In darker moments With my Pen As A Sword.
In some of my darkest moments,
when rage at the world
overwhelms my sensibilities,
I can almost feel the urge
to answer the call,
and let my pen truly
become a sword.
Sneaking out in the wee hours,
when most of the world dreams,
with all the training afforded me,
by the U.S. Marines,
I would spirit myself into
the quarters, of some of the world's
most evil of men,
and drive my pen
with furious righteousness
into their left eyes,
after I had deftly deflated their right,
leaving them as truly blind,
to the needs of mankind,
as they were when they were sighted.
Then I would sign their finely
groomed foreheads in blood with two words:
"Serial Quill-er!"
Oh, how the media would
expound upon the mad poet,
set loose on societies upper echelons,
tragically executed
by a simple writing implement.
They would rant or wonder
at the ambushof the dead
who knowingly trampled the rights
of the common man,
or made grave mistakes
that cost many lives for the
glory of cash, power, and greed.
Their eye sockets would
become my inkwell,
and their souls my postscript
to a perfect world.
Alas, the military bled
all of the desires to kill from me,
long ago in the last useless war fought,
and they don't make pens
long enough to reach,
the tiny brains of most of the leaders
of world affairs and
the molders of tragedies.
So I content myself with
a handful of finely crafted pens,
that are delicately feathered on one end,
and sharpened to surgical precision
on the other.Then weekly I post the faces,
of the worlds most worthless maggots,
on a large dartboard in my studio,
and spend a few delightful minutes a day,
aiming for their eyes and
pen-atrating their pixeled flesh
Sort of voodoo for the soul one might say,
It's not a solution but it
calms the rage a bit.
I also post a lot of what I consider
my worst poems on that bored too
and I puncture-ate them as well
poking holes in theories that were
created without merit,
thereby satisfying the blood lust
against what's wicked on this planet.
I am currently working though
on a catapult for typewriters
and word processors,
those useless hulks of metal,
that are now relics,
in this computer age.
They would do quite nicely
as ammo for assaults on
all of the ignorant heads,
of the states of madness,
perpetuated against us.
/////////////////////////////////////////////////\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\
Off To The Key Of ZZZZZZZZZ's
Wednesday 2:30 A.M.
my calloused fingers
at long last cease from
stringing my frets.
My last vocals
end in a rather loud yawn,
much like the sound hole
on my sunrise colored
hummingbird guitar.
Four songs written,
lyrics and music
committed to memory,
as I head for the key of ZZZZZ's
My guitars all lounging
in haphazard poses,
like roadies sprawled
in exhaustion minutes
after the stage was set.
These are my brothers-in-arms,
sculptures of wood, chrome,
and steel frozen here in
a moment of weariness,
after years of striving
to Roll the burden of Rock
up a very steep hill to fame.
I write for peace of mind now,
blending a piece of my mind,
with the music in me.
The crowds have long fallen silent,
the green rooms only hold blues.
But I am content, as I go to chase
the dreams beyond all reality
that only sleep can bring.
///////////////////////////\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\
ArtWhimsically Yours Studio
MFB III Productions -(c)-2001-2008-2010-2011
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ArtWhimsically Yours Studio / Blog
From The "Still" Of The Night......
From the "still" of the night I drink deeply intoxicated by moonshine....I dream, till all my blues are distilled into fantasies fulfilled and my world's not as bad as it seems. Though sometimes I wake up hungover, from a batch of nightmares my mind's brewed I share the hair of the cruel dog that bit me in a catnap that helps me get through. Chorus- You're the crux of my dreams, you're the reason I sing, you're the bling that shines bright when I snooze, and your most lovely eyes bring me sweet lullabies, when I rise to pay my daily dues... All the world's a dull place, till I dream of your face, sharing kisses on sleeps avenues, sonambulance leads my feet, back through memories so sweet from a love that I hated to lose. When I'm dancing with Eve I begin to believe that someday you will come back to me, till my nemisis....dawn bids me rise and move on through the days waiting cold and lonely... Chorus- You're the crux of my dreams, you're the reason I sing, you're the bling that shines bright when I snooze, and your most lovely eyes bring me sweet lullabies, when I rise to pay my daily dues... All the world's a dull place, till I dream of your face, sharing kisses on sleeps avenues, somnambulance leads my feet, back through memories so sweet from a love that I hated to lose. Till once again I take flight on the wings of the night to the heavenly delight of your smile...... 'neath a fingernail moon, where the dish and the spoon feed me comforting dreams for a while.... You're the crux of my dreams, you're the reason I sing, you're the bling that shines bright when I snooze, and your most lovely eyes bring me sweet lullabies, when I rise to pay my daily dues... Chorus- All the world's a dull place, till I dream of your face, sharing kisses on sleeps avenues, somnambulance leads my feet, back through memories so sweet from a love that I hated to lose. MFB Productions-(c)-2011 ArtWhimsically Yours Studio
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Seat 14...Windowside.
