Dusti Rodes

2014-03-05 12:00 am

A Week Away

A week away
A cottage in the Cotswolds
Solitary single socks
All in a line
On parade

Hands like hooks
Feet that throb
Barms and breezes
In Blackpool

Fortunes found and told
Tramlines
Scarring the seascape
Soaring seagulls
Hawk-like hands
Flaying feet

Seagulls that screech
Mayhem in Mablethorpe
Being Stumped in Boston
As to which way to go
Kiss me quick
Squeeze me slow hats

For edible orifices
Wonka's Willies
Trams travelling
Towards the Tower
And down the Golden Mile
From Fleetwood

North and South Piers
Sandcastles
Big and small
Towards Town
Postcard pictures
Picture postcards

Pencil drawings
By computer
The Mere at Marton
Limousines
And lycra-clad mirth-makers

Mobster's metal machine
Made from a Mini
National Savings & Investments building
Blocking the breeze
And the light
Standing in it's shadow
Comfortable caravans

Laughter from Leighton
Jokes from Jamie
Sparkling grape juice
All the way from Grimsby
Via the M18

Panoramic views 
From the highest motorway
In Britain
Deep dales
High Pennine peaks
In Yorkshire

Rain and sunshine
Traffic build-ups
In Blackburn
Blues in Burnley
Families fighting

Four-pint pitchers
Of foaming ale
Mussels and whelks
Oysters and orange squash
Cockles and crabs

People driving
Dangerously long miles
Without falling faint
Of fatigue
Passion in the Pennines
The castle moat

Golden sands
Tilting telegraph poles
Going up
And coming down
Steep steps
To silver sand

Shorelines stretching
As far as the eye
Can see
Whirling wind turbines
Whitewashed windmills
Scattered over the Northwest frontier

Unfurled flags
Flying furiously
In a westerly wind
Cod and curry sauce
Pen'orth o'scraps
And pots of mushy peas
Wrapped in writing

Mablethorpe Messenger
Blackpool Gazette
Cotswold Courier
Yesterday's news
Today's chip wrappers
Tomorrow's waste.


Dusti Rodes (2006)

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-05 12:00 am

Postcard from Spain

The deep blue Med,
Bleeding red,
With green seaweed.

Ten thousand immigrant flies,
Travelling in on the wings
Of the Sirocco;
From north Morocco.

The power of the Siesta Sun,
Making the sand in my shoe hot.

Luscious lips, not bruised
Neither battered nor burnt,
Grappling with grapefruits.

Paradise Beach,
Paraded with parasol palms;
Waves breaking
On a wind-kissed shore.

I may be bathing later,
I am still not sure.

A lone bathing beauty,
From the Lone Star state,
Ear to the phone.
Southern Belle;
Listening to Western Bell.

Had to go and see
My mountain,
Standing stark
In darkest Dakota.

Aqui,Casas de Lujo.
Here, Luxury Houses.
Cornish Cream,
Mandarin Palace.

Urban graffiti
In an idyllic setting.
Perfect paradox.
Jet plane trucking
Leaving tyre tracks
In the bright blue sky.

Sun-kissed shingle.
Sitting on a man-made rock,
The sea has shaped
To blend in with the shoreline.
Concrete clusters;
Indistinguishable,
From indigenous icons

Seaweed green, but yesterday,
Bleached red,
By the unforgiving sun today.
Granite granules,
Marble monolinths.
Sculptured saline symbols.

Yellow bouys bobbing,
Effortlessly.
Looking like a line of sweet corn,
Positioned precariously
On a willow patterned plate.

To my right,
A multitude of people,
To my left,
A hundred more.
But I sit here,
Surrounded by the solitude of silence.

Alone, with only my thoughts,
For company.
'Cept for the gentle breeze,
Whispering words of untold wisdom.
Gleaned from eons of eavesdropping,
On its many invisible travels
Around the globe.

The unseen listener of many conversations,
Keeper of Confidences,
Storer or Secrets,
Librarian of Lies,
Treasurer of Truths.
Spreading the gospel of God,
By the Mediterranean Sea.

I went away
And wrote.

Warm winds,
Helicopter hovering,
Gentle gyrations.
Drenched dog,
Bedraggled by brine.
Dappled writing,
Caused by the sun
Through the brim
Of my hat.

Beach-combing bum,
Scouring the shoreline,
With a plastic bag,
because of the hole
In my pocket.

