31st. August 1945. (In Song and Story)

31st August 1945. (In Song and Story)

The faded dog eared calendar on the wall told its own story.

The scribbled pencil notes on the outer column.

Some dates marked with a circle or an x.

In the corner of the room stood a wooden tea chest filled with treasures from times long past.

Heart of my Heart, I love that melody

Heart of my Heart, brings back a memory

 

When we were kids on the corner of the street

We were rough and ready guys

But oh, how we could harmonise

The old Singer sewing machine with a garment still attached, left unfinished, one wonders what became of the person who was operating it at that given time?

The sense of what might have been, I sit awhile contemplating the silence.

Heart of my Heart, meant friends were dearer then

Too bad we had to part

I know a tear would glisten, if once more I could listen

To that gang who sang “Heart of my Heart”

Listening intently for ghostly noises.

Picking my way gently through the lives of those departed I venture up the creaking stairs, make as little noise as possible I tell myself.

Impossible, as the rotting wood stair steps falls to the floor below, who might I be disturbing?

 In the sunshine streaming through an uncovered window at the top of the stairs I thought, are my eyes playing tricks on me? Did I just see a form pass along the landing?

Heart of my Heart, I love that melody

Heart of my Heart, brings back a memory

 

When we were kids on the corner of the street

We were rough and ready guys

But oh, how we could harmonise

 

Heart of my Heart, meant friends were dearer then

Too bad we had to part

I know a tear would glisten, if once more I could listen

To the gang who sang “Heart of my Heart”

Sweaty palms grip the unstable bannister, I look back, and see the stairway behind me disintegrating.

Turning back, I pick my steps carefully as I descend, on reaching the last step I breathe a long sigh of relief.

Emerging out into the bright sunlight, I make myself a firm promise – next time have a really sound excuse when someone suggests that you invade the lives of those gone before you.

Allow those departed rest in peace.

August 2015.

C. J. Black© http://www.chrisblack2012.com

“(The gang that Sang) Heart of my Heart” is a popular song. The music and lyrics were written by Ben Ryan (1892-1968) in 1926. It reminisces about singing a song called “Heart of my Heart” in a youthful quartet. – From Wikipedia.

 

 

 

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A Musical Fusion of Poetry and Song.

A Musical Fusion of Poetry and Song.

  1. C. J. Black©β

 

(Person 1) spoken word.

We painted and powdered, showered and shaved then donned our dancing duds

Headed for the jamboree, joined the Ladies and their Studs

The beer tasted like nectar, as we took to the sawdust strewn floor

The music played by the Buffalo’s got whoops, hollers and loud roars.

 

(Person 2) sings.

I was dancing with my darlin’ to the Tennessee Waltz

When an old friend I happened to see

Introduced him to my darlin’

And while they were dancing

My friend stole my sweet heart from me.

 

(Person 1) spoken word.

What was I to do, left standing all alone – hastily I headed for the horse drawn carriage

An incident such as this was not going to ruin my marriage?

Reaching for my holster – I strapped on my Colt 45

If he wasn’t going to let her go, one of us was not leaving here alive.

 

(Person 2) sings.

I remember the night of the Tennessee Waltz

Now I know just how much I have lost

Yes I lost my little darlin’

The night they were playing

The beautiful Tennessee Waltz.

 

(Person 1) spoken word.

As I came back on the dance floor I could see the white of his eyes

He stood over 6ft tall – my fear I could not disguise

I quickly drew my 6 gun – and across the floor took aim

He held his hands up in surrender and released my sweet Lorraine.

 

(Person 2) sings.

She came waltzing

Across the dance floor

To the Tennessee Waltz

And I felt I was falling apart

As she told me of her feelings – she near broke my heart

That night of the Tennessee Waltz.

 

(Person 1) spoken word.

Dreams left shattered on the sawdust covered dance floor

I replaced my 6 gun in its holster and headed for the door

A night that promised so much from its start

Ended with empty arms and a broken heart.

 

(Person2) sings.

I’ll remember that night and the Tennessee Waltz

Now I know just how much I have lost

Yes I lost my little darlin’

The night they were playing

The beautiful Tennessee Waltz.

http://www.chrisblack2012.com

Additional song words C. J. Black©β

 

 

 

 

 

*Annotate if you so wish.

