Second Revolution

Record Spinning on Turn Table

(Play It Again AM)

– the record is not broken –

– though rift in operation –

– jumps along –

– every groove –

– its own peculiar nuance –

– deny –

– to disbelievers –

– it was ever –

– just a piece of plastic –

– he sang my song –

– self-effacing –

– to newer models –

– deemed superior –

– to me ’twas special –

– he played my dreams –

– in words and rhythm –

– found my soulful heart –

– the record is not broken –

– though he’s quiet –

– residing on some shelf –

– time turns the tables –

– i play his tunes –

– sadly –

– nowadays –

– i play them for myself –

It appears I cannot resist the rhyme even after the free.

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The Revolution

Record Spinning on Turn Table

Record Spinning On Turntable )

pincered digits

pivot arm

thread needle

gingerly, my

sleeveless apology

cringing

at crackles

careless handling

i was the revolution

i intone

among the glory notes

i was the revolution

now disdained

to silver’d discs

apoplectic pods

that overflow

overburdened

streaming

quantity

content you forget

you dust me down

appreciate the memories

and return me to my shelf

where we, the others,

whisper technology

and await

new revolution

it always comes around

 

Dream In Reverse – Across The Pond Mix

Once again I have had the absolute pleasure of collaborating with Johnny Ojanpera on a song. Johnny’s fabulous music drew some lyrics from me that he very kindly allowed me to sing to his composition. I hope you like it. I personally love it. Well chuffed. 🙂

Scatter my world

Dream in reverse

Lost in the mazes of mind

And the chases, I’m cursed

Scatter my world

Dream in reverse

Lost in the mazes of mind

On repeat, oh so cursed

Fragments of planet

Earthly confusion, all an illusion

Piecing together the portions

Of dreams in reverse

Fragments of planet

Earthly confusion, all an illusion

Piecing together the portions

Repeated reverse

Repeat the pattern

Backwards I’m travellin’

Eye over shoulder

Looking behind and ahead

Waking in dreams in reverse

Neither living nor dead

Repeat the pattern

Backwards I’m travellin’

Eye over shoulder

Looking behind and ahead

Waking in dreams in reverse

Am I living or dead

Reverse the nightmare

Reverse the nightmare

Reverse the dream in my head

Reverse the nightmare

Reverse the nightmare

Reverse the nightmare

Am I living or dead

Reverse

Reverse

Reverse

Reverse the dream in my head

Reverse

Implosion, explosion

Purpled contusions

Dreams in reverse

Where I hurt and I heal

Expansion, contraction

Nothing is real.

Dream in reverse.

Reverse the dream.

 

Affirmation

I know it can be a real pain in the posterior to listen to someone else’s music choice. Time. Always time.

Today I took time, had time, enjoyed time, rediscovered time , passed time, had a lovely time.

Doing?

Hanging out in the garden with my kids. Twenty-two year old and I connecting. Doing shoulder stands on the grass with my eight year old. I was better at it. Just sayin’.  Thirteen year old ‘posing like a haddie’, being a thirteen year old with charm and exuberance. The rest of my crew were elsewhere.

We nibbled, sipped, giggled, talked about everything under the sun.

Mostly, it’s down to sunshine. It’s here! 24° ‘s worth. All bloody day. Right up until it started to cool but was still pleasant enough to sit out and enjoy. And when over? Well, the mood was already established. Move into the kitchen. Big kitchen. Sip, chat, music. Dance. Yoga moves. Hands down, I can do more than my kids. Any idea how life-affirming that can be to a 54 year old? Exactly!

I had to chase them from the kitchen to bed. I asked, ‘What song would you say captures this evening?’

Mary-Kate’s answer surprised me. All the moreso because I’ve been meaning to post this song for a few weeks.

It takes me back to a holiday when my eldest (one of the absent) introduced me to this duo. Maybe about ten/twelve years ago. Thereabouts. 

The duo didn’t hang about long. Difference of artistic direction, apparently.

I could yak on about the ins and outs of this evening but I won’t. Instead you might want to replace the details with details of your own. Those times when somehow – without apparent effort – everything about family just comes together.

The dou are Savage Garden.

The song ‘Affirmation’.

The words – probably the nearest thing I have to saying what I -and maybe many of us – feel about so many things.

And it’s pretty good for dancing to. Bendy yoga moves optional. But most enjoyable.

Today love and life and family is affirmed.

