It Was LAST Month? (fifth and final entry)

I started writing as a little child.

Poems and songs sprang from my developing imagination at, roughly, age eight and beyond. I did a lot of songwriting and poetry-writing between 1974 (when I was 17, 18) and 1982. Most of these songs and poems were only shared with my closest friends. Some of the songs were introduced to small segments of the world via a handful of bands I fronted in the very late 1970s and early 1980s.

Speaking objectively after several days of re-reading my old shit stuff, I can honestly say that I think that some of the songs and poems I wrote were pretty good. A few -- like the Morrisonesque poems I wrote circa 1981 -- really stank. Most fell somewhere in between.

I've spent the last few days sharing songs from thirty years ago, more or less. I wanted to end this streak of poetry posts with something more recent.

And I did find something that fits... But first, one of my typically wordy introductions.

Unlike my previous four posts, I'm not sure when this poem was originally written. Sometime in the early 1990s, IIRC. I was working as one of three overnight bakers in a supermarket chain. The store I was stationed at was, at that time, open 24 hours a day.

One morning, well after midnight but long before dawn, I was in the far corner of the bakery frying doughnuts when one of the other bakers walked up to me and said something to the effect of "Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?" I replied.

"A woman just asked me to write on a cake for her."

"And?"

"She had me write 'I love you, but good-bye' on it!"

I immediately thought of three or four reasons why someone would want to express that sentiment to someone else -- most involving cheating lovers with guilty consciences -- but couldn't get over the idea of having those sentiments put on a cake! "Wow," I told him, "If someone gave me a cake with that written on it, I'd either thrown it out onto the lawn, or right at her!" He agreed with me.

But naturally, I walked away thinking, "There just has to be a song or a poem I can get out of that!"

And there was, of course. So here it is.

* * * * *

I Love You. Good-Bye.

I woke last night, and washed my face, and roughly rubbed it dry.
The towel held your perfume's trace. It nearly made me cry.
I went back to the cold, cold bed that seemed so warm before,
And fought the tears and creeping dread till you walked in that door.

Neither of us had to speak. We both knew where you'd been.
You do this three, four times a week and then come sneaking in.
I'd like to play your games, your way, and beat you at this race,
But when I try, I just can't stay. The girls all have your face.

You won't see me cry.
You won't see me cry.
I love you.
Good-bye.

I guess there's nothing I can do to keep you true to me.
It must be me; it can't be you. I wish that I could see
A way to change your life, and mine, just like a fairy tale,
And leave this rotten life behind. But if I tried, I'd fail.

You care enough to still come home, yet let me die by inches.
Your love's the cruellest thing I own. It pulls, it cuts, it pinches.
There's nothing here I care to pack, so next time you go cheating,
I'll leave for good ere you come back, to save me one more beating.

You won't see me cry.
You won't see me cry.
I love you.
Good-bye.

* * * * *

See? This is why I stopped writing poems and songs over ten years ago (with rare exceptions). My regular stuff is depressing enough, but the poems and songs were worse!

Okay, fellow babies, here's the plan: Tomorrow is my "Theme Thursday" entry for this week. Friday or Saturday will bring an announcement of sorts, and after the weekend, I plan to debut what will probably be a four-part story. Each subsequent chapter will appear on a Monday.

Anyway, as I said, that's the plan... subject to last-minute changes, as always.

Thanks for your time.

It Was LAST Month? (fourth entry)

And now, for better or for worse, here's the sequel to " ...I Put Away Childish Things," the continuing story of the young man nicknamed "Moses," he of the all-too-vivid imagination.

And be warned. Outside of The Godfather, Part II and Rocky II, sequels are rarely as good as the originals!

* * * * *

Another Look at Moses (05/29/1979)

There's a young man in a graveyard,
Known as Moses when a teen.
You'll find twelve lots to a section.
Moses stands at Lot Thirteen.
Long ago, when last we saw him,
Moses shot his phantom mate,
Thinking surely it would free him
From his pre-determined fate.
He threw off the dreams of childhood,
Then found out too late his curse.
"One can't flee one's own creations."
Roxanne's slaying made things worse.

Take another look at Moses,
Putting flowers on a grave,
Wishing memories would fade off
And his sinner's soul be saved.

There is nothing where he's standing
Save what's in his tortured eyes,
Telling him the girl he murdered
'Neath the ground before him lies.
When he leans to place no flowers
On no weather-beaten stone,
The child Moses grieves for her,
And the adult's glad he's alone.
It's been years since his solution
Proved more trouble than 'twas worth.
Now he curses his decision,
Curses more his very birth.

Take another look at Moses,
Looking sadly at the grave,
Wishing memories would fade off,
Sort of crawl into a cave.

Now his soul-searching has ended.
There's but one road left for him.
Things must always come full circle
To appease the Planners' whims.
He should never have denied her,
Never made her leave that way.
Not-so-sadly now, he joins her.
He shall not grieve one more day.
On the next day, when they find him,
He'll be cold and dead, for sure,
And they'll never see the weapon
Moses used to find his cure.

