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Hey Mr. Tangerine Man (Parody of Tambourine Man by Bob Dylan)

Hey, Mr. Tangerine Man, make a place for me,

I am angry and there is no place I’m going to.

Hey, Mr. Tangerine Man, make a place for me.
On the jingle jangle Wall Street I’ll come following you.

Though I know your business empire is the richest in the land,
Those unpaid by your hand
Left uncounted as we stand but still not ceding.
Your Twitter rants amaze me, I’m stunned as I can be,
And justifiably.
This great and broken country needs much healing.

Hey, Mr. Tangerine Man, make a place for me,
I am angry and there is no place I’m going to.
Hey, Mr. Tangerine Man, make a place for me.
On the jingle jangle Wall Street I’ll come following you.

Look down on me from your billion dollar tower,
You have all the power,
Man of this worldly hour.
We’ll not hide nor will we cower,
Nor watch our liberties go wandering.
I’m ready to stand up, I’m ready for a fight
To ensure my basic rights.
I hope you lead for all, but I’ll be watching and pondering.

Hey, Mr. Tangerine Man, make a place for me,
I am angry and there is no place I’m going to.
Hey, Mr. Tangerine Man, make a place for me.
On the jingle jangle Wall Street I’ll come following you.

Though you might hear money whisper, playing, swaying votes across the room,
It’s not all doom and gloom.
Your show is starting soon,
And but for the wall, a barren border to conquer.
And if you hear overt dissent in my humble rhyme,
I see greatness in decline.
In these the ‘worst of times’
I only speak my mind.
It’s just a matter that your flexible to consider.

Hey, Mr. Tangerine Man, make a place for me,
I am angry and there is no place I’m going to.
Hey, Mr. Tangerine Man, make a place for me.
On the jingle jangle Wall Street I’ll come following you.

Tiny hands can hold carrots and hold sticks.
You can be transparent or use tricks.
Forget not the middle class
For your golden, wealthy caste
And world wide business moguls,
So out of touch they can not empathize with weary sorrow.
Yes, to bow beneath the monuments
And feel my liberty,
I am assertive and I’m free,
Wrapped in future’s history,
And what shall be your lasting fate
With these divided States.
Please Sir, let me look forward to a brighter tomorrow.

Hey, Mr. Tangerine Man, make a place for me,
I am angry and there is no place I’m going to.
Hey, Mr. Tangerine Man, make a place for me.
On the jingle jangle Wall Street I’ll come following you.

Photographer: Unknown – Google Images

#donaldtrump #inauguration #bobdylan #poetry #freedom

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The Persistence Of Memory

Time –

Time slides off tables like a mercurial margarine that has gone too soft after its ‘use by’ date.

Numbers and minutes are meaningless
when your feet are up in stirrups,
when you see hoary, wizened faces, in ceiling tile dots,
when you feel the sting of the saw that cuts the flesh out to send away,
and you think about the tools of the trade
as you listen to the doctor’s heavy breathing
while her fingers plunge into you.
Time stops for eternities. 

Time drips like raindrops, falling on parched, begging land,
when a train pulls into an empty station at 3am,
whistle blowing, echoes bounce off concrete, piercing a lonely night,
with no one to hear but the drunks and the poets. Only the drunks yell back.

Time hangs from tree branches as the Cicadas die, falling from aged twigs into brackish ponds.
Years, and years of time, float softly by, buried and unnoticed,
until it’s time to sing and fly.
The blatant thief steals life
and time is much to soon.

Time –
Time wraps around you when you dream at night,
when things that go bump give you a fright, it soothes 
like a dog’s deep loving eyes.
It both heals and reveals all things,

a flicker of an eyelash, 
tear stained, trembling flesh.

Listen to Persistence Of Memory by Rebecca Askew #np on #SoundCloud

Color Her Lonely

Color her in shades of lonely
as July chokes the vine,
drying and drooping
from Sun’s daily, deadly shine.

Color her in hues of empty
as she walks through the night,
willing owl’s screeches
and field mice skittering with fright.

Color her in darks of solitude
as Moon crests on waves,
and fog horns blare
disrupting peaceful, watery graves.

Color her in pales of longing
as hunger wishes him near,
a sultry exhale,
his warm breath against her ear.