*Annotate if you so wish.

  1. C. J. Black

Antagonising over what you should write

Brings only anguish.

Collect your thoughts

Don’t deny yourself thinking time

Establish in your mind

Foundations on which you wish to work.

Grab on at every opportunity

Hang on to them, never discard.

Imagine, these will yield success

Jettison thoughts of – I can’t do this.

Keep a lid on positive thoughts always

Label items, create a good filing system

Method not madness is the key to this.

Noblesse oblige, depending on circumstances, should be considered at all times?

Obviously you are the sole determiner of this

Pervasiveness in pursuit of your –

Quarry may not be the way to develop –

Relationships you wish to keep

Shame on those who take this road!

Temperance should be self-thought

Use your God given talents in the proper manner

Vanity, will in the end win no friends?

Wallowing in self-pity will have a likewise outcome?

Xenophobia should be preached at all times?

You’d be surprised at how many will take offence to such statements.

Zany, could be a term used to describe the author of this tendentious piece?

*Inform the author.

  1. C. J. Black©β Friday 28 August 2015 http://www.chrisblack2012.com

 

 

 

The Grandfather Clock.

The Grandfather Clock.

  1. C. J. Black

Standing surely six feet tall

Its elegance filled the stately hall

Its large gold coloured hands pointing out the time

On the hour its magnificent chime.

 

If it could only talk, it would tell many a story

About the sadness witnessed also about the glory

To us children growing up it was just a clock

In the elders eyes it was seen as their rock.

 

For it helped educate us when we were small

Its chimes thought us to count, that’s one thing I recall

Its hands thought us arithmetic

At addition and subtraction it never missed a trick.

 

It was indeed a great conversation piece

Now long since retired to antique heaven, I hope its tick tock will never cease.

 

  1. C. J. Black©β

Thursday 27 August 2015

http://www.chrisblack2012.com

 

An escape from reality.

An escape from reality.

  1. C. J. Black

Today, there is a lot of screaming and shouting going on inside my head

Write it down, write it down get it out of your system put this poem to bed.

 

It becomes quite difficult trying to write what you cannot see

But once you do it, a mighty relief believe you me.

 

Being realistic when putting first impressions down

They must first be honed and polished or people are sure to frown.

 

Who do you share your initial thoughts with or do you keep them to yourself?

Perhaps you leave them laying around – occasionally removing them from the shelf.

 

Not that I have a problem should someone wish to take a peek

Just don’t be disappointed as my first draft is usually weak.

 

Where do they go, those thoughts which surface then quickly disappear

Somewhere out in the universe floating around in the atmosphere?

 

 

Here’s a mesmerising thought, what if somewhere in outer space

There are aliens trying to interpret William Butler Yeats.

 

  1. C. J. Black©β

Wednesday 26 August 2015

http://www.chrisblack2012.com

 

A Host for Words.

A Host of Words.

  1. C. J. Black.

As I sit here at my alter

I contemplate, on whether I will alter –

This page I am about to cover with tiny sentences –

When I awaken from this beautiful dream and come to my senses.

 

Will I remember word for word this poems contents?

Write it down Verbatim in a language which presents –

To those who take the time, to listen or to read

Believe, like me that what is written is what was decreed?

 

For once we reach for our writing implement

In our mind we should be quite content –

That whatever pours out onto this page

Was meant to mentally engage.

 

When we read the works of others or listen to the spoken word

We all come away with differing aspects – there is no writing which is absurd

As we write, each one of us use a different structure

Which looms large and is indeed for posterity – a piece of beautiful architecture.

 

Everyday a new poem arrives to add to my repertoire

One day hopefully I can write a classic, in proper poetic dialect?

Moving as it were from paragraph to paragraph

Like chess pieces, moving words until I form a proper graph.

 

Sentences start out like trees in winter

Bare – like the skeleton, skinless

But as writing begins to flow

Your page comes alive – begins to show

The plot come alive – begin to grow.

The plot you have tended has garnered new fruit

Presenting itself to the outside world, still – as a Van Gogh painting.

 

  1. C. J. Black©β

 

www.chrisblack2012.com

A Lesson in –

How not to write a blockbuster.