Take a final look at Moses,
Lying lifeless 'cross the grave.
All his memories have faded
With the life he gladly gave.

* * * * *

As I said... a vivid imagination. A real killer, ya know? A real mind-blower! And I'll bet he used the very same gun to blow his brains out as he did to off his little sweetie! Hee hee hee heeeeee!

Oops, sorry, turning into the Crypt-Keeper, there! Guess that all this morbid poetry I've been revisiting (plus the whole Bea Arthur thing...) has warped me a bit.

Current plans are to end my belated tribute to National Poetry Month tomorrow, the day before the next "Theme Thursday." I'll try to find something more cheerful -- and more recent -- to end this week or so of poems & songs with, but knowing myself as I do... I doubt it.

Oh, and by the way... How'd you like that ominous quote, "One can't flee one's own creations?" I put it in quotes like that to give it an air of gravity, but... I wrote that line.

Thanks for your time.

It Was LAST Month? (third entry)

Here we go with the third entry -- another song -- in our salute to National Poetry Month... which was last month. Sue me.

This was written for a friend named Robin -- a Scorpio, like myself -- who literally asked me to write a song for her. I said I would, on one minor condition: If she'd give me the title, I'd tailor it to the goings-on in her life.

She did so, and I ended up writing a so-called "advice song," the kind of song my friend Dave always said he hated, for some strange reason.

But it didn't matter if Dave liked "advice songs" or not. It wasn't written for him.

Robin loved it.

The first line of the song, "Never step on a scorpion," was from the title of a 1965 Spider-Man story written by Stan Lee, believe it or not!

* * * * *

Games (12/08/1978)

Never step on a scorpion, people.
No, never mess with its head.
If you're heartless, you'll wind up a'suffering,
If just careless, you'll "just" end up dead.
When a wound's deep, its healing takes longer,
And its bleeding alarms all your friends,
But there's method to all of this madness,
More like means justifying the ends.

CHORUS
It's a shame when you see friends with problems,
And you're buffeted 'round in their wake,
But first, look to yourself,
Rest your friends on the shelf,
And avoid all these games for your sake...
All those games that are making you quake.

Find a way to back off from surroundings.
Find a listener who also can talk.
Take advice only if it's worth something.
If a ride comes along... try to walk.
No one knows more than you what upsets you.
Only you have to deal with such stuff.
Don't find solace in false ways of dealing
Or the going gets rougher than rough.

CHORUS
It's a shame when you see friends with problems,
And you're buffeted 'round in their wake,
But first, look to yourself,
Rest your friends on the shelf,
And avoid all these games for your sake...
All those games that are making you quake.

REPEAT FIRST VERSE AND CHORUS

* * * * *

I couldn't resist a private joke -- in addition to the Spider-Man reference -- when I wrote "Games."

When I write a song, I often picture a certain celebrity singing it.

"Don't Let Me Love You on the Rebound" -- from my last post -- was written with Jerry Reed in mind. Another song, "The Life You Never Find" -- which I wrote years ago and recently included in a story called "Angelina" -- was composed "for" Barry Manilow.

The tune I attached to "Games" was tailored to Jimmy Buffett... hence my use of the word "buffeted" in the second line of the chorus.

Hey, what can I say? These little things keep me amused.

(Now let's wait to see if I just "cursed" Jimmy Buffett.)

Thanks for your time.

It Was LAST Month? (second entry)

So, here I am, once again defying that "bloggers take weekends off" practice so many Blogger-bloggers follow...

In honor of National Poetry Month, which... umm... was *ahem* last month, here's the second in a rapid-fire series of old poems and/or songs written when the Silver Fox's hair was still light brown.

The following song is one of my personal favorites, primarily because of the wordplay. I really wish you could hear the tune I gave it! It's a bouncy, upbeat, banjoey C&W kinda thing, something I wish I could have sold to someone like Jerry Reed.

* * * * *

Don't Let Me Love You on the Rebound (10/19/1978)

When people start to treat me hard, I just grow harder,
And their cold shoulders just make me more cold.
I need companionship before my troubled life ends.
Oh, Lord, I guess I'm really gettin' old.
I'm also gettin' kinda sick o'losin' lovers.
So many women put me on the shelf,
And told me they were kinda sick o'lovin' losers.
So here I'm feelin' sorry for myself.

CHORUS
Don't let me love you on the rebound,
For it might up'n'fade away.
This lover's fog I'm in might vanish
Before the cleansin' light o'day.
Oh, yes, I'll love you on the rebound,
When it's too late for you, you'll finally see,
And you are much too sweet'n'sensitive a lady
To be sufferin' for love o'scum like me!

My life has been a downhill trip to darkest Hades,
An' lots o'people say it's just as well,
Cuz I ain't never gonna get to Heaven, darlin',
So here on Earth, I'll just prepare fer Hell.
My friends are special cuz they truly can accept me,
But you, m'dear, see somethin' thet I'm not.
You see good in one who's somewhat less than Satan,
But acts if he's somethin' more than God.

