At its best.


Dusti Rodes (2007)

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-04 12:00 am

Ballad of an Easy rider.

All I ever really wanted 
was just to be truly free.
But this is the way
that it always turns out to be.
Roll on, wheels, roll.

Jist sittin', listenin', 
to that ol' slow-beatin'
solid engine sound.
Takin' me on down
a long 'n' windin' road.
To yet another one-horse town.

Flow, river, flow.
Till you finally
get to the sea.
Take me to the place, 
I always wanted to see.


Dusti Rodes (2006)

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-04 12:00 am

It's rainin' the blues

it's raining the blues, momma, 
it sure is raining the blues.
it's raining the blues heavy now, momma.
yes, it's raining them there blues.
it's raining down the blues heavy momma, 
and your boy ain't done got no shoes.

when I woke up this morning, 
I had that ol' familiar poundin' in my head.
I got up this morning with my brain
jist repeatin' everything I ever said.
the pain was so bad, momma, 
I just got back into my bed.

recently I been badly battered, 
done had many of my dreams
well and truly shattered.
was told tales of terrible things, 
as though it really mattered.
had my mind constantly confused, 
only to be left bruised and tattered.

it's rainin' the blues, momma.
it's pourin' down the blues.
I’m lookin' up to the darkenin' sky, momma,
and all I can see are them different hues.


Dusti Rodes  (2007)

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-04 12:00 am

Twelve Bar Blues (An' gittin' drunker in every one of 'em!)

I woke up this morning,
Dum dum dum dum.
I was feelin' real bad,
Dum dum dum dum.
'Cos the way that's you treats me,
Dum dum dum dum.
Makes me feel real mad.
Dum dum dum dum.

You says that you loves me,
Dum dum dum dum.
You tells me you cares,
Dum dum dum dum.
but when I calls you, woman,
Dum dum dum dum.
You is never theres.
Dum dum dum dum.

I don't knows what it is that makes you,
Dum dum dum dum.
Thinks that you can treats me this way,
Dum dum dum dum.
But you gots it all wrong, woman,
Dum dum dum dum.
If you thinks I's gonna beg you to stay.
Dum dum dum dum.

I is jist a man,
Dum dum dum dum.
Mades outta flesh, blood and bone,
Dum dum dum dum.
But with all the misery you is causing me, woman,
Dum dum dum dum.
I'd be better offs alone.
Dum dum dum dum.

Dusti Rodes (2007)

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-04 12:00 am

Blowin' the Blues

Remembering the men I have fought,
The women I have bought.
The drinks I have drunk.
Bad beer, gut-rotting whiskey.
Southern style,
Down in the deltas.

Recalling the sights I have seen,
The places I have been.
Hot whorehouses in the south.
Bar-room bordellos in the north.

Me and my bitches.
Those fancy foreign fillies,
Monique and Monica.
The Delta Lady and the Bar Belle.
Who would harp on so well.

Cajun queens,
Both of them.
Blow-job beauties.
Who would accompany me,
The many times, that I travelled,
To the crossroads.

Where I often heard,
Johnson and the ol' Devil,
Duelling on ghostly guitars.
Manic music playing.
Causing the howling baying.
Emitting from the throats,
Of the Hounds of Hell. 


Dusti Rodes (2007)

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-04 12:00 am

A Mid-West Landscape

The white ghetto, at sundown.
Dented jalopies and pick-ups
Returning from the day's work at building sites,
Gas stations,
Burger joints,
Supermarkets.

People climb out,
Carrying bags of groceries,
And cases of beer.
Marijuana smoke drifts through the air.

Heavy metal music, and classic rock,
Is on the radios.
The TV's pump out commercials for heartburn,
And haemorrhoid medications.

Two, stoned, grinning Mexicans,
Drive up and down the rows of trailers
Selling stolen booze and cigarettes.

Sitting on the stoop, dreamily smoking a cigarette,
Watching it all, a lone blonde.
Too short, and needing to lose several pounds.
Stockings, torn and tattered.
Her red-painted lips, turned depressingly down.


Dusti Rodes (2006)

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-04 12:00 am

The Camden sessions

I'd observed it for a while,
His developing love affair,
With the long-necked lady.
Pretty in pale blue,
Adorned in silver,
Shining like the stars.

The gentle coaxing to obtain
Audible verbal response.
The warm embraces,
Fingers firmly plying
Intimate places.
To go where no-one
Had ever been before.
Or since.

Alvin Lee?
Oh, yeah, he was good,
But he wasn't Smokin'.
Fastest fingers alive,
In my opinion.
Eric Clapton?
Rightly deserved the title,
Slowhand, in comparison.
And what Hendrix stole
From Smokin's skills
Is another story, completely.

