AsPoet

The Sophist

2014-06-25 12:00 am

Kodyboi

2014-04-15 12:00 am

The Sophist

2014-04-10 12:00 am

Gord

2014-04-04 12:00 am

The Sophist

2014-03-18 12:00 am

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-12 12:00 am

Not All Angels Necessarily Wear Their Wings at all Times

The Sophist

2014-03-07 12:00 am

Gord

2014-03-05 12:00 am

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-05 12:00 am

Act of Faith - The Weaving of the Web

Living with Lepers

' Act of Faith '
The Weaving of the Web

The Poet's Perception

Caladbolg

One Sword.
Taking two hands to wield.
Rainbow ruler of all others.
Smiter of mountains and of hills.
Made with molten faerie gold.
Fashioned on the forge
Of Fir Bolg giant, Balor of the Evil Eye,
Defeated at Moytura,
By the wiles of Tuatha de Dannan
Magical warriors.
In reprisal for the death of
Lu of the Longhand,
Son of their King.

' By this Sign, so shall you know me! '

"Remember this, Sire,
And use the information well;
For they plan to kill my Liege"

So spoke the Lady of the Lake.

" 'Twas the Vessel with the Pestle,
That bore the potion that was Poison.
And it was the Flagon emblazoned with his Dragon,
They did fill with the brew that is True.

But the serving-wench did slip,
The platter fell to the floor
And did crash on the flagstones there.
The Vessel with the Pestle was smashed.
Shattered into a thousand shards.

Now the Flagon with the Dragon,
Contains the potion that is Poison;
And the Crystal Chalice,
That was procured from the Palace
Holds the brew that be True."

Act of Faith

I feel very vulnerable.
I haven't put this much trust
In Anyone or Anything,
For longer than I can remember.
Only time will tell
If this act of faith is justified.

The Artist's Explanation

I have always been a fan of Arthurian legend, and in the end decided the ultimate act of faith, was the search for the grail.
I have mixed up lots of ideas within my painting though, here is the official explanation.

The hill on which she has reached the pinnacle, is Glastonbury Tor, but a thousand years ago the glow of what is now Glastonbury shines below her. In the sky there is the constellation Orion, this symbolises the king of the fairies, Gwyn ap Nudd, who legend has it lived on the Tor before being insulted by St Collumb, and in doing so left the Tor to forever hunt his hounds across the winter sky.

Instead of the ruined church that is on the Tor now, I thought a small standing stone might suffice, and embedded within the stone in a similar way to the sword Excalibur was embedded in a rock, I have placed a wooden chalice, the moss on the rock and the shamrocks, also give the chalice a bed on which to lay.
Shamrocks being symbolic not only of Ireland, but also the holy trinity. It is also a trefoil, which is the symbolic of Awen, which is the druid symbol for inspiration.

On her wrist is a bracelet, which has fallen from the chalice and magically clings to her, the bracelet is silver like the moon with a fleur de lis (another symbol of the grail, and Mary mother of Jesus, coupled with the holy trinity). The lady is wearing nothing more than a simple white jacket and is naked below. She is also blindfolded, and therefore has to accept trust and her faith to protect her from this vulnerable position.
She has come to the end of her quest and has found her grail, purely by way of faith, and is now tired and weary but still proud and undefeated , she is genuflecting to its wonder.

The sword has two symbolisms, the first being that it was once broken and has been repaired. (This relates to the story of Galahad, repairing the magical broken sword, from the Fisher King stories, near the end of the grail quest) and the design of the sword I am using is unique in such that it is a copy of the original sword used by the genuine most famous knight in English History, Sir William Marshall.

The long grass has various dandelion clocks settled within it, one has burst its seeds, sending them cascading across the painting, the dandelion means many things, including flirtatiousness ...
However it is also in gypsy lore the symbol of transition and ascendancy from physical to spiritual.

One last thing is that I have signed the painting twice, once in my usual way in the bottom right hand corner, and the other being the symbol of Rowan cut in Ogham on the standing stone. (My name of Ro being short actually for Rowanswood which is my bardic name.) - John Ogden (August 2010)

The Druid's Interpretation

The story of Bride or Brigid is close to so many people and there is a longing, especially from women today, to return to the balance there once was between men and women. The main story in these parts, and sort of on Beara too, is that all life somehow came from a womb and this once upon a time brought about the reverence of the goddess.
The first two trees of the Ogham alphabet seem to guide this with Beith the Birch being the first life on earth and eventually the protector of women, and Luis the Rowan being the dragon's fire in all men who would burn rowan to bring the spirit of the goddess into them. For guidance, confidence, passion,bravery and focus especially when in council for trade, treaties, and sometimes preparation for war.
Bride's symbol was the sword, in the story of the creation of the four Celle's of instruction, the first symbol, the symbol of imbolc,the first fire festival of the year, first quadrant of the Chaldean astrology chart. A tree of life, as above, so below.