Gone is the moment
For forced photography,
A thousand photos,
But only one picture.

Stranger on a foreign shore,
Leaving only footprints
In the sands;
Taking nothing
But memories.

Beached rowboats;
Wooden rafts,
Made from discarded
Wine crates.

Dusti Rodes (2002)

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-04 12:00 am

The Lady in Red

 Inspired by John Ogden's painting ' Be she a Falcon or a Dove ' ( 2009)

 Puddles of pigment
 Of red and white,
 Bloom like flowers in the artist's palette
 Likened to a small, wild garden.

 She poses provocatively,
 Dignified but still self-conscious,
 Against the wide blue screen
 That forms the night.

 Robed in ravishing red,
 She stands bathed
 In Lady Luna's soothing light.
 While the evening star
 Plays shimmering consort.

 She did not fail to see
 The symbolism held
 Within the artist's eye.
 The meanings of her life,
 Captured there before
 The paint could ever dry.

 The Venetian mask
 Behind which she hides,
 Masquerades the pain of her past,
 Blood-red.
 And the golden promise of things to come.
 Are reflected by the candle's gentle glow.
 Lighting the way to her future.

 Marley said we all create
 Our chains of pain.
 Forged one link at a time,
 By our misery.

 Hers was a string of Pearl.
 Individual incidences,
 Joined by circumstance;
 Seeking to keep her,
 Forever fettered to the past.

 But the key lies in the roses.
 Poetic echoes reverberating .
 Be she a Falcon or a Dove ?
 A raven-haired temptress,
 Or an angel of love?
 A scarlet woman or a painted Lady?

 Hence from now onwards,
 She will be known only,
 As the Rose.


Dusti Rodes (2009)

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-04 12:00 am

From ‘Blowin’ the Blues'

#When a woman gets the blues, she hangs her head and cries, when a man gets the blues, he boards a train and rides ... # (traditional blues song, author unknown)

Down in the Deep South, it can take three days to even SEE a train going through a station. Let alone have one stop there.

I guess his story started on that fateful night back in sixty-three. Someone had just killed Kennedy. John F, that is. He was shot while driving in a motor cavalcade down in Dallas. It sparked off a whole lot of conspiracy theories for decades to come. Even after the death of J.Edgar. Maybe he took the truth to the grave with him! Who knows?
I never really knew him then; I was but a little picca ninny on my momma’s knee, down on the plantation.  Barely finished suckling on her teaties. Papa said he was ‘nothing but a no-good nigre,’ and wouldn’t mount to a pile of beans. Just goes to show how wrong some people can be.

Sometimes Life can deal people a low card.
With him it had thrown away the rest of the pack and was only using a deck of deuces and threes with an occasional four. And it wasn't shuffling them, too well or too often.

He was what the white folk call 'coloured' not 'Black'. A mulatto and an albino one to boot. It was probably down to the unfortunate circumstances of his conception. His mother was 'Red' from Rhode Island. An 'easy lay' or so they say. But that was no good reason for her being gang-raped on the streets of Harlem now, was it?
His startling appearance often provoked a strange reaction in most people. Raised eyebrows, spinal shudder and shoulder shrug of revulsion, or a sharp intake of breath on initial sighting were common.

Standing a shade under seven feet, even with the stooping shoulders and strange way of holding his head slightly forward and lent to the left. Developed from years of attempting to listen with his good ear to what lesser sized folk were trying to tell him. His two hundred and sixty pound plus of bone and sinew barely covered by his leathery weather-wizened skin that had been exposed to the extremes of the elements for far too long. 
Long days of toiling at whatever work he could get. Bitterly cold nights spent in any shelter he could find. There wasn't any fat on that frame. Thirty-seven years of constant shortage of food had seen to that.
Cody Jarrel, cut a vision once seen, that few would forget easily. If ever....

Cody sat slowly drinking the dregs from the bottom of the empty bottles left by paying patrons of the bar.
He shuddered so violently, it wracked his frame to it's very core.
Sheltering on the back-stoop of the Shanty Shack, from the rain that had been incessant in its task of soaking him while he tried to seek some sleep to rest his weary body throughout last night.
It had succeeded, so he let out another shiver that clinked his spine.
Down in the doldrums, yet again, the future was looking real bad for him. And little did he realise it then, but it was going to get even worse before it could get better. Much worse.


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

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

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

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)