Nostalgia

The Aggie Band – NaPo 2025 Day Twenty-Eight

Today I was to author a poem that involves music at a ceremony or event.

Moved

The big deal yells when yesterday ends and today begins—
at midnight.
Some folks think it’s a myth,
but for most Texas Aggies, when the band plays
at a football game halftime, at the game or on TV,
it is a major emotional experience.
An impressive spectacle. Feelings
well up inside, a spirit rises and is felt for miles.
That lasts a lifetime,
not just for students and former students,
but for friends and family, as well.

While the music matters and memories play;
the sights, the marching, the yelling fans
participating with the school and the band.
It is magical. The drum majors.
Game scores are briefly forgotten
when the uniformed cadets rush out onto the north end,
and for ten to twenty minutes the crowd participates
with yells and singing to the marching musical repertoire.

Many fine schools have great bands
providing entertainment, excellent music,
and a unique perspective important to those schools.
But there is exactly one Fightin’ Texas Aggie Band.

Look both ways, especially into the past.
It is possible to feel those emotions again.
To be part of something not you, bigger than self,
but also part of who and what you are.
Mind the gaps and let the yell leaders lead. Stand up and yell!

Happy Birthday to a big Texas Aggie Band fan, Yolonda.

Austin-Healey Ride – NaPo 2025 Day Eighteen

Today my task was to craft a poem that recounts my experience of driving, and/or riding, and singing. I was to incorporate “a song lyric” into said poem. Just one?

Hit the Road, Jack!

No time for musical analysis
or explanations
for the songs that set my soul on fire.
Didn’t need to know writer inspirations,
didn’t care a dot about lyrical attire,
this meaning or that hard chord.
In desperation on the way there,
melding with music and singing my feelings
for going I didn’t care where. Just riding.

We didn’t start the fire
within the illusion
of what freedom was then.
I’ve been everywhere, man,
sung fast and furious.
Riding like the wind in my hair, I was there.
I was then.
We refused to take it easy.
Look, here comes the sun; on the road, again.
We were runnin’ on empty but full of life.
I was there with the wind in my hair,
without a care. Without one care.

We sang without a cappella—
blasting radio’s tune-after-tune,
not wanting to arrive
any too soon.
We belted songs, unrecorded;
out loud, on the road,
again and again, never stopping,
never knowing when.
Now those tunes
bring memories back,
songs and lyrics
to fire up familiar feelings of our reckless youth.

Look both ways to see back in the days when road trips meant music and friends.
Mind the gaps because we still do it, alone now, with the music turned way up.

 

Dream On – NaPo 2025 Day Seventeen

Today I was challenged to write a poem themed around friendship, with imagery or other ideas taken from two paintings (my choice from many). One by Leonora Carrington, and another by Remedios Varo, two surrealistic artists and friends. A surrealistically inspired, friendly poem?

The irony of this day is this prompt juxtaposed with the definition of surrealism: “the principles, ideals, or practice of producing fantastic or incongruous imagery or effects in art, literature (poetry), film, or theater by means of unnatural or irrational juxtapositions and combinations.” (Webster, on line) Where does one draw the line?

“One good friendship will outlive forty average loves.”

Faces

On purpose.
Told no one. Told everyone and nobody.
Formless as seen on tv ritual
ceremoniously entwined
with green crabapple branches.
Cuts. Touch. Mix blood brothers.
That smell. You! What? Stink-love.

Feel that? Smell. Yell. Scream.
Lie. Beatings from bullies.
Shinny-up. Run. Escape. Drown. Cross.
Crimeless criminality.

Friends first. Not. But.
Family was a lie.
Roy Rogers was naked.
All naked. Sing. Pray. Sting like a bee.

Share hair. Cardboard shoe soles
over shew holes and altar boys.
Smoke sticks. Tangents. Guilt.

Together every day. Share loot.
Flat nose. Black eye. Blood everywhere.
Swing. Fall. Break things.
Climb. Cry. Evil father.
Saintly mother. Naked sister.