CHORUS
Don't let me love you on the rebound,
For it might up'n'fade away.
This lover's fog I'm in might vanish
Before the cleansin' light o'day.
Oh, yes, I'll love you on the rebound,
When it's too late for you, you'll finally see,
And you are much too sweet'n'sensitive a lady
To be sufferin' for love o'scum like me!

Yes, you are much too sweet'n'sensitive a lady
To be sufferin' for love o'scum like me!

* * * * *

Hey, it could be worse... I could be showing you some the things I wrote when I was going through a heavy "Jim Morrison phase" in the early 1980s. Very derivative of Morrison's type of poetry... and the worst shit I ever wrote. But it left me with a very important lesson: Don't copy anyone's style unless it's for the sake of parody.

See you tomorrow.

Thanks for your time.

It Was LAST Month? (first entry)

Using my amazing psychic abilities -- you know, the ones that usually end up killing people -- I departed from the norm here at TLotSF last Theme Thursday, and presented a poem rather than some of my usual drivel one of my more typical prose compositions. I say "using my amazing psychic abilities" because, unknown to me, April was National Poetry Month. But I didn't learn that until after I'd posted my poem.

Just sayin.'

But echoing the "feel" of one of my favorite cartoons, I found myself saying "It's this month?" during the early part of April 30th.

Yup. It was.

Oops.

But screw it, folks! I make the rules here.

So for the next few posts, to make up for "missing" all but the final day of National Poetry Month, I'm going to throw a handful of poems and songs atcha. Some of them -- all of them, actually -- are pretty ancient, written when I was a young man, but finally writing stuff good enough for me to consider sharing it with you twenty to thirty years later.

(And since you may be wondering "How the hell are we supposed to know which are songs, and which are poems, since there's no audio track to this silly blog?" the answer's quite simple. If I say it's a song, it's a song; if I say it's a poem, it's a poem! I envisioned each of these efforts as one or the other, regardless of whether or not I actually composed a tune to go with the so-called songs!)

This first song is the story of a young man named Moses -- no, not that Moses -- who created an imaginary girlfriend for himself while a social outcast in high school. Unfortunately, when it comes time to end this little fantasy, he discovers she's become a bit too real. So he can't just dispose of her simply by thinking/wishing her away.

In my early twenties, I often borrowed tunes from "real" songs rather than write my own. I didn't consider it plagiarism because I didn't intend to ever publish these songs... at least, not without first changing those tunes. The melody -- and thus, the format -- of this one is from a Kris Kristofferson song called "Casey's Last Ride." You may recognize my title from an old saying...

* * * * *

...I Put Away Childish Things (January, 1978)

Moses walks the corridors,
Trying the unopened doors,
Crying for his sanity,
Wishing for a beer.
He smiles at the uncanniness;
Then he drops his manliness,
Crying through his vanity
To taste a salty tear.

And then she nears him, smiling, as she was at her creation,
When he called the perfect woman to become his dear Roxanne.
And as she nears him, beckoning, all in his imagining,
Though his two legs tremble he can still find strength to stand.

"Oh," she said, "Moses, it's been so long since you've summoned."
"Now," she said, "I can only hope it doesn't end."
"Dear," she said, "You've made love but never been made love to,"
"Here," she said, "I'll be your companion and your friend."

Moses tries to force a smile,
Though he knows that all the while
He's been growing older.
Now he calls a spade a spade.
No one else can help him
With the problem that envelops him.
Clouds have blocked the sunrise.
His decision has been made.

And as he looks right through her to the wall which blocks his vision,
And dramatically withdraws a pistol both know isn't there,
He stares at poor Roxanne, his love. She is weak, she's had enough.
Wraithlike now, she settles on a dusty, worn-out chair.

"Wait," she said, "Then you still can have me when you need me."
"Fate," he said, "I'm afraid has made a different plan."
"So," she said, "Fantasy's no longer what you're wanting."
"No," he said, "Once a boy, I've now become a man."

Moses lifts the barrel up.
She cries like a wounded pup
As he pulls the trigger
Of the deadly phantom gun.
And as he does, his childhood dies,
Lost amidst her plaintive cries.
He is far from happy
Though his dreadful deed is done.

He swore that he would grow up, so why does he feel so guilty?
There is nothing now but silence in an all-but-empty room.
He now knows that his adulthood holds in store things not so good.
Darkness swarms around him to increase his inner gloom.

"Oh," she'd said, "Moses, it's been so long since you've summoned."
"No," he'd said, "Once a boy, I've now become a man."
"Wait," she'd said, "Then you still can have me when you need me."
"Fate," he'd said, "I'm afraid has made a different plan."

"Fate," he'd said, "wants me to live all my life alone."

* * * * *

And maybe someday, if you're all real good, I might just treat you to the sequel!

See you soon with another poem or song.

Thanks for your time.