Rock Star - Stephen A. Roberts

The troubled rock star pours out his heart,
How he’s suffered for his art
The unwilling victim of every tart
Who set eyes on having a part
A dime store cashier before his fame
He no longer wants the game
Tired of playing the same old song
He doesn’t know where it went wrong
The 3 chord anthems that he wrote
No longer float his sinking boat
He doesn’t miss his youthful curls
The tours, the pools, or the girls
He craves a simple quiet life
With a youngish, caring wife
Perhaps a farm in the rural hills
Away from spliffs and coke and pills
But you can bet your bottom dollar
That a comeback album will surely follow
When the royalties are running thin
His CDs in the remainder bin
He’ll be back just wait and see
Except that now it’ll be on daytime TV
Talking to Eamonn, Piers et al
About his new stuff, his new normal
A mellow thoughtful cleaner sound
Rooted in his new found ground
They’ll politely hear him out
Before they mention that drinking bout
In a seedy Parisian brothel bar
Before he crashed the drummer’s car
After the hotel trashing in Tokyo
Into the gambling den in old Soho
He’ll laugh to hear these trotted out
Those stories booze had blotted out
He’ll disown those bad boy years
Comparisons with Britney Spears
Trying not to flip his lid
He wonders “who am I trying to kid?”

Stephen A. Roberts


Image : Pixabay - kalhh

Second Hand Blues - Lyndon Queripel

They say that the white man
Just can’t sing the blues
But I’ve got a hole in my pocket
And a hole down in my shoes

Do you judge a book by its cover
Or need to read between the lines
Been double-crossed by your lost lover
Before your heart could see the signs?

It depends on where you heard it
And how you translate fake news
It depends on how you word it
And the language that you use

They say the black man’s burden
Is what the blues is for
But there’s a law for the rich
And another for the poor

Some of our best friends are coloured
They’re easy to recognise
They’ve got the truth in their soul
And it’s reflected in their eyes

Lyndon Queripel

Image : Pixabay - Free-Photos

Troubadour - Ian Duquemin

You're carrying on like a troubadour jaded

Singing your songs from a time that has faded
Lyrics of meaning, though sung of a past
Each generation so wrongfully cast
Speaking of freedom in poetic words
Flying so high you could sing with the birds

You play your guitar with a heartful of passion
Dressed in the clothes that were yesterday's fashion 
You sing to the crowd that has gathered around 
Rooting your feet to the earth on the ground 
Spitting out protests of conflict and war
Hitting the strings till your fingers are sore

Everyone's here but is everyone hearing? 
Songs with a voice they are all disappearing 
Nothing rebellious happens today
There's nobody out there with something to say
Does anyone care 'bout a song anyway? 
And who gives a damn what the disc jockeys play? 

So carry on singing if nobody hears you
Be sure the words they are honest and true
Turn up the mic even if it's too loud
Raise up your voice to the dwindling crowd
If nobody hears it don't mean they can't listen 
If some of them did then you learned them a lesson 
And all of the others that turned a deaf ear
It just means they can't face the truth that fear

Ian Duquemin

The Last Pangolin - Greta Scape

The world’s last Pangolin
played a plaintive violin:
tunes by Handel and Mozart,
as the planet fell apart,
mellow music for the soul
as the world went down a hole
and its music was inspired
as all humankind expired.

Greta Scape

Drifting Tunes - Tony Gardner

Oft times at night I catch the drift
Of songs from long ago
Sometimes it seems I feel the things
I'm sure I cannot know
Days gone by and in the past
Long before my time
Are fresh and present and alive
And sharp as winter's rime
The songs rise raucous in the light
Of the campfire's mystic glow
Or from rude bar rooms of the West
Where rough, raw whiskey flowed
The strains come whisp'ring through the years
Tunes that I feel I know
Some drift still from the Western front
A hundred years ago
It's just half-death before I sleep
When these false mem'ries wind
Their strange and half-known melodies
Around my drowsy mind
Soon I'm asleep and unaware
Of tunes that come and go
But oft at night I catch the drift
Of songs from long ago

Tony Gardner

Busker - Marie O’Nette

In bowler hat, with shoulders bowed, he plays
a ukulele while he blows, with zest,
into a silver fife attached
to a wire harness nursing on his chest,
tunes to beguile the stream of passers-by.
Deep lines zig-zag across his leathered brow,
the threadbare coat is greasy, stained and patched,
his eyes, pale-blue, are watchful underneath
a hat-brim as he swings this way and that.
A small crowd gathers, children point and laugh.
A woman tourist takes a photograph.

Around his wrist a weathered leather strap
controls two tiny puppets at his feet
who prance with uncoordinated glee
as he, when younger, to the crazy beat
of frantic music, might have done
in streets like this, at closing-time, amok
with coursing blood, adrenaline and joy.
Beneath the town clock’s cold, unblinking eye,
the puppets twitch and jig for strings and fife.
No star, this man: he keeps the company of dolls.
Into his upturned cap the conscience-coinage falls.