Uncle Joe. G. I. what da ya know?
Cold is not coal, or pea.
Melds wrapped in love and shame.
Masturbating demons defiled hosts.
Do it. Now dare to do-do, pee higher.
Lie to be loved. Play all day.

Ugly beauty deep forever.
Melting madness of happiness.
Wanting what color of love?
Damn.
Help.
Hurry.
Hide.
It’ll never die.

Then it died.
Then you died.
Then I cried.

Back.
Then.
When.
Me.
We.

Look both ways or every way at the same time
because art is in what part of a dream when nothing is real and there is no god?
Imagine. Mind the gaps and slaps in genital naps.
If it makes sense, it cannot be art.

Interwoven – NaPo 2025 Day Fourteen

My second Monday poem was to describe a place in terms of its flora, fauna, and other natural (and semi-natural in this case) phenomena. I was to sink into the sound of the location using poetic conversational tone. I was also invited to include near or slant rhymes in the poem. Confession: I enjoyed writing this.

There are Drums

Two bits and a dime east of the Sound water
that holds the Emerald Rain City at bay,
up towards twin peaks country,
three nickels past the Snoqualmie sign,
playing in the Issaquah Alps,
at the western shades of the Cascades,
rain drums play taps, slaps, and raps all day long.

Before the rains play their beats upon
the Douglas fir and bigleaf maple,
when western hemlock and coral root catch
drops before simple ferns silently call
some sagebrush, deer, elk, coyotes,
and wildcats toward the music,
Rattlesnake Ridge plays a glacier crescendo.

The verdant green on green on green screams its song,
as the drums beat the trails along,
and we love the sound as the lower down
trailhead city
plays us a ditty
in a rain drum courtyard,
haunting and inviting
us in time to make the climb
to the height
up nature carved rock to an overlook, above the lake.

It’s almost too much as a pleasing sound
brings us to a threshold of happy sensory overload.
Smiling at the ironic name since there are no rattlesnakes,
we do more than hear the music and see the rain.
We feel the wet, the wind, and cool breeze;
we smell the fresh everything, even dirt,
in the air we taste the kiss of nature.
We vow to return to the music
and to save the wonders for our children.

Look all the ways with awakened senses
of more than five as you find a love of nature that is new to you.
Mind the gaps especially if you venture to the top and do the overlook, too.

This place:

Cowboy UP – NaPo 2025 Day Twelve

Today I was to try writing a poem inspired by Wallace Stevens’ verse, “Peter Quince at the Clavier.”  My poem was to reference myth, legend, and/or other well-known stories. Not to get too complex, this poem was also to feature wordplay (including rhyme), mix formal and informal language, and contain multiple sections that “play with” the theme. I was also to incorporate at least one abstract concept such as desire, sorrow, pride, or whimsy. Whew. Happy Saturday, y’all.

Pardon Me, Messers. Dobie and Grey

  I 

Please, do not get me started
debunking the hard drinking, sharp shooting, dude
with a solid heart. A good, God-fearing man of independence and
self-reliance (but they could live in conditions most of us couldn’t).

Today, cowboy is a status symbol
consisting of some form of horseless truck
bigger than a dad-blamed Greyhound bus.
While real, the Buffalo Bill we knew was bullshit.

Cattle drives were real and so were the cowboys.
Black ones, Mexican ones, and po’ white ones.
But this is the age of fiction where facts and history
may just get you arrested by modern day SS of 1939.

C&W music aside, the only cowboys known for singing
came later when actors sang about those real boys,
home on the range and yodeling and all that.
I don’t know how they felt about the brand.

           II

But cowboy songs, then and now, are all about
desires for things like water, food, and a decent scout.
And some boom-boom along the way at the cat house,
maybe a sarsaparilla with a dash of cherry while out and about.