The sword created from fire, extraction of metals from ore, fires that were fuelled by the labours of men.

The sword created by virgins, virgins by not yet having child, and not through no having sex, that would once one day be given to their mate. A founding of the tradition of the dowry today.

If the male mate was slain and together they had no sons as heirs, the woman would take back the sword to be head of the household until another mate was found.

In comes Patrick, a name so close to Patriarch, the incoming of the domination of the male hierarchy. The call to revere the male deity.

When the man of the family was slain and there were no heirs; the woman, and any daughters, were the property of the chieftain. To serve as slaves or be appointed new mates, often in treaty.The sword was thrown into the lake or river to be passed on no more.

The tradition of Bride, or Brigid, was eventually slain, and the tradition of Patrick took over.

It is said that the legendary race of Formori never had women. They were men of the sea who knew how to extract gold and make rings.They would lure the Dannan or other land caring women with rings but for the sole purpose of breeding, not relationships, and any sons born would join the Formori.
The legend is that Bride married Bres to try to return to the balance, that may be an example to the Formori, but it was not to be.

In your picture this comes across as a woman either by the Formori or the Patriach demands of the ruling male deities ... but nobody could take that sword of balance away from her. It was not going to the lake !!!

The standing stone to me is symbolic of the 2nd Cille of Instruction, who Bride is said to have taught Cian, son of Anu. The origin of Salmaine, that became Beltaine.
Beltaine, one of the two times of the year the salmon swim up river, the second quadrant of the astrological cycle, the partnership and mating. The finding of the new true mate to pass the sword to. .... and the choice of blessed water to bring back life and fertility to make that possible.

Oh, the blindfold?

Another legend is that before Beltaine, women would approach the pool of Lasir blindfolded. And then after a blessing with water from the pool, were allowed to take off their blindfolds to have a vision of the man that would be their mate on Beltaine day.

Lasir's legends are like Bride, except where Bride and Brigid led a herd of cows; Lasir led a flock of sheep. So when sheep are sheared at Beltaine time, there is a honoury toast to Lasir to ensue another blessed year ahead.

Interestingly today, by the pool / well of Lasir ,there is no longer a standing stone, but a tall stump of an Ash tree that was felled there.
Also in Lake Meelagh nearby, Bronze and Iron-Age swords have been found, by folks who were looking for the legendary Dagda's cauldron which is said to be in there somewhere.

Not legends that are well known away from Co. Silgo, yet have travelled to be made into other stories. Of course , people of Co.Silgo made their own stories from what travellers told them too.

Another insight?

Dusti Rodes (2010)

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Dusti Rodes

2014-03-05 12:00 am

Social Comment

Time in Tooting

" This next piece of writing, contains strong sexual content material and graphic language. Many people find it both harrowing and disturbing. It depicts and catalogues a series of true-life events. The names have been changed to protect the innocent, of which there is one; the laws of libel prevent my naming and shaming the guilty; of which there are many."

* Reader discretion is MOST STRONGLY advised - As it may easily offend. For this I make no apologies. Events like these are happening HOURLY all over the world at this moment in time, and society as a whole SHOULD be doing more to prevent such misery "

........................................

" IT CAN'T HAPPEN HERE, .....CAN IT?..."

It's Sunday,
She's staying at dad's flat tonight.
She adores him;
With the trust that is naturally instilled
In a child.

Dave, her father,
Plays cards with his friends;
While she watches, smiling.
The pot is short;
It's his call.
He must make amends.
Forty pounds is the bid.

With a knowing nod,
Colin folds his hand;
And taking hers,
Leads through the door
To she knows where.
The now empty bedroom
That she sometimes has to share.

Shush - don't make a noise;
Your stifled cries,
Will frighten the toys.
Who sitting in silence,
Can only watch.
As Colin slowly unzips his trousers,
And loosens his belt another notch.
Her favourite doll, alone in the corner,
Draped across the wooden chair;
Can but bear silent witness
To the saddening pain
She experiences there.

Next day,
She is driven to school;
By her dad.
In a tatty Volvo.
Be-spotted with rust coloured
Splodges of primer paint.
A stark anachronism
Of Swedish sexual liberalism
The grubbiness of the grey,
Mirroring the semen-soiled nightdress;
Of the night before.
The paint spots,
Ghostly echoes
Of dried blood stains
Splattered on the white fabric.
Heralding her lost innocence;
That she would need to wash out
Later in the day.
When she finally returned
To the living hell
That served as home.