Heavy raindrops fall...distorting most of my train window's views, as the miles slip past aborting what was once love..... into blues. All the world's a blur, except for her, Lord, I did all I could do.... she wasn't waiting at the station, so I'm bound for somehwere new.... Chorus- Love is like this old train window, with it's panoramic view, when it's sunny...it's breathtaking but when tears fall love is skewed, all that was..... gets left behind you, what's ahead is misconstrued, as your train of thought's derailing into loveless solitude. The conductor staggers by me past my orchestrated scene, as the train wheels beat percussion tea cups clink like tamborines, with couples swaying in their shared seats all around me whispering low, sweet nothings and lilting laughter, like those times we used to know. Love is like this old train window, with it's panoramic view, when it's sunny...it's breathtaking but when tears fall.... love is skewed, all that was..... gets left behind you, with your future.... misconstrued, while your train of thought's derailing into loveless solitude. Soon enough, dark clouds are parted as the sun breaks through the storm, and the inside of the train's revealed in its bright reflections formed. And in its paned glass is a vision that I thought I'd never see, you were standing next to seat 14 in the aisle right next to me. You'd beat the train to its next station cause you had a change of heart, then you fell into my grateful arms and gave us both a brand new start. Chorus- Love is like this old train window, with it's panoramic view, when it's sunny...it's breathtaking but when tears fall.... love is skewed, never leave a love behind you, with your future.... misconstrued, lest your train of thoughts becomes derailed into loveless solitude. don't let your train of thoughts become derailed into loveless solitude. ArtWhimsically Yours Studio MFB III Productions-(c)-2011 this song was inspired by Antonio Simones: "Train Window View." Be sure to check it out.
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I'm A Semper-Fi Guy !
Music Is Done...due up soon..... I'm A Semper- Fi Guy! I've got a solution to insurgent pollution that has plaugued our world for years, it came to me in a bar one night, mixed with black velvet and beers, we've been sending our young to war to get the job done, it's time that they got a break, let us old-timers have fun...... Chorus- I'm An ex-Marine who's lean and mean and my blood's still as green as my old canteen, I'm a Semper- Fi guy in everything, my marriage and my job and all that's in-between I'd like to blow me up some terrorist to smithereens, and bury 'em in hog pens where their soul's unclean, cause I'm still one of the pistons in that green machine, part of the the finest brotherhood I've ever seen. "Eeee-low-right left...hachee-low- right- left.. ....hachee-low- right- left--hachee- low." When our leaders start a war I sign up to go, though I'm way past the corps age limit you know, But they're sending our young ones which ain't apropos, they should send the hardened veterans to put on a show, cause we'll all be dead in twenty years or so, and our trigger fingers itching cause we're still Gung- ho. Chorus- Every Ex-Marinee who's stayed lean and mean, with blood's still as green as our old canteens, all us Semper-Fi Guys in everything, our marriage, our jobs and all that's in between, every one of those pist-offs in that green machine, part of the finest brotherhood that we have ever seen. "We all want to be Recon Rangers, we want to live a life of danger, we want to take Afghanistan, and bury the insurgents in some garbage cans...." It's hard to sit at home watching wars on T.V. all our training goes to waste in places we shouldn't be, before we wind up with arthritis and huge pot bellies, we need to jump in to the frey and keep America free, Save our young ....send the old to fight those pigs overseas, and we'll bring you back some peace from sea to shining sea. "If I die in a combat zone, box me up and send me home, cross my arms across my chest, tell the world I did my best." Chorus- Cause I'm An ex-Marine who's lean and mean and my blood's still as green as my old canteen, I'm a Semper- Fi guy in everything, my marriage, my job and all that's in-between I'd like to blow me up some terrorist to smithereens, and bury 'em in hog pens where their soul's unclean, cause I'm still one of the pistons in that green machine, part of the the finest brotherhood that I have ever seen. We gotta get home where we left, but we can't go home till it's right, Sound off.... One.... Two... Sound off.... Three.... Four, break it on down, E - X- M -A -R - I - N- E ---- Come on and send us back to war. MFB III Productions (C)-2011 In Honor of Veteran's Day....11/11/11 ArtWhimsically Yours Studio
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With My Pen As A sword & Off to the Key of ZZZZZZZ's
