The Lady in Satin

When the lovers finally are still,
The moon sent aloft over the hill,
The mighty angel army encamped
In shadow behind the table lamp;

As the stars spread then fold over 
The gray quiet hills and the clover,
A hush comes on the sleeping world,
Like the deadly calm after a tragic war.

There’s the martyr in his cold stone cell,
Who thinks his window’s a wishing well.
He entreats the night with words that drone-
That get covered up by winds that moan.

And the night’s a lady in satin,
Moving with slow indifferent action.
Her skirt sweeps slyly past the window,
As the martyr bends, broken and low.

She sweeps down the moon with her palm,
To hide herself from claws of dawn.
Those fingers rip streams of brightest red,
And the sun puts light into her head.

As the lady turns suddenly old,
She just fades into the morning gold.
The lovers rise up rejoicing, 
As the martyr seeks reinforcing. 

And the angels breaking up camp;
Back to the turmoil and the war.
Straight into the atmosphere they tramp.
The human heart turns into a star.

The Sweet Voice in the Willow

Oh to be the bird with the sweet voice in the willow
With the sun going high o'er the great green meadow
I'd sing all the day long and beyond the evening shadows
Aiming the notes at hearts like the tips of kind and deadly arrows

I'd sing for the ones with no notes in their hearts to sing
And for the ones in despair who may have lost everything
My song would touch the ears of the low and the lowly
Of naked children who age so fast and then die so slowly

You would hear me sing through the walls of any fortress oh
With the leaders inside and the youth under heavy duress oh 

All dogs on chains lose their bark for the song's this moving
At last the barker of war grieves the lives that they're losing
And as the cheaters of thoughts and the stealers of life
Confront their own tears the reality cuts in like a carving knife

Oh to be the bird with the sweet voice in the willow
With the sun going high o'er the great green meadow
I'd sing all the day long and beyond the evening shadows
Aiming the notes at hearts like the tips of kind and deadly arrows

I had to share this with you.

It's exceptionally beautiful out there, after a day of unceasing rain. The clouds have separated into long strands with great runs of silver in them, despite the sky being a few shades short of indigo. There is a hue of red cast over almost the entire scene. The stars shine as brightly as ever I saw them from right here. It makes a great curtain hung behind a framework of tall pines in stark silhouette. In the time it took me to write this description, this incredible scene will have vanished forever, as the sun drops further behind the horizon. But, fortunately, nature has lots more.

When Knighthood Was in Flower

This was written in the late 1960s, when I was still under the influence of some Bob Dylan songs.

1 
When Knighthood was in flower 
The knights were saintly men 
They put bubblegum on their lances 
And jousted with finger zen 
They put iron pants on their ladies 
To keep their heart-throbs pure 
When they went off with Sancho Panza 
To find a midnight cure 
The street scenes at night were haunted 
The peasants were the honest mass 
The kings were their dear fathers 
The priests a decent working class 
In the bars and in the nightclubs 
All night long they sang 
Outside the high walls you could hear them 
Came the dawn and still the echoes rang 

2 
In his study we see the doctor 
Who nursed them through the plague 
One eye on their suffering 
The other eye kind of vague 
He tries to turn away their blessings 
He knows there was no cure 
His medicine was his prayer book 
Only the strong ones did endure 
And the smell of sulphur from the back room 
Proves that any faith can lag 
He knows he is only equal 
To the one who wears the killer`s tag 
And he swears to give his best to evil 
In return for a moment`s grace 
He turns his back on the Holy Bible 
And greets the devil face to face 

3 
When the thief and the barber 
Agreed to trim the knave 
They didn`t know that his saber 
Was stuck up in his sleeve 
Now the thief is known as "Lefty" 
And the barber needs a shave 
While the knave raps Rune tunes 
In the baron`s cabaret 
Well the baroness is fanning 
And sneeking looks his way 
The knave eyes her mood ring 
As in baritone does bray 
"The cheese and wine are delicious 
I work real hard for my pay 
But the baron soon will be sleeping 
That`s the time I really play." 

4 
In his lair the pimpled dragon 
Still bears a torch for his love 
He probes the lower hillside 
With field glasses from above 
He only learned in college 
That he hates to be alone 
When he spies a certain maiden 
He knows what must be done 
Meanwhile his brother Sheldon 
Is fighting for equal pay 
If St. George can drive a Porsche 
Sheldon needs a Chevrolet 
And the maiden and the dragon 
Got wed just yesterday 
They plan to have six children 
And a home right across the bay 

5 
And I`m on the street to witness 
The coming of an age 
The children walk in sunflowers 
Their parents mock outrage 
Philosophers answer questions 
They just get payed minimum wage 
They get one second to ponder 
To be thought of as wise and sage 
The rulers get themselves elected 
Once they`ve answered duty`s page 
They get only two chances 
To be up on center stage 
And I have the choice of guitar 
Or learning of the plummer`s trade 
But I never get to plunder 
Those who`ve rained on my parade

editing and self editing

On a writer's site this morning, a few authors were touting hiring an editor for one's manuscript. I have never disputed the benefits of getting professional help. One of these authors pointed out the fact it helps to keep one from committing embearassing mistakes. Some of us are stuck with our own mess to clean up, as the finances are not there to pay for it. I am of the latter persuasion. Which is in part why it is taking so long to put the finishing polish on my latest effort. If when I read a passage it does not flow smoothly enough to suit me, I have to revisit it until it cannot be further improved on by my talents. It may not be great literature, but it is my literature.