He pulls in at the pavement
Saying yesterday was fun
And that they should do it more often.
He tells her to take care of herself.
Sick joke, what?
But no-body's laughing anyway.
Deprived of decency
By her father
In that he doesn't even open the door.
She rises from the well-worn seat
And gets herself out
Just like countless
Whores before.

In some final bizarre sexual gesture
As he slowly drives away
He also discards the now empty
Crumpled, finished cigarette packet
Aimlessly through the window
Into the uncaring street.
It in its turn, would be picked up
By some scavenger hard up
On his or her luck
Anxious to discover
If it held any small delight.

And on discovering not, it would
Be consigned as worthless rubbish
And be discarded yet again
To a life on the streets.
Until eventually, battered and crushed
By countless uncompromising souls
It would cease to be recognisable
For what it once was.
Circles within circles.
Such is the life we lead.

Four friends, sit
Sharing girlish giggles.
Talking tampons and towels.
Discovering the inward
Functioning of females
For the first time.
Smiles, over sharing
Secrets of sexuality
With their mothers.
But she's not laughing.

Sitting in the classroom
She is longing to tell, someone,
About the happenings
Of the previous night.
To be able to unload
All that crushing fear;
That is building up
Within her frightened frame.
Afraid to go home,
She hangs around after class
Anxious to explain her reasons.
But no-one is listening.
Nor can they read
The pleading in her scared eyes.
So she goes home alone, again.

Sitting watching television,
A break from the drudgery
Of endless days
Doing household chores.
Fear strikes her heart
As she hears the key
Entering the outside door.

Because the washing has taken so long
And about it, she cannot tell;
The dust she hasn't cleaned
From the TV
Only causes her mother again to yell.
Her anger quickly turns to rage;
Followed closely by a beating,
And another verbal tirade.
Then follows the shouting
And the slapping.
The angry name calling
Infers that someone is a whore.
Leading to her being pushed downstairs
And landing on the hall floor.

She pushes Amy into the cellar cupboard,
Then callously locks the door.
Leaving Amy, cowering in huddled fear,
Upon the dark, coldest floor.
Later, in her room,
Curled up, tearful,
Trying desperately to block out the pain.
Lies listening to her sad sobbing.
She closes her eyes.
Escaping sleep is not easy in coming;
But further along the hallway,
Someone else is.
Urgently calling for Amy
Beckons her to her mother's bed.
There, between thrashing thighs,
And deep moaning sighs,
Amy is forced to give her mother
Sexual 'head'.

Coming home,
To the usually empty house,
She cannot help but notice
The smart car
Parked outside.
Putting her key
In the door,
As she has done
So many, many times before;
She is met by Geoff,
The new man, in her mother's life.
On the surface
He seems very nice.
Picnics of strawberries, wine
And chocolate ice.
And even washing up,
Afterwards.

School sports day comes,
Giving her the chance
To exercise her rights
As a child;
To youthful fun.
Sack race successes,
Loud accolades.
Hiding the depths of depravity,
That lies dormant.
Buried deep within.

It starts with a present,
At bedtime.
" Put it on, and come and show us how it looks."
Simple games,
Amongst the adult friends.
Pictures are taken.
Childish at first,
It soon turns nasty;
Leading to lewdness and lechery.
Removing Geoff's trousers and pants,
While her mother looks on;
And laughs.
Then starts the painful ordeal
Of nightly rape.
And the utterances of the threatening lie
That if she ever dares to tell someone
It would surely cause her to die,

After a time,
She can bear no more
Of Geoff's disgusting behaviour.
Goes to her father's workplace
Hoping on hope
That he'll prove to be her saviour.
She tells him all
That's been going on;
And could she come to live with him,
Please?
Fraught with anger,
Fired by fear;
He goes and gives Geoff
A beating with a garden spade.
In his frustration at failing
To protect his daughter
From this pair of human animals
With their filthy habits so degrade.
Then he storms out,
Leaving Amy to receive
Yet another beating
From her mother.
That leads her to being locked
In the cupboard
Once again.
The broken shard
Salvaged from the shattered
Kitchen window
By which her father had entered
Proves to be the key
To successful self mutilation
To which Amy administers
Readily.

When the time comes
To leave her old school
The teacher's reports proclaim
That Amy is both clever and wise.
But they all still
Just sit and listen
While her mother
Continues to tell
The same pack of lies.
How Amy sits reading
Quietly, in her room,
For much of the time.
And how she's always
Out playing with her friend;
But that is untrue
From beginning to end.
The teacher says Amy could do
With really coming out of her shell.
Hopes that she'll enjoy her new school;
And with that, she wishes her well.