 

Photographer: Rebecca Askew

The Sandman

Midnight scrapes 
across ethereal eyes
as the universe dances 
in Northern, naked skies.
Morpheus whispers dust…
dust
from his redolent
carton of endless dreams.
Enter the world 
where everything is nothing 
and nothing is
quite as it seems.

Swathed in blankets
amid fear and sin,
fortune and providence 
entwine loosely within.
Starry nights spent 
in heaven, 
in heaven visiting the dead,
but every morning
forgotten, dreams
left wanting.

Sand castles and empires
dance madly,
in a single grain of rice.
A royal crown, 
draped in mystical blue…
back drops fall,
and fall
as finger trails on skin
silently subdue.
Mysteries guide
wide, open adventures,
as heart beats quicken
to the rhythm of danger.

Fluid time moves, yet stops
and stops,
and moves again. 
It ebbs and flows,
Melting, exposing
our soft spots,
our smooth white bellies 
and our weakened heels.
What dreams reveal.

Meditative, calm repose,
doors once open, never close.
In unknown, astral places,
players mill about
with twisted, 
twisted 
and decadent faces.
Hollowness is real
as feathers 
fallen
from sacred angel wings, 
as precarious 
as a worm entering
the yellow catacombs
in the belly of a fish.
This…
This is his gift.

Embrace the light
before it fades,
and fades.
Consume the stardust
from which dreams are made.
Hush now…
Hush.
Silently, begin to drift 
in a carefree slumber,
the whisper…
the stardust…
Sandy footprints 
line the ancient floor.

Photographer: Unknown  

Listen to The Sandman (Written and Read by Rebecca Askew, Produced by Bill Hughes) by Bill Hughes #np on #SoundCloud

https://soundcloud.com/bill-hughes-835741926/the-sandman


Cloud Busting

A bitter sky 
with clouds the shade 
of jealous green
hovered, 
just above the horizon.
Temperature dropped,
birdsongs stopped.

Angry clouds spewed 
malevolent drops.
The cuckoo 
hid in its antique clock.

Earth and its
dusty, withered grass
so desperate for a drink,
a drink at last,
quietly began to sink
as water gathered deep,
drowning it’s simple goodness.

The roses now lie broken,
forlorn petals 
scattered
among a flooded wasteland.

Lightening splits 
the unforgiving sky.

A dog somewhere shakes, 
shakes and trembles
with formidable fear.

Photographer: Rebecca Askew

Sleepwalker

consoling the sky

At night rise, to the buzz of my son’s blood,
I wake and blow aboriginal dust from my lungs,
Get up and take a turn around the house.

The place has gotten cold.
This cock-eyed family – good God, they are helpless.
I tried to help by leaving things behind,
Like this prayer on the wall
About the timelessness of beauty.
And did you find the poem
About Freud and mountain climbing?
All they do is wail privately
And try to pass it off as singing.

My son sleeps like a chessmaster,
Shocked into resignation.
He dreams about me,
And his dreams are riddled with light
And longing for the past.
Such nocturnal naiveté.

But he knows the stars
And because, like the ancient Greeks,
He can follow them home,
He will leave this place before it leaves him.

The furniture breathes quietly,
And the dancers in the tapestry sway

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Garden Of Earthly Delights

Let us walk into the garden
of earthly delights,
where roses bloom
in winter,
and the icy winds
seems less bitter.

Arborglyphs line tree trunks,
up and down
and forbidden fruits infect
the ground with
secret delicacies.
Sacred birdsong notes 
flood the air
and float on jasmine scented 
breezes.

Let us walk softly
with hands in each.
Silently.
Secrets and shadows 
we long to breach,
discovering contours
and curves 
hidden deep, 
deep within
the earth.

Photograph: The Garden Of Earthly Delights by Hieronymous Bosch.

Special thanks to Hieronymous Bosch.


https://soundcloud.com/bexinlondono/garden-of-earthly-delights

Fire Flies

Lost chances fly 

from the tips 

of my fingers

and talent lies 

buried in the sand

beneath my bare, 

bony feet.
The red exit signs 

all flash enter,

as the confused 

strip of neon

flickers erratically,

as it dies a slow, 

blinking death.
Fire flies light 

the lonely night,

softly 

with archaic lies.

Truth be told, 

they are nothing

more than beetles 

with a spark.

  • Photographer: Unknown