Marie O’Nette

R.I.P. David Jones - Stephen A. Roberts

Image: (http://www.librarising.com)

I can't explain the sorrow I'm feeling
And I shed a tear for what it is worth
For the loss of music's chameleon
David Bowie, the Man Who Fell To Earth

In between all my snuffling, weeping sobs
I'm pouring change and coins into the juke
Force feeding the pig with Diamond Dogs
To hear those great songs by the Thin White Duke

Years ago Top of the Pops in my beige home
Your strange androgyny shocked my parents
Aladdin Sane, Ziggy, the Laughing Gnome
Starman to "Merry Christmas Mr Lawrence!"

Jean Genie plays, I wipe away my tears
David, you gave us all your Golden Years

Stephen A. Roberts

Castle Cornet Night - Diane Scantlebury

Lydia’s bathed in gold,
As the sun tumbles down
On a Castle Cornet night,
Her face upturned
To receive applause,
And the dying rosy embers
Of its illuminating light,

Overhead a lone seagull soars,
Lydia’s voice rises high
As if to call down angels,
And beautiful tones
Upon our ears to pour,
While the light fades
Into the harbour’s horizon,

Out through the gates
Towards town we sweep,
Engulfed in the twilight’s chill
Humming and singing,
With music of the Castle Cornet night
And half remembered lyrics,
In our heads still ringing.

Diane Scantlebury

Dinosaurs of Rock, We Salute You - Stephen A. Roberts

I used to follow bands, to gigs far and wide
But as I've got older, my curiosity has died
Been there done that, no need to attend
Seen them, heard him, the artist and friends
New noise by the old boys, I have had enough
Your latest isn't your greatest, play the older stuff
Time to stop fooling yourselves, time to give it all a rest
You're past your sell by date, well past your best

But...

I bought your last album, which I thought was final
Now I see a limited release on 180 gram vinyl!
A remastered box set of early material is coming
I know I'm gonna get it, 'cos I already started humming
Parting with with my readies, milked like a cash cow -
Yes, I've got my tickets, to come see you take that final bow...

Stephen A. Roberts

Guernsey Punks - Ian Duquemin

These were our streets
The cobbles we walked
Parading like peacocks
While locals all talked
We were the new breed
The colourful sons
It had to start somewhere...
And we were the ones
Hair short and spikey
Alcohol breath
Our image perfected...
Looking like death
Banned from the buses
Banned from the shops
Banned from the night clubs
Watched by the cops
Records revived us
Keeping us sane
Guernsey disowned us
As we were not plain
We may have been different
We may not have fit
But we added colour
You have to admit
We were rejected
By the home that we knew
But it didn't take too long
Til we forgot about you
Many years later...
You still have your drunks
You still have your troubles
Yet you don't have your punks!
Duque and Youngo...
Still talked about now
We were bigger than Hugo...
And your boring old cow
It's not that I'm bragging
And my friend would agree
That your Island was dreary...
Without him and me

Ian Duquemin

Heavy Metal Night In Suburbia - Andrew Barham

Today's poem is a "Golden Oldie" and was originally published here in May 2012

Guitars gleam, plastic screams
Long hair flowing in the spotlight's beam
Heavy Metal addicts in glittering chrome
Screaming obscene anthems from petrified stones,
Timbered symbols clashing vibrant tones,
The drummer slashing and crashing
To keep it going

Pictures of swords and sorcery,
And where would they be
Without His Satanic Majesty?
The sum total of your soul
Is the rainbow at the end of the gold-
Mine, empty and complete
Like every coked-out bimbo shakin' down the street:

A silent silver streak,
The aftermath's reek
From the King of the Mountain Hall,
Rockin' and boppin' to the ball
Turning above the dance floor

The singer cleaves a shelter for a comely wench
Amid the stage's sulfurous stench,
For they're brewing a devil's broth
These followers of David Lee Roth;
Before swallowing a variety of pills,
He sends a chill wind to blow away your ills:
Gag! Brag; the green queen's in drag!

Boredom and blown speakers as Rock n Roll steals another child
The air-guitarists are swaying wild;
Singer's long hair streaming down –
A perfectly permed mullet to reveal his mighty frown –
Another rebel without a reason;
They throw up a different group for every season.

Andrew Barham

Symphony of Madmen - Ian Duquemin

The piano face down in dirt
Like a boxer beaten senseless
Keys knocked out like broken teeth
Were scattered whilst defenceless
Polished wood now scarred and faded
Wires bent, macabre they sway
Screeching out a pitied cry...
That only wind can play
Once a madman tinkered softly
From his head a symphony
Both composer... and the piano
Died with little sympathy

Ian Duquemin

Gillian Norris - Tony Bradley

The stage grows gradually darker,
the music fades as the lights slowly dim
then, to a haunting tune, on an Irish flute
unbelievable beauty weaves in

spotlights illuminate her winding path
of such alluring, silky grace
and a thousand little stars, twinkling
from her dress of crimson lace.

Gliding, spinning and twirling
she soars, and floats and swirls
with pouting lips and smouldering eyes
and flowing long black curls.

