Gord

2014-08-21 12:00 am

I innocently sat sidelined,
While sidewinder missiles,
Blackened and filled the sky.
They saw no oversight.

Then calamity, personnel,
Call out and rome fell,
The claim don't prose well.
Well, I suppose they don't.
But I never was no poet.

The Sophist

2014-05-28 12:00 am

From dying lips was told,
A tale of winters melting wax,
Turning summers cold.
Stranger tales we will betell,
I'm sure,
Stranger sights we will behold.
Forever we will speak the truth,
Except regarding days of yore.

The Sophist

2014-05-13 12:00 am

My Life,
My Soul,
I am my own,
I am my everything,
My Sight,
So Foul,
To live perforce,
To Hell with destiny.

SO FOUL,
FIE SOUL,
THIS AMBIANCE PERVADING
 EVERYTHING.
NO DOUBT,
OR CONTROL,
BEYOND MY SIGHT I DREAM OF
 EVERYTHING.

The Sophist

2014-04-16 12:00 am

Ohm, I wish to be Austere,
For if I knew I was her end,
I truly wouldn't care.

Ohm, I wish to be the air,
To float where she has fun,
For truly there is none,
If in life she isn't there,

Ohm, I wish to be the Pleiades,
Forever sailing ones,
Sailing to my maiden's needs.

Ohm, I with to be Pellucid,
An interest in her sight,
To cloud her camera obscura.

Ohm, I wish to be Polaris,
In dark her warmest light,
Beaming through her apertures.

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-05 12:00 am

A Day in the Life


I Morning

Up early for a Sunday
The clock says eight
But even that's late
For what we have to do
And where we've got to be

Breakfast hastily eaten
A schedule that has to be beaten
The taxi comes just on time
The clock strikes the half nine
The train will leave at ten
So we have to be there then


II In a railway waiting room

People sitting
Waiting for the train
Some just there
To get out of the rain
The sun is starting
To shine now
Making the outlook
Better somehow

The fire
Glows brightly
Offering security
In its warmth
There must be a hike
Somewhere
By the amount of people
Going there
Dressed in their anoraks
And their boots
A passing express
Gives warning toots

Waiting for the train
To friends
Still far to go
Before our journey ends
Although having already
Come this far
Still there are miles
To be travelled
By car
Sitting patiently, waiting
For the train
Marking time
To the pouring rain


III A ride through the countryside

At our destination
We are met
Commiserations
Hoping we did not get
Too wet

Outside the station
They had parked the car
Comfortable seats
Our journey
Not to mar

We are off
Through the countryside
Making quite a pleasant ride
Of our quest
To the coast
Never really deciding
Which we prefer the most

Ever onwards
We are drawn
Towards the outskirts
Of Eastbourne


IV Eastbourne

Eating eggs
Hard boiled
Liver sausage sandwiches
Cheese and ham
Fried sausages
Oranges too
What a sight
For people to view

Throwing stones
Into the sea
Stopping to watch
The tide roll in
Then a walk
Along the pier
Perhaps to stop
For a cool glass of beer

Buying ornaments
Made of glass
Playing the games
That made us laugh
Throwing balls
Into walls
Listening to the radio
In the warm

Then on again
It was said
Towards the crags
Of Beachy Head


V Beachy Head 

Climbing up
To the Bell Tower
Pausing to view
A lonely flower
The long climb
Winding a few
The breathlessness
Well worth the view

On looking out to the sea
So calm
One could scarce believe
It could do so much harm
Then suddenly
The gunshots
Warning us of the coming rain
So we quickly make our descent again

The rabbit droppings
In the tufted grass
Is the sight
I remember last
The gulls wheeling
On the wind
Showing aerial acrobatics
That Man will take
A thousand years
To conquer


VI Newhaven

When the tide
Is full in
It is a facade
To walk along
The esplanade
At Newhaven

For the angry waves
Batter the man-made wall
Persistently trying
To make it fall
Spraying
Unwary travellers
With showers of stones
And the flying
Sea spray
That rusts
Even the lamp posts
Within a month

The road to the west
This is our quest
Pass the ox-bow lake
On the river
That meanders
Through the open fields
Filled with
Sweet smelling air

The road takes us
Past the harbour
Where, the ' Chichester Star '
Lies anchored there
Moored at her rest


VII Brighton

The Palace Pier
On a Sunday
Even in March
Full of people
Having fun

Some lie on the beach
Catching the sun
That hides
Behind the clouds
Of the rain-filled sky

But here we do not stay
Perhaps I'll return
Some other day
The time has come
Not to linger
Drawn ever onwards
By a wandering singer

Dressed in sandals
And in jeans
Singing songs of the
Changing scenes
Sentiments felt
By myself
He did quote.
He sang,
Whilst I wrote


VIII Shoreham

Dark, dank and dismal
Grey and grim
Stands the power station

The side, the day-tripper
Does not see
The squalid surroundings
Of the industrial side
Where the rubber factory
Takes the coke works
For its bride

There, beside a mountain
Of metal scrap
Stands a fellow
In a cloth cap
Surrounded by
Carcasses of cars
Burnt out
By long cold fires

Wasteland covered
With prickly briars
Rubble strewn around
Sweet papers, magazines
Stones cover the ground

The road carries on
Pass the gasworks
To playing fields
Where people sit watching
Others using their energy
To a useless end

A steel girdered bridge
Spans the road
Along by which
The river still flowed


IX Worthing

Having high tea
In the lounge
Sardines, rolls
Tea and toast
Watching the sea
Leave the coast

Playing the pin machines
With pennies
Reading the paper
To find the news
Desperately needing
To use the loos

Off on our trek again
Running from the
Fast oncoming rain


X Half a league .....

Destination somewhere
In the west
Selsey, probably
At the very best

Time, like the tide
Rolling on
Light of day
Has nigh nearly gone

The lights burning
Along the road
Turn from the palest pink
To shimmering gold

Eve draws on
Darkness, soon to follow
A level-crossing
That isn't so level
In fact, the road
Looks like more of a bevel

The road becomes
Winding and long
Making us remember
The young minstrel's song

Following the line
Of cat's eyes
Broken only
By the sound of sighs

A solitary star
Guiding us, as of old
The weather becoming
Increasingly cold

The long boring night
Is broken
By the bright lights
Of the big service station
At Crawley

Say as they might
To me, the most welcoming sight
Was that of The Thorns pud
At Horley

Liquid refreshments
For parched dry throats
Although there was nowhere
To hang our coats

Having once
Quenched our thirsts
The road leads on
To Billinghurst

Then on down
Cowper's Lane
Just as it starts
Again to rain

In the comfortable warmth
Of her home
We are again
Free to roam

Tea for three
And one for coffee
Arguing who'll get to eat
The very last toffee

Onwards then,
Homeward bound
The car really seems
To leave the ground

Till the lights of Croydon
Are encountered
And as we are at our door
" It was fun, we must do it more!"

The two of us
Climb the stairs
Once again
To all our cares

Very quietly
Into bed
Nothing more
It has all been said.


Dusti Rodes (1975)

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-05 12:00 am

' 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)

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

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

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)