Gord
2026-02-07 03:00 pm
He persues love, Hapiness and a son. Three to two, two to one. Free to choose, One persues their roots, Freeform blues, cute girls, Until ruin, until dust. But upon the soul a velvet rust, Temples burnt to smell of blood. Umbrella terms, settlements, Lemon curd over skeletons. Free to choose, They choose but one.
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Gord
2023-05-31 09:02 am
Compare deceased, compare diseases, Civil registry, never ending dreams. Quiet, discontented tree: Questions vex me silent, Why do we drink of selfish need? Why do we eat to reddish green? Why do they scream your scaring me, While I achieve new levels of self deceit? It responds, about roots and leaves, Tools and people, fools and fees. It's beyond me to understand. Again indeed. Only man writes with a pen, Ire infinite, to the final syllable. A point most misunderstand: Life is not miracles, appearances, Science fiction or analyzing images, It's mostly the wheres and whens, Indeeds said again, friends you miss. Like all the pyramids get built, You'll find they went brick by brick. Like kids, chimes in the wind, Ideally they play without worry, Not re-examine life endlessly, Like a firing squad that never hits. Like a chime without another, It takes only one to be lonely, Two people to live. Hair recedes, favour leaves, Ferris wheels and screams, Once again, the tree speaks, This time about seasons, Blues and greens, Views and seeds, You open your own mouth, freely, Someone else's dreams. Again indeed. A mirror responds vaguely, Instead of self reflection sees, Things that terrify, Even when they close their eyes and they sleep. One could compare their life to a sheep, Sheppard, or favoured elite. What one eats someone decides, Where one sleeps someone else decides, Who one sees is limited, they cry. But they compare to a bar too high. Then with their time, belies, nevers, freezes. Feelings of timidness, cheapness, lies, Triangles you hope to avoid thinking, Inevitably though you need drink. You need some chips, think about it. You need a horse to ride to the store, Because you're lazy as shit. So I guess just hope for the best, But also go for it. Again, Indeed.
Lynn
2020-03-10 12:49 pm
Concept: I am a shooting star, crumbling and burning and falling and falling and falling Don't go back to sleep. Insomnia: faded lipstick, new blues, and morning sea glass. Don't go back to sleep. The summer heat has faded into fall. An autumn picnic in the park— I will love myself despite the ease with which I lean towards the opposite. The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you. Don't go back to sleep.
The Sophist
2016-03-29 12:00 am
A Ballad of the Soft Sophist; When trying to scream, They said 'oh, stop this! Stop the sophist speaking free. Sophist softly speak to me. And make me pay, And teach me duly, And teach me how to write so bluesy!' Sophist took their time instead, Folding shapes from paper heads. Writers spending days in bed; Dazed and gazing at their pens. At night they sleep and then they start again. A ballad often spoke softest; When the sophists screamed, They said 'oh, stop this; Education should be free. Sophist slowly speak to me. In loving way, In budding grace, In virtue is the value based.
Dusti Rodes
2014-03-12 12:00 am
Bluesman. He was jist sat there. Strummin' away. Softly. Striking vacant chords. Filled full Of notes. In various hues Of the Blues.
Dusti Rodes
2014-03-05 12:00 am
Memories of Menorca The solitary star The lone gull Lack of light dark and deep Guarded by the lion-dog In two-tone green and black and white Part Chihuahua, part Pekinese. Sunrise over Citudella Purple and pink Blues and browns Age old ruins Built of rocks That are tumbling down. Out of the stillness Came a rustle The wind whispered "Morning" Gull winging, effortlessly Sparrows busying in their daily task Of feeding their families. No different from other mere mortals Who stand and observe Through peephole portals On life below and above. Pylons, all in a line, Taking power to the people. John Lennon would be proud. Illuminated cars, kerb crawling At dawn's half light; Wondering whether to switch off As it is no longer night. To hell with sunrise Watching the clouds come up, Shrouding the stars With their whiteness From the deep dark blue Of Menorcan night. An old boy, reminds me of myself, Lone party goer, maybe? One hell of a walk From Cala Forcat After our session at Night Fever. Sun rises over Citudella And Cala Blanes. Rabbits running, Ants busy, busy; Relaxing perhaps, For a jam sandwich Carelessly cast away. Before the heat forces Them to siesta, On a Menorcan morning At the end of June. A lone songbird, Chortles its wakeup tune; My bag, bathed in Menorcan sunlight Casting shadows of strangest hues The old currant bun Promising a day of brightness. Painted by light, In Nature's brightest colours, The single rock on the lawn Looking like a monolith From eons past. A donkey, braying, Radio, playing People, singing, And speaking in Spanish. Then, Rick Astley, In English. Never going to give you up. Menorcan memories. Dusti Rodes (2002)
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
2014-03-04 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)
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