Shoeshame
by
Jesse JB Neel
Don' want no purple, neon pink, or green stripes. Don't want no tongue pump, or no flashing red lights. Don't want no velcro straps, that curl on the end. Don't want no neo-classic, post modern trend. Don't want no bubble poppin' under my heel. Don't want no moonwalk tread, or millionaire deal. Just give me something I can lace up the front. One simple color, (they'll be easy to hunt). I like a white, a black, or maybe a blue. I want a comfortable shoe.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Here are the lyrics to a song I wrote some time ago.
Dustbowl Dreams
by
Jesse JB Neel
I could tell by his face, and the way that he stood,
his life had been long, but it hadn't been good.
He was burnt by the sun, and bent by the cold,
his wrinkles were deep, and his shoulders were bowed.
His hat in his hand, he moved through the smoke,
as he shuffled along, he smiled and he joked.
He knew every face, and each one knew him,
when he came to my place, he stopped and he grinned.
"Pardon me sir", he tapped on the chair,
"is this seat here taken, is anyone there?"
Then held up one finger, twisted and brown,
the barkeeper nodded and set the glass down.
He'd come in each night, and have just one drink,
that very same place, he'd sit and he'd think.
Of a time when the land was fertile and green,
before mother nature turned nasty and mean.
The wind and sand had blown his life away,
the hopes he had, they vanished with the rain.
His dustbowl dreams were gone, they wouldn't last very long,
and left behind the man I met today.
This place had been his, and his father's before,
they'd milled every board, from the roof to the floor.
And the rocks in the fireplace, that stood in the wall,
He'd hauled in a wagon, it took most the fall.
He'd slept in the corner, where the jukebox now stands,
And the folks park their cars, on what were his lands.
Out the back door, there is concrete and steel,
where once there was corn and wheat in the field.
The land had been cleared, and the stumps had been coaxed,
from the ground with ax, and the oxen in yokes.
In the heat of the days, he had followed the plow,
from the rooster's alarm, to the hoot of the owl.
Then came the black blizzards, that filled up the sky,
turned day into night, and blinded the eye.
The world had turned over, and what once had sprang,
from the ground, had been covered with earthen remains.
The wind and sand had blown his life away,
the hopes he had, they vanished with the rain.
His dustbowl dreams were gone, they didn't last very long,
and left behind the man I met today.
The last straw had come, when the well it went dry.
The wheat fell to chaff, and the corn, and the rye,
had withered and crumbled to dust in the soil,
that now deep below, produce methane and oil.
His daddy, he died, at the turn of the leaves,
he passed in the night unable to breathe.
The sagebrush took over, the stock turned to bone,
and then came the banker to call in the loan.
He took the last sip from the glass that he held,
eased himself back with a sigh and said, "Well".
He picked up his hat and slid from the chair'
and as he moved off, I heard him, I swear.
He hummed an old song from a long time ago,
the words unforgotten, they came from his soul.
He turned at the door and he sang this refrain,
I only wish now, I had asked him his name.
The wind and sand they blew my life away,
the hopes I had, they vanished with the rain.
My dustbowl dreams are gone, they didn't last very long,
and left behind the man you see today.
Dustbowl Dreams
by
Jesse JB Neel
I could tell by his face, and the way that he stood,
his life had been long, but it hadn't been good.
He was burnt by the sun, and bent by the cold,
his wrinkles were deep, and his shoulders were bowed.
His hat in his hand, he moved through the smoke,
as he shuffled along, he smiled and he joked.
He knew every face, and each one knew him,
when he came to my place, he stopped and he grinned.
"Pardon me sir", he tapped on the chair,
"is this seat here taken, is anyone there?"
Then held up one finger, twisted and brown,
the barkeeper nodded and set the glass down.
He'd come in each night, and have just one drink,
that very same place, he'd sit and he'd think.
Of a time when the land was fertile and green,
before mother nature turned nasty and mean.
