Lyrics to 3 (original) Ballads for ‘National Poetry Month’

 “Sleepy Morning Rag”

(swung in Ab major [or perhaps a country shuffle]; sung by a female vocalist)

Murdered myself in the kitchen this mornin’/ Lettin’ the sleep slowly drain from me brain/ These things to do, those people to see/ And now you see sleep won’t set you free

Came out lost from the first day/ Never knew what to say, never knew the way/ Always wanted to float like a submarine/ Fly like bird inside an imagination machine

Some may know but most don’t know/ We plant it in our days and pass it in the seeds we sow/ And did you see what just crawled out of my bag/ I call it the Sleepy Mornin’ Rag

Heard you took a swim in toxic waste/ Tell me my love, how did it taste/ When you’re washedup confused on the beach/ I’ll be the one to heed the preach…practice the teach/

Take a nap in a garden of velvet flowers/ Gallons of silk shower down from the tower/ More orange, more white, more green and blue/ More or less a pinch of him and touch of you

Some may know but most don’t know/ We plant it in our days and pass it in the seeds we sow/ And did you see what just crawled out of my bag/ I call it the Sleepy Mornin’ Rag

All day Monday I watched the garden grow/ And all day Wednesday I watched the river flow/ Would you rather wonder why or feel fine/ Sit inside smell or take train down line

Just a reservoir to wash away the fear/ And just a scoop of time to make a month out of a year/ You’re going to need a boost if you want to buy high/ And you’re going to need a ladder, if you want to touch the sky

Some may know but most don’t know/ We plant it in our days and pass it in the seeds we sow/ And did you see what just crawled out of my bag/ I call it the Sleepy Mornin’ Rag

Lazy Finger Testament

Stratocaster dreams

In blue ocean breeze

In God touch cotton finger’s

Lazy stampede

Early morning mist

Evokes tiger sleep cat nap

So you keep it to yourself

Camouflaged on the shelf

Let me see the waves

The waves which never break

Let me visit the house

The nightmare beside the lake

Drag of a cigarette

A cigarette which is not there

String up the ol’ fiddle

I haven’t played in a year

You know there’s more to come

So said Tom Thumb about his

Cookiecutter apple-

[s]licer filter-machine

So I flipped on the PA

And read it through the speakers

Believe me when I say

No one really cares

Friends we are

Friends indeed

But no one wants you around

When you’re always in need

Hello to my friends

At the emergency shelter

You know things get better

Take a donation sweater

Strike up the band

March in God’s gay parade

But those colorful shoves

Will never fade away

Lazy Finger Testament

A very Bible holiday

Had a beautiful dusk moment

Just last Thursday

Waiting for Grace

Think I’ll take this opportunity to create a masterpiece/ Paint it blue and dedicate it you…/ But I am not free; I live miserably/ Why not dedicate it to me?/ Catch a firefly and peel back the wings/ In a child‘s eye/ Summertime’s bumblebee stings/ Old yellow love/ We‘re done playing games/ Guns and violins; rivers; trains and flower bud…/ Is there life after the cage?/ More of a scroll than a page/ Manage not to jump off/ Is there life after this age?

“Let me go home,” cried I./ For prisoners dwell in prison/ Life then…and now, life again/ Am I the prisoner or the prison?/ Wait and suffer/ Till I am old and gray/ Wait and suffer/ Till there‘s something wise to say…/ And I know what I would say/ But you won‘t show your face/ And I know what I would say/ But you shan‘t give up your place…/ And I’m tired of being told/ Just have a little faith/ And I’m tired of being told/ Just to “Wait for Grace…”

The buzzing neon light/ Slowly drives me insane/ From inside my cell/ I watch the rain…/ Clocks tick/ Information exchanged/ Newfangled media to communicate/ The conductor missed his train/ Waiting out boring/ Summer evenings/ That are as gray as they are blue/ And o’ the Connecticut green/ And days till infinity we count inbetween/ And to seas of shame/ We crossed running-out of things to blame

And to the soap I wash my skin/ Climb the hill and let cleansing begin/ And to gallons of red paint/ we splatter to decorate/ O’ master teach us not to hate/ And to barrels of untouched rum/ And to the plenty…that are still to come[.]