Your Life

This is the latest edition of your life
Another tale to be told or sung
It's like my favorite version of them all
The hero's entirely too young 
for you 

Each new chapter has you with your friends
And I'm waiting home all alone
And so missing your voice and the songs you sing
Wondering what I did that's so wrong

Tell me Tell me Tell me 
You were my hero
Yesterday
Tell me Tell me Tell me 
What did I know
anyway 

I couldn't wait six months for the paperback
Hard cover cost thirty bucks
Took it home read it through a sleepless night
My heart ran over by thirty trucks

I read about the way you like em tall and blond
Lookin like a movie star
Movin club to club all around the town
In your so famous touring car 

Tell me Tell me Tell me 
You were my hero
Yesterday
Tell me Tell me Tell me 
What did I know
Anyway

Waiting for you to crash and burn one final time
Your body lying at my door
All your friends have left you for a brighter star
You begging to sleep on my floor

Waiting until your burning ashes cease to smoke
Yearning to hug you to my heart
Closing the book taking up my pen to write
Looking sage wonder where to start

Tell me Tell me Tell me 
You were my hero
Yesterday
Tell me Tell me Tell me 
What did I know
Anyway

Heard from Editor Today

The editor sent me an editing summary for Beyond the Dark Water. I confess I felt something akin to fear before I opened it. Turned out not so desperately bad as all that. I had not realized how many weak adjectives were repeatedly used throughout. They gave me two weeks to make a few alterations. Not a problem.

slog slog slogging

It is amazing how my judgment changes, once I get to the point of offering my work to be viewed by professionals. As I go along tidying up the manuscript, I also keep altering sentences that seemed perfectly fine, before. I feel certain this will improve my chances or I wouldn't bother.

Summary So Far

I conceived Poppy Fields of Mars in September or October before last. The bulk of the writing was achieved during the November NaNoWriMo. At the end of the "contest" I had the framework completed, But there was a hole in the narrative near the ending. Plus, it was only 70,000 words long. I spent a whole year plus a few months patching it up and rewriting much of chapter one. I thought it was completed yesterday, aside from tidying up the manuscript. But, this morning, I discovered a hole in the story. To wit: He had a packet in his coat pocket, chapter one, but when he takes out that packet in a chapter far down the road, I forgot that the original jacket is long gone. He has in fact gone through more than a couple of changes. Fortunately, the source of said packet is not so far off and he should have opportunity to get another one. Aside from that and putting the package together neatly, it is finally done. Contemplating how to find a reputable agent.

Poppies Progressing

Redoing chapter one has so far been easier than expected. 
I don't consider this work to be pornographic, but there are numerous X-rated passages. 
It ends on what I consider to be rather charming, as opposed to whimpers and bangs.

Don Quixote

Don Quixote's in the parlor
Stiffly in his armor
He doesn't want your tea
Says he vainly fought some giants
But has no complaints
"It was a day's work for me"
I told him, "Crazy little punk
You're a fool for all that spunk
Why not go home, you're tired now
That lame old horse is dying
And Sancho Panza's crying
Please release me from my vow"

Don Quixote Don Quixote
de la Mancha
Tired of your mantra
Go on home Don Quixote


All the world is a minefield
And you're going to have to yield
Go on home now and take your bed
You don't know cows from great monsters
Citadels from dumpsters
Your impossible dreams have fled
Dulcinea the simpleton
Has reduced you to a crumb
And your lance has become a crutch
I know you're a pious man
But you've stood your final stand
You're like a van without a clutch



Don Quixote Don Quixote
de la Mancha
Tired of your mantra
Go on home Don Quixote

Listen the Whirring Blades

listen the whirring blades
chop chop chopping motors
the daring escapades
over the fields and glades
the heat of explosions
the force of wind that fades
returning from tirades
ghostly chopping motors
flying for decades
again again in raids
fraught with meaningless rage
in the fields of all dreaming

Old Tigers

Somewhere old tigers are free 
They lie in sunlit glades 
You can hear them growling sleepily 
You can tell their minds are made 
Somewhere Midas is the king 
His walls are paved with gold 
He never wants for anything 
His rooms are never too cold 
His rooms are never too cold 

As you turn inside your room 
You look into your fate 
Your past is a holy womb 
Your future comes too late 
Outside the city`s breathing loud 
You see the subway throngs 
In the seething of the crowd 
You hear their rattling bones 
You hear their rattling bones 

You`ve played the radio 
It`s the same on every band 
You`ve scorned the late late show 
Missed the party that you`d planned 
How your body aches with pain 
But your mind`s too false to move 
In the dark night on the wane 
You`ve nothing else to lose 
You`ve not a thing to lose 

So now the wheel must turn 
The dust will settle down 
You`ve never watched your candle burn 
You`ve never moved around 
You`ve only guessed the mystery 
In a lonely mirror`s scowl 
Through the deep hurting mysery 
You hear old tigers growl 
You hear old tigers growl

Almost Done

I filled the gap, word-wise, in my novel. It's finally closed. Now I have to get on with cleaning and polishing. Then rewrite half of Chapter One. So now I know, it takes me about a year and a half to write a book. Maybe not the next time?

Poppy Fields of Mars ends on a charming note, not a whimper or a bang. I should soon be looking for an agent.