The wind and sand had blown his life away,
the hopes he had, they vanished with the rain.
His dustbowl dreams were gone, they wouldn't last very long,
and left behind the man I met today.
This place had been his, and his father's before,
they'd milled every board, from the roof to the floor.
And the rocks in the fireplace, that stood in the wall,
He'd hauled in a wagon, it took most the fall.
He'd slept in the corner, where the jukebox now stands,
And the folks park their cars, on what were his lands.
Out the back door, there is concrete and steel,
where once there was corn and wheat in the field.
The land had been cleared, and the stumps had been coaxed,
from the ground with ax, and the oxen in yokes.
In the heat of the days, he had followed the plow,
from the rooster's alarm, to the hoot of the owl.
Then came the black blizzards, that filled up the sky,
turned day into night, and blinded the eye.
The world had turned over, and what once had sprang,
from the ground, had been covered with earthen remains.
The wind and sand had blown his life away,
the hopes he had, they vanished with the rain.
His dustbowl dreams were gone, they didn't last very long,
and left behind the man I met today.
The last straw had come, when the well it went dry.
The wheat fell to chaff, and the corn, and the rye,
had withered and crumbled to dust in the soil,
that now deep below, produce methane and oil.
His daddy, he died, at the turn of the leaves,
he passed in the night unable to breathe.
The sagebrush took over, the stock turned to bone,
and then came the banker to call in the loan.
He took the last sip from the glass that he held,
eased himself back with a sigh and said, "Well".
He picked up his hat and slid from the chair'
and as he moved off, I heard him, I swear.
He hummed an old song from a long time ago,
the words unforgotten, they came from his soul.
He turned at the door and he sang this refrain,
I only wish now, I had asked him his name.
The wind and sand they blew my life away,
the hopes I had, they vanished with the rain.
My dustbowl dreams are gone, they didn't last very long,
and left behind the man you see today.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Sometimes I just can't help myself . . . ;-)
The congressman never had seen her
But he got the idea he would tweeter
So he stripped off his clothes
Then he snapped a quick pose
And she got a good look at A. Weiner
A decade ago
in the home of the brave,
a bonfire was set,
by a cowardly knave.
The knights all rode forth,
at the head Sir Obama.
And that was the end,
of Yosemite Sama.
Osama Bin Hidin'
got shot in the eye and,
he lives on this planet no more.
Those busty young virgins
Muhammad's been urgin',
has left him a snaggle-toothed whore.
The congressman never had seen her
But he got the idea he would tweeter
So he stripped off his clothes
Then he snapped a quick pose
And she got a good look at A. Weiner
A decade ago
in the home of the brave,
a bonfire was set,
by a cowardly knave.
The knights all rode forth,
at the head Sir Obama.
And that was the end,
of Yosemite Sama.
Osama Bin Hidin'
got shot in the eye and,
he lives on this planet no more.
Those busty young virgins
Muhammad's been urgin',
has left him a snaggle-toothed whore.
Tic-Toc
by
Jesse JB Neel
Time, the thief, who visits all, who pilfers every man, is petty in his labors, and takes but grains of sand. Each grain a day, swept away, a blemish on the skin, the slower gait, betrays the fate, of each and everyman. Time is time, time and again, only time is time's best friend, time began, and time will end, only time is time's best friend. For time remembers not the past, time cannot reverse, alas, nor forward, time cannot intrude, time is but an interlude. Here and now, time must exist, past and future in betwixt, never moving, never still, paces nature by it's will. Time is master of the flesh, all the senses, time will test. But in time's frailty, trapped in kind, lies salvation of the mind. Stacked and stored, safely caught, within the man there is a thought, a space where time cannot invade, a place, where memories are made. Memories are the final victim, fallen as if prey, last in line, the old home guard, tos't into the fray. And time in knowing, and in not, it's wretched, rigid, frigid spot, makes no effort to expend, for with the man the memories end. So mark your letters well my friend, and set them large and bold, for only letters set in line, can make the story old.
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