Rising from magical toes, her slender form,
to an enchanting, angelic face
a heavenly vision encaptured
such passion, such beauty, such grace.

Tony Bradley

Harp - Diane Scantlebury

Your pale hands hover
Over the harp,
Curved and curled
Like eagles claws,
Paused and poised
As if to strike,
Beautiful melodies
From the strings to draw,

Your head it nods
And then it dips,
Each note trickles
As your fingers slip,
Across the screen
Of vertical wires,
Our cores to melt
Our hearts to inspire.

Diane Scantlebury

The Sark Folk Festival 2014 - James Willis

Bright birdsong morning,
Sark weather warming
Seen thro’ the hedgerow
A fine festive glow.

Campers, dishevelled
Wet weather bedraggled,
Welly boot fashion
Pac-a-mac passion.

Sark Festival singing,
Folk music ringing,
Fast fiddle fingers,
And folk song singers,

People connecting,
The words reflecting.
Noises of choice
In fine fettled voice.

Musical gold
For young and for old,
Tunes we know well
With a story to tell.

James Willis

Folk Club - Diane Scantlebury

Lighting low to eyes glazed with red wine,
Acoustic performance, foot tapping time,
Loud applause, compere’s introductions satirical,
Harmonies and melodies, beautiful and lyrical,
Deft fingers over hard frets plucking, chords strumming,
Entrances the audience, gets finger tips drumming,
Magical ballads from present and past
Wring tears from the eyes, sets hearts beating fast,
The woolly jumpered nod in appreciation humble,
Nervously waiting turn in the background,
Musicians whisper and mumble,
In warm intimate atmosphere, the small encircling throng
Cast off inhibition, break into spontaneous song,
The backing vocals to each chorus, a joyful sing along!

Diane Scantlebury

Orchestra of Rain - Fred Williamson

Rainfall, between the trees
Running, dripping, from the leaves
Dancing raindrops on my caravan
Believe it, if you can.

Orchestra of rain
Playing again and again
A different tone, the raindrops play
A different tune, every day.

Playing loud and clear
It is music to my ear
The hour passes, rainfalls, hard and fast
How long will raindrops last?

The Orchestra of rain begins to slow
Gently now, a steady flow
The Orchestra is playing 'the raindrops bop'
One last flourish, and the raindrops stop.

Fred Williamson

I Was A Rasta - Chris Hudson

I was a Rasta, a Taoist, Zen, Christian, Buddhist, Pagan
Homeless, poor, yet wealthy and landed
My forebears knew Christ, yet the horned god
And the void were more to my taste
Experiences received, lived and believed
Dogma unearthed, I came, I saw yet was unheard
And unsung, senses burned
And clung to one word
Unfolded karmic ritual of soul
The astral path my one and only goal
Once imprisoned in electric cell of force-field
In a static hell smothered in If-words of doubt
My entire being vibrating to the call of the crystal
My universe within forced out
Seed of all life, put my enemies to route
At last to fall, and break my path
Between gates of logic, ether-breeze
Bust open all doors, for I reached into the womb of earth
Where I beheld all fruits of wisdom and worth
The ancient shrine stood yet undefiled
A sight all too glad for longing eyes!
Blistered by such radiant smiles
Eyes flutter, hearts pound, hands that
Are likened as to butterflies
From what befalls of time and the
Nexus of an aggregate of chance and twisted fate
This hand that stayed to reach the sky
From these clouds heaven’s bolt alighted
Carried from the hole cold blasted and blighted
Airy hail which pounded in the place
Where wealth is not measured by weight or rod
Where sun shines on rich and poor alike
I was touched by the hand of God
He showed me, in a dream
He left his mark, told me I was to be a poet
(Please do not kick this poor sod,
For I do try not to show it.)
Hark! Cracks at the gates of dawn!
Has the Golden Horn yet sounded?

Chris Hudson

Play Your Fiddle Paddy - Jenny Hamon

Dust off your fiddle Paddy
And wear your emerald green
To the Ceili at the pub
Where the shamrock will be seen

Your reputation Paddy
Means they come from wide and far
To listen to your music
And leave a pint upon the bar

Cos any Irish eejit
Will know what is the craic
When Paddy plays his fiddle
In the little room at the back

So play your fiddle Paddy
With all your strength and might
For tonight we will celebrate
On this St Patrick’s night

Jenny Hamon

In Llew Go-Ap - Chris Hudson

The piper played all day long
Many kinds of youth
They are all there, they are all playing
The old folk listened
To the peculiar noise without approval.

The sick and the incapacitated
All joined in
Men and women of all nationalities and beliefs
With “Ee! Ee!” and “Oh! Oh!”
The old housewives
With melodious and lyrical speech

From the hills to the valleys
The islands and the capes
The waking and the sleeping
There was a place for everyone

With rich wine and rich food
Arianrhod and Krishna
From morning to evening, everyone was together

Then the hordes dispersed and the sky grew dark
And the forces of destruction were released.

As the children set out on their sacred journey
The fields and hills spread out before them
All the animals and birds were listening
To the sound of their footfalls.

Chris Hudson