Sitting with her new found friends,
Thinking that this place,
Could indeed be really cool.
Then one says,
Someone is trying to greet her,
From a van.
Parked outside the school.
She peers across the open courtyard.
At her father, who's come to meet her.

Full of reasons,
Why he hasn't been more often.
Excuses that money has been
So short lately;
Sometimes he hasn't eaten.
Now he's come to take her out,
About the true reason for his motives,
There still exists more
Than a little doubt.

Having bribed her,
With a Big Mac meal,
With Coke and a Cadbury's
Curly Whirly,
He apologises that he has no more sweets;
But if only he had more money,
He could afford to buy her
Lots of treats.
Then the unsubtle suggestion,
That she could really help Daddy,
Just by working the nearby streets.

Standing on a dim
Lamp-lit street;
In her denim jacket,
And her flowery
Short length skirt;
Wearing virginal white gym socks,
with matching plimsolls.
Her long hair , shining,
Looking very much her age.
Having only turned thirteen,
But for a little while.
People, from which she
Should get only love;
Blatantly exploiting her sexual genes.
Although she cannot spell Paedophile;
She is painfully aware of what it means.
" For a wank, charge'em twenty five quid,
If they want a blow-job, charge them thirty"
Practising that will corrupt her mind;
Into believing love and sex,
Is always something
That is sordid and dirty.

A sexperienced competitor,
In these matters,
Gives her, and her dad;
What amounts to a friendly warning.
This particular spot,
Is her pitch.
And her pimp
Will not be so tame;
So her father,
Just moves on with her,
To somewhere else.
In his dubious quest
It would seem he has no shame;
With his repeated attempts,
To get ' on the game'.

The local lorry park,
Proves a likely playground;
For the sort of games,
He has in mind.
Providing a service,
For all kinds
Of men.
The young, the old, and the lonely.
Not the actual full sex, though:
But just your blow and hand-jobs only.
Making sure that the clients,
Come in style;
Being very sure to use a condom,
All the while.

He does a deal,
Just for a full blow-job;
" You know how, don't you,
just go and suck his prick;
It'll be all be over in a minute!"
But it doesn't just take that quick.

Squatting,
She gives a blow-job
To an unknown,
Standing man.
While her poncing pimp
Of a dad,
Sits smiling,
In his grubby little van.

Suck, suck, sucking,
On a dirty, crusted,
Foul-smelling prick,
That's making her feel
So, so sick.
Wondering why it is
That when you
Want them to,
they can never come
Really quick.

And when it's finally finished;
She finds the smell of sweat and semen,
Has left her feeling
Really sick.
Dave, buys her silence,
With a fiver.
Then he takes her back home;
Double quick.

Dusti Rodes (2009)

POSTSRIPT TO ' IT CAN'T HAPPEN HERE. .....CAN IT? *

" Children have the right to be listened to. The messages that they give us are often painful and disturbing, and challenge our capabilities to actually hear what they are in fact saying and take them seriously.
Our conditioned instinct is to recoil from what we are hearing and deny the reality of what is being said.
The act of sexual abuse of a child involves a fundamental betrayal of trust, and an abuse of power, which has devastating consequences for the child. Undermining the basic requirements of a child for relationships built on trust, that are both dependable and loving.
This gives rise to the premise that children not only have to be heard but also need to be healed from the trauma of such experiences.
The child's right to be respected as an individual person should be unquestionable; but it is a long way from being generally accepted within our society."

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Dusti Rodes

2014-03-04 12:00 am

Fixing Fences & Painting Pickets

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)

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Dusti Rodes

2014-03-04 12:00 am

Jazz Duellin

Tinning Tobacco

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)

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Dusti Rodes

2014-03-04 12:00 am

Tinning Tobacco

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)

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Dusti Rodes

2014-03-04 12:00 am

Ballad of an Easy Rider

2006

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)

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Dusti Rodes

2014-03-04 12:00 am

Blowin the Blues

2007

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)

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Dusti Rodes

2014-03-04 12:00 am

The Camden Sessions

2007

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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The Sophist

2014-06-25 12:00 am

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2014-04-15 12:00 am

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The Sophist

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2014-04-04 12:00 am

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2014-03-18 12:00 am

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2014-03-05 12:00 am

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Dusti Rodes

2014-03-05 12:00 am

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Dusti Rodes

2014-03-04 12:00 am

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Dusti Rodes

2014-03-04 12:00 am

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Dusti Rodes

2014-03-04 12:00 am

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Dusti Rodes

2014-03-04 12:00 am

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Dusti Rodes

2014-03-04 12:00 am

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Dusti Rodes

2014-03-04 12:00 am

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Format Manuscript