May you find affirmation in the words. And in your family. In your life.

If you have the time it’s worth a listen. The song is catchy. The lyrics – on screen – would be well worth adhering to as a credo.

 

Big Bit Beautiful

Recent hist’ry, further back,

Nothing born of chance,

Entwine threads and treasures found,

Conjoined in life’s dance.

Ghosts of words, mem’ries bound,

Ugly turns to dust,

Ethereal, spiritual, one love

In which we trust.

Haunted notes from music box,

Motes that swirl from lid

Raised reveal of velveteen,

Box’d coffin where we hid.

Hand to cover, prised, released,

Hinges rusty creak,

Ballerina, beautiful,

Pirouettes, she speaks,

Seeks the treasure,

Finds and shares,

Gifted girl, soul-gowned,

Energy with him reclaimed,

Twin-tuned from Underground.

 

Random click on open mail,

A moment glimpsed in time,

Comment came from words read there,

Here developed as I find.

Grave reminders, must we all

To humility subserve,

But, building up and strengthening,

Big bits of beautiful, all deserve

A second song from music box,

Reminders when we fall,

Composition, love created,

Biggest beautiful of all.

 

Begging The Minstrels

Don’t play those songs for me that set me weeping,

Keep your lyrics locked inside yourself,

Don’t write the words that set my pulse to racing,

Hide them in some pages on a shelf.

Don’t pen the poignant notes that make me shiver

You’re strumming on my strings and take me higher,

Out beyond mere sound and softest downstrokes,

Way out somewhere where the air’s on fire,

Set to flame by rising pyrotechnics,

Your words and music, tone and then your voice,

They play upon my sweetest keys and whisper,

The music flows right through me, I’ve no choice

But to harken to the chords and let them wander

Deep into my soul and give them wing,

You play your words and music, I’m rapt listening,

Don’t stop, keep on, it hurts but let them sing.

Mere words alone can never do this damage,

It takes music set to rhythm, to a score,

Play on, you minstrels, poetry in love notes,

Melodies with muse, I beg for more.

Living Song

I seem to be in musical mode. This is the second ‘song’ I’ve written since after last night’s yoga class – and not for the first time after yoga. What’s that about? The other one’s a fair bit longer so I’ll save you from that – for the moment! I’m not even sure this one’s finished but I’m hitting publish anyway. While singing. 🙂

What picks me up

When I fall down,

What keeps me going on,

What urges me

In ailing days,

What keeps me fighting strong

Are all the ways

You look at me,

Your face, how it beguiles,

The hopes and dreams

I harbour dear,

Life in all its styles.

What brings me back

When life is tough,

What raises spirits high,

What pulls me through

Adversity,

Many answers why,

But, most of all,

It’s hope, my dear,

Hope and struggling on,

Hope in you

And love all true,

Hope’s my living song.

What fires my flame

In all but name,

What burns behind my smile

Is hope that lives

Eternally,

Keeps me going for miles.

What hope I have

All rests in you,

In love and give and take,

My living song,

The whole day long,

Is hope for its own sake.

 

Surcease

Wonder,

in the shadow of the moonlight,

calls you near me,

child bereft of toy and worldly joy,

hearkening to music in the starlight,

cherubic voices promising, as a chorus,

a sweeter love,

all moments to enjoy

an earthbound pleasure,

in the joy of angels,

a muted fear,

trumpet blast to ease,

seclusion,

in the bosom of all music,

oblivion, in harmony,

surcease.

Spirit of History

In about three hours time I should be ensconced in OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA ready to partake of the privilege of The Men They Couldn’t Hang.

(source:-   caitlinmccuskercoursework.blogspot.com )

Hopefully, ‘cos I’m ever hopeful, :), listening to this. Spot the bit that’s just ace.