Who today can afford the wrong cow in the wrong place?
Lawyers and doctors and candlestick makers.
Real cowpokes made for silly jokes, but those are
the myths and legends, like Pecos Bill and Judge Roy Bean (also real),

were much more fun and interesting
than the boring factual truth, that
your ropin’ and cookin’ skills meant more
than shooting or the Marlboro Man himself.

Justice? If he stole your hoss, ya hung ‘im.
We learnt that watchin’ Lonesome Dove on TV.
And the Hat Creek Cattle Company, heroes of days past,
who stole most of the cattle they pushed to Montana.

But if you want them ol’ boys to look at you funny,
talk to them about ideas like love, justice
(it was legal to shoot Apache, Cheyenne, or Sioux),
freedom, and what happiness meant to them.

    III

But still, we love the stories, the art,
the concepts of the rugged pioneer who
tipped his hat and killed all the bad guys
for, and to protect, our wives and our daughters.

Men who made the world a better place
by stealing, lying, cheating, and murdering.
For better or worse, our past is what it is.
However we may feel about it.

It’s fun to ride alone. To be glorified.
To be the story told to children
to make them better people. But
only cows and chickens love vegetarians.

Look both ways and enjoy the stories.
But mind the gap between reality and fantasy.
While a man hears what he wants to hear and a woman believes
what she wants to believe,
many of both live to seek the truth.

Musical Notation – NaPo 2025 Day Five

A Saturday NaPo table prompted me to compose a poem given inspiration from a musical notation of my choosing from a list of 21. Then, I was supposed to select a musical genre from another list of 21. Finally, I was to use in said poem one or more words I picked from a third column of 21. You can see the entire table which was Bogarted from an old Twitter account by clicking here.

My selections were: “lord have mercy;” folk song; and bones, butterflies, + banquet.

Pay to Play

I am not a musician.
No instrument can I play.
My singing’s not worth the price of admission.
Not even in church while
surrounded by singing Baptists on the Lord’s Day.

I love music. I wanna be
all those things. Just good enough
will satisfy me.

When I hear it, the many from way back then,
when, lord have mercy, a folk song
written and sung during the genre revival,

gets into my bones
I can get butterflies. I become
the man-boy I was with hair and zits,
now my playlist becomes
a veritable banquet. Then I sigh,
and I wonder why
they don’t get it.
Like rain they hear it but they get no feel.
Frankly, they just get wet.

Look both ways but remember; your song is yours, your music is born into your soul.
It matters not what others think, this is your thing.
Mind the gaps but you’ll never explain not knowing what was for lunch,
yet you still know the words to songs from fifty years ago.

 

Sammi’s Weekender #362 (classic)

Click the graphic for Sammi’s page and more classic writing.

Classical Folk

Telling me about herself,
her childhood, family struggles
made her who and what she is today:
a wonderful classic of musical charm.

The point is telling
the story only she can.

She remembers.
She wants me to know.
It’s all important.

Another girl on my mind
made me wonder.
What was it like
to have been her?

Look both ways when looking into the lives of others.
Mind the gaps and do the research.

Friday Fictioneers for May 3rd, 2024

Dear Mistress Rochelle,

Please excuse Mr. Bill’s absence as he was poetically abusing himself.

Sincerely,
NaPoWriMo

♥⇔♥

I could not pass up Ted’s excellent picture of a funny memory. Rochelle, from whose blog we all learn so well, can be found by clicking on Ted’s photo. From there you may, in May, write a micro-blurb story according to the rule of Her Fabulous Highness.

PHOTO PROMPT © Ted Strutz — Click it to ride over to Rochelle’s Blog.

Genre: SNL Fake History
Title: He’s Gonna be Mean to Me
Word count: 100

The flyer said, “Script writers wanted: interviews, 8PM Saturday night, 30 Rock Plaza, studio 8H.” I went.

Before I knocked, I heard a high-pitched voice, “Oh Nooooo, Miss Sally. Do it again.” A female voice yelled, “Idiot! When I said, ‘Bite me,’ I didn’t mean for you to bite me, Dummy.”

I knocked. I heard banging and doors slamming. The squeaky voice said, “Please come in, Mister Bill.”