Long gone midnight,
Silently sitting, slouched,
On the sofa.
Jist jammin' the blues.
Echoes from deep down,
In the Delta, reverberating.
Needing no artificial amplification,
Electric or otherwise,
To portray the genius.

Rampant riffs,
Luscious licks,
Complex chords,
Paranormal phrasings.
Rumour has it that
Robert Johnson,
Did a deal with the Devil,
At the crossroads.
Some say so must have Smokin'.
There is no other way,
That he could play,
Like that.

But I know the truth.
He was gifted by God.
And forty years on,
I still feel humbled,
And very honoured,
To have heard the musical magic.
Performed nightly in Smokin's front room, 
for an audience of one.


Dusti Rodes (2007)

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-04 12:00 am

TOO MANY TEARS

 Too many tears in that house
 Too much shouting,
 Followed by silence.

 Too many tears in that house
 What secrets hide behind that white door?
 Secrets that aren't so private anymore.

 Too many tears in that house
 The last month's ironing,
 Piled high behind doors.
 Remnants of meals, partially uneaten,
 Strewn across the floors.

 Too many tears in that house
 Rags at the windows.
 Washing left on the line,
 For weeks on end.
 Hedge and garden, overgrown.

 Too many tears in that house
 Black refuse bags, often three or four,
 Piled high outside that door.
 Rotting, ripped open by cats.
 Contents acting as a beacon 
 For rats.

 Too many tears in that house.

 Dusti Rodes (2009)

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-04 12:00 am

Runaway

 Staying at the safe house,
 In Leeds.
 Secure from the ponces,
 And the pimps.

 Dressed smartly
 All in black.
 Determined that
 She's never going back.

 It took five whole days
 Before she could even
 Mouth her name.
 Was it through fear?
 Or was it through shame?

 Another seven passed
 Till she could speak,
 About the atrocities
 She had been through.

 And it took another long week
 To pass her by;
 Before she ever found,
 The strength to cry.

 Dusti Rodes (2009)

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-04 12:00 am

Ode to Martha

 My muse, a Harridan hag?
 I don't think so!
 Some have familiars, in the shape of cats.
 Others have Spirit Guides,
 Which are Red Indian warriors.

 I don't do all that PC stuff,
 And say they are Native North Americans!

 Me? My muse is a wizened old woman.

 I was killing time, standing outside the Hospice shop,
 Waiting for my watch repair to be ready.

 One split second she wasn't there, I swear, 
 The next she was!
 She appeared from nowhere, I'm telling you!

 The encounter with the woman in the grey shawl.

 It took just ten minutes that was all.
 But it will last a lifetime.
 Mine.

 Was it real, or was it a dream?
 Was she a witch or a wraith?
 Merely a ghost or a gregarious goblin, 
 In disguise?

 The situation certainly had all the makings of a mystery,
 And all the trappings of a thriller.

 The people I tell just stare at me strangely.
 Who wouldn't? I ask myself.
 I'd probably do just the same,
 If it wasn't for the fact,
 That it had happened to me.

 She came from the North, or so she said.
 Irmerston is a name I recall her using.
 More than once.
 Or was it that she had relatives there?

 Was I really 'touched by an angel'?
 There was definitely ' a laying on of hands',
 As in the biblical sense.

 Could this have been an encounter of the Fourth kind?
 Hebrews thirteen has a lot to answer for.

 She said she was eighty five.
 And had been a Mormon since she was forty.
 But in some lights I would have sworn she wasn't yet sixty.
 In others, she had a face that had seen more than a thousand summers.

 I've heard of shape-shifters,
 I never thought to meet one.

 Many say I talk at tangents, 
 And maybe they are right.
 I do waffle on a bit.
 Never keeping to the same subject for long.

 Fleeting thoughts,
 Forever fluttering,
 Like a butterfly in its short life span.

 Over the last couple of years,
 The diagnosis of my chronic atrial fibrillation,
 Has caused me to consider my life expectancy.
 And to realise it may be seriously shortened
 At any time in the near future.

 But she spoke confidently and authoritatively,
 About longevity.

 Quoting several incidences of people living to a good age.
 Katherine Hepburn living to a hundred.
 Her long relationship with Spencer Tracy.
 And made it sound so matter of fact,
 That Katherine had given him a cup of tea,
 Shortly before he finally died.
 It was as if she had been there at the time.

 Her opening gambit had been to draw my attention,
 To a boxed set of Frank Sinatra records.
 Displayed in the shop window.

 As I intimated earlier,
 I'm sure I was alone outside that shop.
 And the sound of her speaking to me had startled me,
 Into realising she was standing beside me.