In darker moments With my Pen As A Sword. In some of my darkest moments, when rage at the world overwhelms my sensibilities, I can almost feel the urge to answer the call, and let my pen truly become a sword. Sneaking out in the wee hours, when most of the world dreams, with all the training afforded me, by the U.S. Marines, I would spirit myself into the quarters, of some of the world's most evil of men, and drive my pen with furious righteousness into their left eyes, after I had deftly deflated their right, leaving them as truly blind, to the needs of mankind, as they were when they were sighted. Then I would sign their finely groomed foreheads in blood with two words: "Serial Quill-er!" Oh, how the media would expound upon the mad poet, set loose on societies upper echelons, tragically executed by a simple writing implement. They would rant or wonder at the ambushof the dead who knowingly trampled the rights of the common man, or made grave mistakes that cost many lives for the glory of cash, power, and greed. Their eye sockets would become my inkwell, and their souls my postscript to a perfect world. Alas, the military bled all of the desires to kill from me, long ago in the last useless war fought, and they don't make pens long enough to reach, the tiny brains of most of the leaders of world affairs and the molders of tragedies. So I content myself with a handful of finely crafted pens, that are delicately feathered on one end, and sharpened to surgical precision on the other.Then weekly I post the faces, of the worlds most worthless maggots, on a large dartboard in my studio, and spend a few delightful minutes a day, aiming for their eyes and pen-atrating their pixeled flesh Sort of voodoo for the soul one might say, It's not a solution but it calms the rage a bit. I also post a lot of what I consider my worst poems on that bored too and I puncture-ate them as well poking holes in theories that were created without merit, thereby satisfying the blood lust against what's wicked on this planet. I am currently working though on a catapult for typewriters and word processors, those useless hulks of metal, that are now relics, in this computer age. They would do quite nicely as ammo for assaults on all of the ignorant heads, of the states of madness, perpetuated against us. /////////////////////////////////////////////////\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ Off To The Key Of ZZZZZZZZZ's Wednesday 2:30 A.M. my calloused fingers at long last cease from stringing my frets. My last vocals end in a rather loud yawn, much like the sound hole on my sunrise colored hummingbird guitar. Four songs written, lyrics and music committed to memory, as I head for the key of ZZZZZ's My guitars all lounging in haphazard poses, like roadies sprawled in exhaustion minutes after the stage was set. These are my brothers-in-arms, sculptures of wood, chrome, and steel frozen here in a moment of weariness, after years of striving to Roll the burden of Rock up a very steep hill to fame. I write for peace of mind now, blending a piece of my mind, with the music in me. The crowds have long fallen silent, the green rooms only hold blues. But I am content, as I go to chase the dreams beyond all reality that only sleep can bring. ///////////////////////////\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ ArtWhimsically Yours Studio MFB III Productions -(c)-2001-2008-2010-2011
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With My Pen As A sword& Off to the Key of ZZZZZZZ's
In Darker Moments With My Pen As A Sword. In some of my darkest moments, when rage at the world overwhelms my sensibilities, I can almost feel the urge to answer the call, and let my pen truly become a sword. Sneaking out in the wee hours, when most of the world dreams, with all the training afforded me, by the U.S. Marines, I would spirit myself into the quarters, of some of the world's most evil of men, and drive my pen with furious righteousness into their left eyes, after I had deftly deflated their right, leaving them as truly blind, to the needs of mankind, as they were when they were sighted. Then I would sign their finely groomed foreheads in blood with two words:"Serial Quill-er!" Oh, how the media would expound upon the mad poet, set loose on societies upper echelons, tragically executed by a simple writing implement. They would rant or wonder at the ambush of the dead who knowingly trampled the rights of the common man, or made grave mistakes that cost many lives for t he glory of cash, power, and greed. Their eye sockets would become my inkwell, and their souls my postscript to a perfect world. Alas, the military bled all of the desires to kill from me, long ago in the last useless war fought, and they don't make pens long enough to reach, the tiny brains of most of the leaders of world affairs and the molders of tragedies. So I