I entered. A stuffed doll in a chair said, “If you can script a skit, you start tonight.”

When I told him I couldn’t do that, he yelled, “Oh nooooooo, Mister Bill.”

Look both ways and remember nineteen-seventy-eight.
Mind the gaps but save the records, ducks, dolls, skits, and names.

The celeb ducks are (L-R) Freddie Mercury, John Belushi, Willie Nelson, and Jerry Garcia. Click this pic to read more stories.

 

 

NaPoWriMo 2024, Day 21, Overstated

I don’t think I’ve ever had a real favorite color (or colour). But I needed to answer the question: what is it? So, I used to say it was blue. I like green, too.

And while I don’t like yellow cars (think lemons), pants, shirts, or journalism; Motorcycles, flowers, and mellow yellow songs all do well in Amarillo yellow. Also, I liked Jay’s pumpkin colored, semi-yellow-orange Porsche, which was kind of sweet.

Today’s Prompt-areno (it’s been three weeks, folks) is to write a poem that repeats and/or focuses on a single color. While any color would do, I went ahead with ubiquitous blue. It meets prompt.

Overstated

I thought I was cool, or at least being so,
like I would know the trick,
but I was advised
that I looked more like a fool,
the colors were a little bit sick.

My shirt, pants, and shoes were all shades of blues
but shade makes the difference, thus I donned—
a lighter shirt in a bland shade of green.
That was yesterday.

Now at home, I write a blue poem about my casuals,
while wearing a two-tone blue top
and mixed-up blue bottom that is not to be seen.

Long ago, my eyes were blue, but now some say green,
depending on the day,
my shirt,
and my blue-eyed soul.

We dance to the Blue Danube waltz,
and we swim in blue waters,
we pine for the bright blue sky,
then in August we wonder why.

Blue Ridge Mountains take me back,
a Blue Duck sits on my desk
or maybe it’s some Lonesome Dove’s
dark psychotic character.

Like red and yellow, blue is primary.
Mixing gets us shades of green or purple
or a midnight-something.

Blue nose or blue toes, blue jeans on blue teens,
blue men in a Vegas troupe.

Blue moods and Mondays
are both downers but not the blues of bennies,
and blue shaved ice is coconut flavored on blue tongues.

Navy blue is almost black, and baby blue is much too tac.
So blue is good, and blue is bad, and blue can even say
that we are in a mood or feeling sad.

But I thought it through and through
and I must admit,
if I did have a favorite color,
it would probably be something like
a deeper shade of blue.

Look both ways but try not to see red when looking at blue.
Mind the gaps in mismatched tops and bottoms, but blue is the truest of the cools.

NaPoWriMo 2024, Day 16, My Bufferina

Today’s prompt is a revenant from 2016. I was to describe an object or place in a poem that ends with an abstract line.

My Bufferina

In the lower-deck belly
of the B-fifty-two-dee bomber,
two downward shooting ejection seats,
held two-thousand hours
of my youthful ass.

Whatever was bad outside—was worse inside,
oven hot in summers;
meat-locker,
freezing-cold in winters.
All jets, or airplanes, had the same putrid odor:
burned wire insulation, fried electronics, old dry puke,
and piss. Add oil and JP-4 jet fuel.
No shit!

Navigation and bombing, our job, done there.
Twelve-to-twenty-four-hour missions
(mixed with moments of stark terror);
we worked, wrote, drew, set-and-checked,
and double-checked;
we ate our meals sitting there,
sometimes
one napped during deadhead times,
a home where liquid oxygen was life,
and the noise—
literally deafening.

Service ceiling nine miles up,
nuclear
low-level missions
dodging hills, towers, cows,
and Nebraska farmers’ turkeys;
sweat and stink;
then, after debriefing,
it was beer-thirty time.

Happy Days was a great TV show.

Look both ways because perspective is everything.
Mind the gaps on the maps from when GPS was a dream
called, “what do you need me for, now?”