My Song: In the Spring

 

Today dVerse has us writing songs. I just did this over at my other blog The Slow Forget. But, I didn’t write music. Just lyrics.

At the Poet’s Pub, the theme is Songwriting and its Relationship to Poetry.
I’ve said it over and over, the two are related. Our host, Gay Reiser Cannon,
mentions Pat Pattison at Berklee School of Music. Last year I attended a MOOC
on songwriting and Pat was the instructor. He emphasized Prosody: “appropriate relationship between elements, whatever they may be: melody and words, chords and message, rhyme scheme and emotion . . . .”

I thoroughly enjoyed this class. If you get a chance, I encourage you to take it with him.

The final project for the course was to take all the elements we learned and write a song. I chose to write a ballad. So, for you Pop lover or Rappers, this will put you to sleep.

Click the link. It will take you to my Sound Cloud page and it should just start playing. If not, click on those squiggly lines near the left side. I’m not a pro but I don’t think it will hurt your ears too much.

https://soundcloud.com/jlynn3/js-assignment-6c/s-mgVjc

Here are the lyrics so you can read along:

In the Spring

by J.lynn Sheridan

Once or was it twice
you offered me your ring
and you said
maybe we’ll get married
next year in the Spring.

When the lilies open wide
you’ll be my pretty bride.
Next year in the Spring
you’ll be mine.

Well, a robin seldom tries to
sing on winter’s wing.
And a lady cannot marry
when she has  another dream.

So when the lily buds arrive
I cannot be your bride.
But, next year in the Spring,
I’ll decide.

For there’s a whole world calling me.
There’s a whole world for us to see.
Come with me.
Come with me.

Well, a man he has his pride
and won’t be tied to a string
when his heart desires to marry
next year in the Spring.

So, when the lily blossoms opened wide
you had yourself a pretty bride
and she wore your diamond ring in the
Spring by your side.

I cried the day our love died.
I cried she was your pretty bride.
Now you had your dream in Spring
and I had mine.

repeat.

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Upon Irish Daisies

Today on dverse, we write to the awesome artwork of German artist, Catrin Welz-Stein.

 

Upon Irish daisies

For the thrill
of tossing back a dry
stout while adrift on the
towering pub in the sky,

For the thrill
of polishing the clouds
with his blighted dream of lush fields,

For the thrill
of cutting down rushes in
the southern lands of Drunganagh,

For the thrill
of casting the shadow
instead of standing in the shadow,

grandfather thieved the evil Lord Lucan’s
top hat

and blew away.

***

Notes:
Dandelion fluff is also known as Irish daisies.
The Mister Sheridan is researching his ancestry.

True story. Sort of.

 

 

 

The Stoning

I know this face,
chiseled stone.

He pulls to the side of the road,
gravel spits at our legs,
mine shaking, him yelling,
at you
to get in the car,
teethed curses spilling through
the window.

I know this face.
His face.
In your face.

What ‘re ya?
Stupid?

Door slams
closing out the ink of diesel,
the exhausted overpass,
Well, are ya?

Goodyear’s churn with
your lies from the comfort
of our backseat cave.

I am a stone face.
Watching.

I know this face.
Chiseled. Scraped.

An absent father.
Playing at guilt.
Driving.
Driving.

You ask me to fix your
hair as if it was the wind
of traffic that mussed it.

When you give me the
barrettes, I stare at the
pink hickey on your neck.

I can still smell his buddy’s
stink on your hands.

I am stone-faced.

****

This poem was prompt via dVerse, where we are encouraged to write about a memory, memory in general, or the memory.

ReadingThe End

Reading The End

Read to me
I crave the color of French
today, your tongue on  méringue
makes me smile.

I loved you
the day we wore lime green stockings

to the theatre and talked and talked
in a hush until we couldn’t.

We blew our noses in the new aloe
tissues and walked home without knowing
the ending.

Write to me
about the chickens in the yard
and how they strut to the beat of indie
renaissance, I can feel my wings
growing when home is stitched
in your handwriting.

Read
about me
in the morning
paper.

I’ll wait for you
in

The End.

 

Today over at dVerse, we were treated to the inspiring art of Judith Clay.

“Judith Clay is a traditional artist born in Germany who works primarily in ink, pastel, colored pencil, and collage on drawing or watercolor paper.”

 

 

 

Sent with a Stamp.

Where dVerse asks us to write a letter.

This is right up my ally. I saved all the letters my gram wrote to me while I was
in college. She’s been gone a long time now. My letter to her in no way implies
that I believe she can read this. It’s merely in honor of her.

P.S. I’m having trouble leaving comments with WordPress. Are you?

Fevered desert

The challenge today is to let reality and fantasy blend a bit in the heat, then find a shadowy patch under a tree & write your poem. Visit dVerse for more poetry.

“Fevered desert”

This is where the porcelain horses gallop,
rasping in the wind as Pachelbel orchestrates
his Canon in D. This is where mocking woodwinds muffle
thundering ironed feet across peat and
dared riders leap adagio and free over twisted falls.
And this is where my misfit toes dig
inside cooling sands and where I am lulled
inside the fevered painted sky.