content myself with a handful of finely crafted pens, that are delicately feathered on one end, and sharpened to surgical precision on the other. Then weekly I post the faces, of the worlds most worthless maggots, on a large dartboard in my studio, and spend a few delightful minutes a day, aiming for their eyes and pen-atrating their pixeled flesh Sort of voodoo for the soul one might say, It's not a solution but it calms the rage a bit. I also post a lot of what I consider my worst poems on that bored too and I puncture-ate them as well poking holes in theories that were created without merit, thereby satisfying the blood lust against what's wicked on this planet. I am currently working though on a catapult for typewriters and word processors, those useless hulks of metal, that are now relics, in this computer age. They would do quite nicely as ammo for assaults on all of the ignorant heads, of the states of madness, perpetuated against us. MFB III productions (c)-2001- /////////////////////////////////////////////////\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ Off To The Key Of ZZZZZZZZZ's Wednesday 2:30 A.M. my calloused fingers at long last cease from stringing my frets. My last vocals end in a rather loud yawn, much like the sound hole on my sunrise colored hummingbird guitar. Four songs written, lyrics and music committed to memory, as I head for the key of ZZZZZ's My guitars all lounging in haphazard poses, like roadies sprawled in exhaustion minutes after the stage was set. These are my brothers-in-arms, sculptures of wood, chrome, and steel frozen here in a moment of weariness, after years of striving to Roll the burden of Rock up a very steep hill to fame. I write for peace of mind now, blending a piece of my mind, with the music in me. The crowds have long fallen silent, the green rooms only hold blues. But I am content, as I go to chase the dreams beyond all reality that only sleep can bring. ArtWhimsically Yours Studio MFB III Productions -(c)-2001-2008-2010-2011
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Woodstock---42 Years Later.
Woodstock-42 Years Later. Where did they go from those Summers of love, all the peaceful, hippie children who frequented Haight Ashbury, hoping to bury the ashes of hate? All of those who knew a Woodstock not of a rifle but rather of a peaceful coalition massed. Weaving poems and soft music into the fabric of a nation ripped by war. Yasgur's farm lies empty now, music tinkles only in some distant laughter on endless August days. Harmony exists there only in two clouds, floating side by side, and forming a bridge below a rainbow hung over fields where only butterflies dance. Are they sighing now for all that was but can never be the same again? Do they find themselves left exchanging Vietnam for Iraq and Afghanistan? Do they have flashbacks every time they hold up two fingers for a table at a restaurant? Did they ever find real peace beyond the mud and tie-dye spattered hopes of a youth long since spent? Isn't there a daisy chain somewhere that can secure me snugly and sprout me back to 1969? Many might be happy to see me go... I can't seem to find much of the old, amidst the apathetic new. Soldiers are still dying while the ecology and the economy are in dire straits, but few are singing their blues. Thus my lips meet to hum softly a single poetic sigh blended with ink. Where are all the voices in the streets, the songs of protest rising, the solidarity shouted in bell bottoms of freedom as billy clubs swing? Have they become just memories pressed between time's pages, Faded daisy petals and concert tickets offering only rain checks of tears? I would give up my twelve string, round bodied, Ovation guitar just to spend one more weekend immersed in that magical time when peace was believable, and love was a half a million strong. We must as a people once again lend whatever we can spare to those who are not spared. Spread love like mayonnaise, and damn the calories, it moistens the dry bland of our planet in peril. Leap over the graves of your inhibitions, dust off an old cause and make it purposeful again. Set your forsaken dreams free in a world that might once again be held captivated. Where did they all go those flower children of yesteryear? They are now your neighbors, your trustees, your teachers, doctors, lawyers, they are editors and civil servants, your volunteers and your grandparents. They are a vast force to be reckoned with, a silent majority in a time when voices need to truly be united as one for change. This poem then is my single shout out, awaiting what hopefully will be, the many echoes to come, resounding from the masses of all who have clung to a hibernation of their fondest dreams. ArtWhimsically Yours Studio MFB III Productions-(c)-2003
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Some Thoughts On The Instruments Of My Inspirations- Part II.