  1. C. J. Black

This was said to me the other day – you’re really on a run

Trying hard to escape from Quill I said – if you’ll pardon the pun

Keep at they said success will come, even from writing something ordinary

My response to them was this – the only place I’ll find success is between succeed and succinct in the dictionary.

 

Yes success would be great if it came to pass

But I guess it’s designed for others and not for me alas

I write I tell simply, just for the therapy

I’m not in it for the arm around the shoulder or indeed the sympathy.

 

We should all write in order to keep the art alive

Unless you write a blockbuster, you must find other ways to survive

I’m old and grey enough to understand this

Not to alert others, now that of me would be amiss?

 

So please accept you are therefore alerted

Never fear that you are ever neglected

Even if what you write never sees the light of day

It really is a fun thing don’t you think, an escape from the real world – is word play.

 

If there was money to be made from trivia writing then I’d be a millionaire

People might even stop and point at me – some might even stare?

Ah, celebrity status now that would be a thrill

They might laud you from the highest mountain, or perhaps from a molehill?

 

There is so much more I could write, except I’m getting rather bored

I’m about to give this “poem” its freedom by snipping its umbilical cord.

 

“The outlook for writers would be rather bleak

If in time to come they outlawed writing tongue in cheek”

 

  1.  C. J. Black©β

Sunday 16 August 2015

http://www.chrisblack2012.com

 

Talk about frying your brain.

Thoughts of a keyboard warrior.

  1. C. J. Black.

*He strings words together like beads.

Always on the lookout for poetic leads

Happening on a line which then kicks him into gear

He feels compelled to borrow – never to demur.

 

Always giving credit to the author of the line

Should one always do so, never think should I decline?

Perhaps there are others with a different mind-set

Who continuously plagiarise – feeling no regret.

 

For all I know people may have borrowed words of mine

(Not ever suggesting I own words of course)

Here I openly forgive them – you see I have a spine?

Then in saying that – I could well be accusing someone in the wrong?

Plagiarism is rampant – especially in song?

 

If I had the time or the inclination to Google a line which I have written

Is there dare I ask, a slim chance I could be sorely bitten?

Perhaps such an action would cause my PC to overload?

Have you ever considered travelling down this road?

 

  1.  C. J. Black©β

Thursday 13 August 2015

http://www.chrisblack2012.com

*A line from a piece written by Michelle Dooley-Mahon©2015 after speed reading *Pools of Light (For the first time)

*Pools of Light – A recently published book of Poetry and Short Stories by author Kevin Connelly whose blog you can follow @kevin-connelly.com

 

 

Paramnesia.

“Memory feeds imagination”

  1.  C. J. Black.

My words on a page

About as useful as a chocolate teapot

I am willing to put it down to age

There are times my writing seems quite vague – other times I am hot to trot?

 

Having the courage of ones convictions

Something I learned many moons ago

Breaking down barriers, having no restrictions

Quite honestly it’s the right way to go.

 

Hitting on an idea on which to write

It need never have to have a grain of truth

Making it look believable at first sight

One wouldn’t have to be a word sleuth.

 

I am not really that great with words

I do believe it’s all about design

Can this poem get any more absurd?

Must learn to speak in dignity with that double timbre.

 

  1.  C. J. Black©β

Thursday 13 August 2015

http://www.chrisblack2012.com

 

 

All those decades ago.

v

They said.

  1. C. J. Black.

Remember heed the rule

Don’t tell tales out of school

So I was told all those years ago

Always have your ducks lined up in a row.

 

You’ll never drown once you, keep your head above water

There is life in the here after

So I was told all those years ago

Always keep a happy face, when you’re on the go.

 

Hurry on now, take your time

You won’t feel it ‘till you’re in your prime

So I was told all those years ago

Keep your mouth shut while you’re eating, you look a holy show.

 

Off you go now, don’t be there ‘till you’re back

Take heed of your elders, they’ll set you on the right track

So I was told all those years ago

Always shame the devil or too hell you’ll go.

 

When I was but a youth the elders used to say

Don’t give up on a thought “seize the day”

So I was told all those years ago

A consequence of this, words continue to flow.

 

  1.   C. J. Black©β

Wednesday 12 August 2015

http://www.chrisblack2012.com