England, 1936.
The grip of the Sabbath day
In London town the only sound
Is a whisper in an alleyway
Men put on their gloves and boots
Have a smoke before they go
From the west there is a warning of
A wind about to blow

Like Caesar marching to the East
Marches Mosley with his men
Dressed in their clothes of deepest black
Like a gathering hurricane
This is the British Union
With its flag of black and red
A flag that casts a shadow in
Berlin and in Madrid

So listen to the sound of marching feet
And the voices of the ghosts of Cable Street
Fists and stones and batons and the gun
With courage we shall beat those blackshirts down

So mile by mile they come on down
To a place called Cable Street
And other men are waiting there
Preparations are complete
Mosley comes so close
They now can see his outstretched arm
A hand raised up that way
Never took the future in its palm

Listen to the sound of marching feet
And the voices of the ghosts of Cable Street
Fists and stones and batons and the gun
With courage we shall beat those blackshirts down

The battle broke as the fists and the batons fell
Through the barricades came the sound of the wounded yells
Jack Spot burst through with a chair leg made of lead
Brought down a crashing blow on Mosley’s head

And so we learn from history generations have to fight
And those who crave for mastery
Must be faced down on sight
And if that means by words, by fists, by stones or by the gun

Remember those who stood up for
Their daughters and their sons

Listen to the sound of marching feet
And the voices of the ghosts of Cable Street
Fists and stones and batons and the gun
With courage we shall beat those blackshirts down

Listen to the sound of marching feet
And the voices of the ghosts of Cable Street
Fists … stones … batons and the gun
With courage we shall beat those blackshirts down

 

Funny thing,

that we get far enough away from events

we call them history.

Then we look at it

and get a new perspective.

Or more than one.

No one says we have to look at history.

Everything only happened yesterday.

Yesterday is upon us every day.

Marching.

Demanding action.

The pendulum swings

to extremes,

all sorts of extremes.

If we don’t learn, we repeat.

I’ve repeated this song a lot.

Funny thing is,

I’m a pacifist.

By choice and persuasion.

And a coward..except.

Most of us would fight – in some shape or form – for what we believe to be right.

If only we could learn from history what that is.

Separating the myths from the legends.

We’re not obliged to learn.

It’s simply desirable.

To keep the music flowing.

To keep life going.

To keep on keeping on.

Let the spirit of history live.

 

We Write…

We write of summer meadows and of dewdrops,

Of circles caught in circles in our mind,

Of senses’ fantasies that beg releasing, in

Images that seep on page to find

Recognition in the land of journey

Of imagination played before our fluttered eyes,

Of colours bright or muted, freed from prism,

Of right or wrong, of truth, of evil lies.

 

We write of winter howling in bare treetops,

Of geometric tangents linked with space,

Of god and gifts and sad laments of knowing

Revealed inside the gifs behind our face,

Of politics and grace and favour owing,

Of how, by nature, owls seek out and track their prey

While, through the night, their silent wings stir currents,

Nocturnal voice, soft breathing held at bay.

 

We write at dawn and in night’s tiptoed torment

Of tales and thoughts, common to us all,

Of worlds within the world we all are sharing,

We write, in honesty, must be the greatest call

Of those drawn to the world of language,

In letter’d form, placed hesitantly, upon page,

Hit ‘publish’ while our hearts on white are crafted,

Daring reciprocity or rage.

 

Of ballerinas twirling in their jewel box,

When opened to reveal our trinkets there,

We write and dare our eyes to endless wonder,

We write, we risk our souls to honest bare.

We write because not doing is no option,

Words bedevil, haunt with no regret,

Spectral forms hover oe’r us, in cloud lexicon,

Begging exorcism on the net.

 

We write in music, pictures and prose poetry,

In art, in forms all risen from the pyre

Of ashen phoenix, from a long tradition

Of pigments mixed in charcoal from the fire.

In black and white, in colours that suffuse us,

Permeate the gases of our form,

Our nebula of knowing that what moves us,

Communication, as the human norm.

 

We write when tears are forming on our eyelids,

Smudging ink that proves our hearts still feel,

In anger, too, spilled blood from ancient consciousness,

We write to justify our thoughts are real.

We write because we see all souls are hurting,

As mine does too, from time to time, no less,

We write as union with the great unknowing,

One cell from shared communion that we bless

 

In knowing that no trouble that we carry

Need be borne alone no matter where we are,

Our words are missiles, more powerful than nuclear,

They are the love that nurtures near or far.

The word is flesh, the word is souls abiding

In light, its form, its earthless, weightless mass,

In silence and in photonic dark room,

One word may mean more than all the rest.

 

We write of dreams succumbed to when we’re sleeping,

Of daydreams caught in shower’s gentle sting,

Of justice, truth, of pain, of deep depression,

Of cloud release ascended on the wing.

Of tender-hearted moments that we’ve nourished,

Of visions seen in skies, on mountain peaks,

We write of all that’s conjured in our musings,

We write because some words are hard to speak.