Poppy Fields of Mars is Ready

I think I have self edited to the point where I am ready to seek out a publisher or perhaps an agent. It will take a few more days to format the manuscript and then there is the matter of a cover letter.

Poppy Fields of Mars is the odyssey of literary agent, Mars Wilcolm, from a life of debauchery, across a series of  further sexual encounters and a nexus of adventures with as varied a cast of characters as one could encounter.  It is sure to garner an X rating, but in my opinion it is not a pornographic novel. I may be cautioned by editors to change the language in some sequences, because I employed a Henry Miller inspired approach to sexual encounters. Perhaps not.

Flowers for Jesus

In the soft winds they wave
I spotted them near his grave 
At some hole round Mexico
Thought about his widow’s face

Thought about the way she cries
The subtle lashes of her eyes
Through cracked lips she gently sighs
Bout the cold and lonely nights

Jesus was her man
With his help people ran
Way from home in Mexico
For them Jesus took his stand

I said some words for him
Wrote them on the prairie wind
Wondered who laid him low
I suppose we never shall know

Thought about the way she cries
The subtle lashes of her eyes
Through cracked lips she gently sighs
Bout the cold and lonely nights

Taking her home again
V-8 Ford through pouring rain
To raise her child unborn
We should arrive by early morn

Thoughts about the way she cries
The subtle lashes of her eyes
Through cracked lips she gently sighs
Bout the cold and lonely nights

Little Songs

When the world runs out of wrongs
I’ll be writing no more songs
But for now 
I say wow 
Business is very good

I’ll keep writing little songs
‘Til there’s peace in battle zones
‘Til congress notes
The change with votes
Until then I must conclude

When a child’s peaceful at night
When love’s a symbol not might
No hunger
No danger
Until then I’ll just be rude

I’ll keep writing little songs
Loud enough to rattle bones
To spit it out
In one big shout
Until then I must conclude

When folks die of poverty
The wrong ideology
Jealousy
Notoriety
Until then I’ll just be crude

I’ll keep writing little songs
Its my way to battle wrongs
To spit it out
In one big shout
Spit it out
One big shout
Spit it out
One big shout
Spit it out

I Made You

In my dreams 
In my genius 
You are the one work of promise 
I made you 
Then you made me 
Complete 

In my grace 
In my prescience 
I gave you life 
To live in my presence 
I made you 
Then you made me 
Complete 

And if I gave you wings 
And a voice that sings 
I did it all just for me 
And if I gave you love 
It was over and above 
All courtesy 

In my search for pride and power 
I reached for you every hour 
I molded you from lifeless clay 
One shady day 

Then I touched your sightless eyes 
They opened like the sunrise 
I wrenched a life from the clay 
That shady day 

If we should ever reach the sun 
I am the only one 
Who touched it twice 
And if I should ever die 
You are the reason why 
The one life could suffice

War on a Sunny Day

The war on a sunny day
How we march and play
How we make them pay
War is for a sunny day

Uniforms crispy neat
Seem cool in prickly heat
Boom make them sound retreat
War on a sunny day

War on a sunny day
How we make them pay
How we march and play

The war on a sunny day
Red soon turn to gray
That's when we turn away
War is for a sunny day

The war on a bleary day
Store the guns away
Hide cause the sky's all gray

So my dear children
What have you learned (War is for a sunny day)
We're ready to listen
Start with number one

I've learned my dear parents
How you let them make these wars (How we march and play)
Though not kings nor peasants
Know what we're fighting for

They call out the children
Said the second one in line (How we make them pay)
Then send them out to kill them
Spill their blood like vats of wine

Three said its for the money
Or else from made up pride
Showing them no mercy (War is for a sunny day)
The leaders run and hide

There's collateral damage
Number four's heavy sigh (How we march and play)
Means so many families
By you are chose to die

And yet you choose leaders
And suffer dictators' rule (How we make them pay)
Every one of them cheaters
So tell us who's the fool

War is for a sunny day
How we march and play
How we make them pay

Publication Date: April 14

I was presented with the book as it will be published, with a final opportunity to change the text. Pub date April 14. But the artist misunderstood one character and portrayed him on the cover as a child of about eight years, when in fact he is in his seventies. They responded that I had failed to fill out a form, re the cover art. I don't know how I missed it. But, they readily agreed to make a new front cover. I am grateful they are so communicative and don't just plow ahead without input.

One to Zero

Never claims to be a victim 
Never becomes a hero
He’s the kind that just goes from one 
To being a zero

Living in the cracks of society
Where riot troops roam the streets
He turns his works of art from refuse
Which he hides from everyone he meets

Never rides in rush hour traffic
Absent from daily roll calls
He may or may not smoke a j
But he offers anyone that calls

Never claims to be a victim 
Never becomes a hero
He’s the kind that just goes from one 
To being a zero

Dirt water blonde knock upon the door
Fresh from a week on the streets
He lets the girl have the bedroom floor
She finishes off all of his eats

They walk the sidewalks just looking
He’s got his pack on his back
They gather up all they can find
Yes and that’s a natural fact

Never claims to be a victim 
Never becomes a hero
He’s the kind that just goes from one 
To being a zero

He pays tribute to Vincent Van Gogh
While living most like Rimbaud
Sometimes he smells a little ripe
Most times he hides from the mirror

He does a funny little dance
He does it only for her
He laughs when she gives him a smile
He wants to have her for a lover

Never claims to be a victim 
Never becomes a hero
He’s the kind that just goes from one 
To being a zero

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