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Jason Cole Jun 2015
He raised me the old-fashioned way
Never spared the rod
Worked daylight to dark
Except for Sundays
Never heard him say
His life was hard
Taught me to drive a stick
To hunt, to fish, to throw a lick
And how to take one

Good times fly by
Years fade away
Yesterday dies
Time cries

Daddy was a good ol' boy
I'm talkin' about them good ol' boys
They're the heart of the South
Them good ol' boys
Well they're about as good as it gets

He gave up all the boyhood dreams
And plans he'd laid  
So that I'd have some
Sometimes he'd speak and gaze
A glimpse of better days
Back on the farm
I can just see him now singin'
"Not Fade Away" and "True Love Ways"
There in the sun

Good times fly by
Years fade away
Yesterday dies
Time cries

Daddy was a good ol' boy
I'm talkin' about them good ol' boys
They're the heart of the South
Them good ol' boys
Well they're about as good as it gets

I carry his picture in my wallet
Together with his boyhood dreams
The picture is of him at 12 years old
My wallet's bustin' out at the seams

Time cries out for them good ol' boys
I'm talkin' about them good ol' boys
They're the heart of the South
Them good ol' boys
My Daddy was as good as it gets

Time cries out
For the heart of the South

Time cries out
For the heart of the South

Time cries out...
Time cries out...
Time cries out...

© Jason Cole
A song that I wrote about my Daddy. He died in 2010. Country-folk style.
rained heavy on the forlorn
white stone

April dusk had stood still
on deserted lane

iron gate to the lawn
showed mossed sleepy graves

tiptoed on the overgrown grass
for epitaph hard to read

Expect great things from God
opened eyes to more widely catch

Attempt great things for God
couldn't ruin it the ravage of years

outside tombstone waited a world
in the drizzle echoed the missionary's deathless sermon.
Reflections on my visit to William Carey's grave at Serampore, West Bengal, India.
William Carey (1761-1834) was a missionary and reformer who worked in India.
He may have done more for modern missions work than any other man who ever lived with the exception of Saint Paul.
The words in bold are his epigram.
Please note the first line of each stanza has 5 words and the words in the second lines increase from 2 to 8.
compelled 'pon parchment

amid lustful indulgences

of grandiloquent gusto,

neath combustible blood --

   lies the soul of a poet
  Jun 2015 Jason Cole
SøułSurvivør
on the wind
wild flame is my muse

i write on frozen wasteland
the colors that i choose

i write in the Andes
of mystic glowing things

i write in the deepest ocean trench
of a fish with wings

i write in blackest dungeons
of painted birds of blue

i write on walls of paper

of my love for you


soulsurvivor
(c) 6/11/2015
A rhyming verse that seemed
to write itself

---
  Jun 2015 Jason Cole
CA Guilfoyle
Where sleeps the crescent moon
and drifts bright stars away
to bring a song of light
glowing from a thicket there
where tawny birds take flight
or dappled in the wooded trees
foggy breathes the morning light
with rousing sounds of faeries there
drowsy in their dreaming cares
they bid farewell unto the night
and to stars that sail swift into
the evanescent light.

Now springs another day from this woodland place
soft with mossy grays or starry lichen lace
green the leafy ferns will wake
with scented rains wet upon the bark
incense cedars drift and swirl
sweet, the air of smoke
until alas the sun so brilliant comes
from behind a clouded cloak
and disappears once more
the dawn that softly spoke.
My heart shouldn’t have profusely bled
I saw her face only once
a moment’s crossing in a moment paid
not meant for a second chance!

The fire shouldn’t have leapt in me
she was a doomed emotion
trying to live in my penned poetry
meant to be only a notion!

My mind shouldn’t have imprisoned her
caged her from one mere glance
lived the phantom of an absurd affair
spilled ink in a mad trance!

I shouldn’t have sought her anymore
searched in the wild her trace
she couldn’t be my paramour
I saw from the crowd her face!
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