 She started by saying Frank had a daughter, Nancy.
 And a son, Frank Jr.
 She talked about his Mafia connections.

 When I retorted that rumours were rife,
 During all of Sinatra's life.
 But that he had never publicly admitted to the allegations.

 She intimated that the reason being was,
 That Frank had not actually done anything 'bad' so to speak.

 At that moment, she gave me the distinct impression,
 That she might have known him and his family intimately.
 But how could that be?

 I was becoming afraid of the enormity,
 Of the developing situation.
 So I made my excuses to leave,
 And she let me go wishing me well.
 We parted.
 Me going my way, she hers.

 I picked up the watch from the menders.
 It must have taken all of two minutes.
 When I suddenly realised the terrible mistake I had made,
 In cutting our conversation short.

 I began searching the town.
 Shop by shop.
 Each individual lane up and down.
 But to no avail.
 Seeming she had disappeared the same way she arrived.
 Suddenly.

 It wasn't till I was on the bus travelling home.
 Feeling thoroughly desolate.
 That I heard her voice again.

 But this time it was different.
 She was inside my head, talking to me.
 She said artists, of all kinds,
 Needed inspiration from time to time.
 And she would be mine, if I let her.

 I know now I made a mistake,
 I thought I was her 'mark' in the town,
 And she was just getting ready to put the sales spiel on me,
 To buy her that expensive bottle of sherry.
 That she said was the only one that she drank.

 She'd talked about many things,
 And how everybody had vices.
 Drugs, booze, cigarettes etc.
 She said how hers weren't too bad.

 Just a tipple now and again of the sherry,
 That could be bought in Tesco's.
 (Which had been across the way,
 From where we had been standing)
 At nine pounds a bottle.

 Here we go, I'd thought,
 Here comes the pitch;
“Hard times 'n' all, for an old lady.
 You seem a nice person,
 Could you see your way clear to buying me a bottle, maybe?"

 This is why I had up and ran.
 But instead, here was she offering me the gift!

 Some writers have residencies. I am hers.

 Where we will go from here, is any body's guess.
 Just watch this space!
 But I do suggest you don't waste your time,
 Standing outside the Hospice shop,
 In the vague hope she might just amble along.

 Because she's mine,
 And I'm keeping her!

 Dusti Rodes (2006)

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-04 12:00 am

MASTERCLASS - A Poet elaborates

 This could be called a Performance poem.
 It contains examples of the art of poetry.
 It has degrees of Irony
 And I think it shows
 This artiste's truly biting wit.
 Others just say despairingly
 I'm really full of S**t!
 (That's the limerick!)

 There are poems
 Within this poem
 In which I take no recourse
 To neither rhyme, nor do I measure meter.
 And in the abysses and crevasses
 Caused by the use of blank verse
 You'll find I'll often teeter.

 I'll now demonstrate my art
 With the able assistance
 Of just twenty-four playing cards.
 And when I'm finished
 I'd like a start
 Of at least a hundred and fifty yards!
 (I'm an old man)

 *Display cards and say-(counting off)*

 A poetry reading.

 A poet reads,
 A short poem
 He has written.

 Eight lines only,
 Two dozen words.

 Three word poem.

 Ironic and Sardonic.

 (Thank you. and Goodnight!)

Dusti Rodes (2002)

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-04 12:00 am

A Modern day Cowboy.

 " But signor, if he is the best,
 With the Gun, AND the Knife;
 Then with whom does he compete? "

 " With Himself ...."

 ( Scene from the film - The Magnificent Seven )

 Perfoming with puppets,
 Plied from papier mache.
 Drafting drawings,
 Scribbled from sketches.
 Making models,
 Worked from wood.
 Crafted from clay.
 Moulded meticulously
 In metal.
 Pummelling putty,
 And plasticine.
 While leaving puddles
 Of Plaster of Paris.
 Working with words,
 In a wonderful way.
 That continues to paint
 Personal pictures,
 Framed in people's minds.
 Potter, Puppeteer,
 Painter and Poet.
 Writer & raconteur,
 Teller of tales.

Dusti Rodes (2007)

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-03 12:00 am

On Remembrance Day

Taken from us,
Never to return.
Korea, Burma,
Flanders and Somme.
North Africa, Singapore.
Italy and France.
Bosnia, Belfast,
Falklands,Gulf War.
Iran and Iraq.
Afghanistan.
They are not coming back.

Crimson bloodied
Ghost fighters,
Gone before.
What is the point
Of remembering you?
The answer comes,
Giving memory a reason:
Not to forget.

Dusti Rodes (2008)

The Sophist

2014-03-03 12:00 am

Back before the dawn
Beyond doors closed forever
Lay the Ashen Lawn