How I find Accord. I cherish this instrument of release,my companion throughout sorrows and joys.Held tight in my arms it mimics my life its sound hole screaming of loneliness, in the wee hours its dark "O" is my soul. Its frets descend in an orderly fashion, much like my daily frustrations get me down. Strung tight, and often pressed to seek harmony from the chaos all around me, as my fist-ed grip. milks solace from its familiar voice of comfort. Its body hour-glassed, and smooth much like a lady, who extends a slender neck that begs caresses. It offers me a bridge whose suspensions stretch upward between the silence that haunts, to what is pegged to be my song. There are chances waiting in this old guitar, its warm woods, seldom offer life's cold wouldn'ts. It is what I pick up when the bars are emptied, and the last call becomes my heart-songs gently drained. So many tales of love have been stroked here, plus woes plucked free in single notes. When the world abandons all my dreams,snug against me Somewhere above the key of Geee!! Classical Instrumentation. Old wood surrounds my circa 1860's C.F.Martin guitar, with worn ivory pegs and fret bars, it brings hope. and rare inlaid woods, from tropical places afar. Its coffin case of ebony wood, skeleton key lock and hand pegged nails, hold the precious remains of another time. What stories this 143 year old wooden instrument could tell, of a not so civil war, and perhaps a young soldier strumming its catgut strings around a blazing campfire, just east of despair. How many loves were wooed, by romantic melodies to young girls in hooped skirts or Victorian attire. Then moving on to the Flappers of the twenties, Depression era beauties, World War Two widows, Bobby socked and penny loafered babes of the fifties, Plus Hippy chicks and peaceniks of the sixties. So many songs plucked with hope for the elusive harmonies of true love, right up untill now, 2011. One can only imagine the many struggling musicians, bent over its hourglass frame, pressing their very souls across the many frets it offered and finding peace. Even as I bend now to lift it reverently, and strum its modernized strings, and listen with awe at the rich oh, so mellow tones that the aged wood emits. As history strikes a chord between a present day dreamer, and the hauntingly faint echoing spirits of all who died before me, pursuing the same dream. ArtWhimsically Yours studio MFB III Productions-(c)-2008-
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A Song Is Truly Finished When......
A song is truly finished .... When.... that first line causes eyes to swerve and glance up at the stage, as the lyrics open empty souls with the wisdom of a sage. When your vocals mimic angels lilts from heaven's finest choirs, and the passion is so real that listeners feel heat from its fires. When chords bend all the hungry ears to not miss what strings emote, and the singer's talent is quite clear, as it compliments each note. When the masses move in a rhythmic groove to the pulse of what is played, tapping toes and snapping fingers, in a blur of flesh mobs swayed.... Chorus- If you capture just a bit of all the rapture life can bring, if you soothe the deepest pains of loneliness each time you sing, if you burn an image into hearts that are starved for something new, you're getting close, to what's loved the most, and your song is almost through. When it moves a crowd to tears or laughter, pinnacles are reached, it becomes immortal ever after, in each soul that it has breached. It's not about what publishers think of your finest song, many unrecorded songs through timeless centuries have lived on. Chorus- If you capture just a bit of all the rapture life can bring, if you soothe the deepest pains of loneliness each time you sing, if you burn an image into hearts that are starved for something new, you're getting close, to what's loved the most, and your song is almost through. Even songs that are just nonsensical should woo those who think too hard, with silliness that's seldom found on tedious cue cards. If you make them dance and that is all your song was meant to do, avoid endless repetition do not bore the whole song through. Play lots of riffs, edge of cliff notes, as the dancers soar past you... give their feet new paths to leap across till they beg more when you're through. Chorus- If you capture just a bit of all the rapture life can bring, if you soothe the deepest pains of loneliness each time you sing, if you burn an image into hearts that are starved for something new, you're getting close, to what's loved the most, and your song is almost through. It's a wail, a weep, it should haunt one's sleep it's a burst of joy released, it's the essence of your soul poured between pages tightly creased. It's your legacy, it'll be here decades after you're just bones, played in elevators, offering lifts, and as ring tones on folks phones. It will vanish on the airwaves into distant space unknown where the aliens of other worlds will enjoy what we have known. Make it something everlasting not just pop pulp fading quick, into obscure tunes forgotten, give them something that will stick. Chorus- If you capture just a bit of all the rapture life can bring, if you soothe the deepest pains of loneliness each time you sing, if you burn an image into hearts that are starved for something new, you're getting close, to what's loved the most, and your song is almost through. It will never be an easy task, many try and many fail, the road to fame is littered with rejection slips it's mailed, Ponder all the factors listed here when you start on your first word, then your work might find a finish as the best song ever heard. ArtWhimsically Yours Studio MFB III Productions-(c)-2011
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