She gave me that funky vibe,
left over from her dysfunctional tribe.
You see that's how things are done,
when you are not the only one.

But I come from a different place,
Mama would just slap my face,
So how are we to coexist,
both checking off a different list?

There's a house for sale, previously owned by two people in love.
They were young and foolish, what were they thinking of?
But that was yesterday, now love has moved away.

There's a house for sale, you can almost hear the laughter that the children made.
In the backyard there's a swing where they once played.
But that was yesterday, now laughter has moved away.

What became of all the dreams they treasured?
Who would of thought their lives would come to this?
They always hoped their love would last forever.
Don't it break your heart to think about the kids?

Now there's a house for sale.
Maybe you can find what they were looking for,
a dream you can hold on to for evermore and never have to say
that love
has move
away.
House 4 Sale.

I am not Jesus.
I am not Krishna
I am not Allah
I am not Abraham
I am not Buddha
I am me.

I can try to fit it all into their neat little box,
but try is all I can do.
The words I was told to worship,
twisted to fit the day,
misconstrued to fit all time,
have lost their meaning,
turned to myth.
Archaic ideals hold only some truth in this moment.
For do we not judge our present with the eyes of the past?
And so who am I now if not made up from the tattered cloth of time?
I am not dogma.
I am not that.
I am me.
I am now.
I am this very sacred moment.
Filled up, spilling over and pouring down into my shoes.

I can not find the off button,
I can not stop the madness of the mind.
The thoughts come and stay like relatives,
they replay and replay their little games in my head
and change up the rules frequently so I can never fully learn to play.
Like a military officer they have to constantly outrank me,
and show me who is in command.
They lie to me and make me think that there is peace on the other side of the hill.
Just one more year and then you'll be happy,
lose just a few more pounds and then you'll be OK.
Ride a thousand miles more this year and you can cheat death.
Rearrange the events in your life for this person and they will love you.
Make this amount of money and you can have a day off.
They lie to me, these voices.
There isn't anything out there,
there isn't anything on the other side.
How insane it is to think that they know what is going on.
How incredible it is that I can look at these lying voices and see the truth.
For I can not fight it, I can not turn it off.
I must accept their insanity..... so I can remain sane.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~­~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I
go
where e're
the road goes.
I can not depart
this journey called life, for I am
its sacred trek, and also its sacred traveler.
I am not the treacherous mountains, nor am I the peace filled valleys along the way.
I am merely the dash-
                    between the dates-
                                    etched upon my tombstone-
                                                                ­ the sacred space-
                                                          ­                              between my birth-
                                                          ­                                                     and my death-
                                                                ­                                                             The road goes-
                                                                                                                                                    where e're go I.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~­~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

*A Fibonacci poem is a multiple-line verse based on the Fibonacci sequence so that the number of syllables in each line equals the total number of syllables in the preceding two lines. 1,1,2,3,5,8,13,21,34, etc..

I’ve done a lot of things worth doin'.
I ain't done yet I have to say.
Walked a million miles,
smelled the flowers on the way.

Finished feats I never dreamed of,
poured my heart out in a song.
Learned to love myself,
discovered there's no right or wrong.

Lost my parents and some good friends,
played the Blues, it set me free.
Found that life is hard.
But knowing that, made it so easy.

Won the love of a good woman,
by being just who I am.
No stranger to the pain,
but I'd do it all again.

Made my livin' playin' music.
Even wrote a song or two.
Climbed a mountain, slept out in the rain,
........but I've still got some catchin' up to do.
I've still got some catchin' up to do.

I wish for you
a sun filled sky
fun shaped clouds
drift slowly by

a daisy field
to lay and dream
soft ripple of
a meadow stream

Your cares surrender
to come what may
on birdsong wings
they drift away

And if I could
I'd take your hand
And walk no path
to wonderland.

Jojo's
Firm
Meaty
And
Massive
Jumbo
Jiggles
Appear
Sometimes
On
Nasty
Dances.


January
February
Mar­ch
April
May
June
July
August
September
October
November
December­

*Amphigouri- A verse composition, while apparently coherent, contains no sense or meaning

Jojo-
Young girl, barely out of puberty, beautiful and seductive beyond her age, dresses provocatively with high ****** drive, not shy to *******, usually attract older men.
"Look at those middle aged men drooling over that little jojo!"

On July the 4th in 1976, the bicentennial of our great nation.  I awoke at 3am in Lakeside, Ohio to start a journey to Plant City, Florida. I was to pick up a leased car in Kent, Ohio and take it to Greenwich, Connecticut. Where I joined several others to make the trek to the Sunshine State.  When I crossed the George Washington Bridge over the Hudson River in New York City, off to my right I saw the tall ships heading out to the harbor for the day's celebrations. The radio played every version of God Bless America in their archive. I sang every one of them. We traveled all day and into the night where we saw fireworks in at least 4 states. We reached our destination in Plant City very early in the morning on the 5th of July. But
I Larry Dean Goodwin on July 4th, 1976 in a brand new American made Red Chevrolet Monti Carlo sedan traveled through Ohio, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, New York, Connecticut, Delaware, Maryland, Virginia, Washington D.C., North Carolina, South Carolina, Georgia, Florida.
God Bless America, God Bless Us All.

You want me to tell you what happened,
don't you?
You want me to bare it all,
every sordid detail.*
..... And so she sat there at the dining room table,
even now 20 plus years later, I still feel sorry for her.
How hard it must have been for her to say,
"I think we have become too familiar with one another,
and I need to find myself".
What the **** did that mean?
She has never said anything like that in the 10 years we'd been married.
What the ****?
I didn't know then, but those were euphemisms a friend had told her to say.
She wasn’t really all that good at communicating you see.
She took a bight of souffle and kept blankly staring at the refurbished china hutch,
the one she picked out at the flea market and said we would refinish it together.
We... never did.
I said, with a new found fear in my voice, "So this is it?".
I hadn’t yet felt the sting of actually getting a divorce.
And with a heart stopping seriousness in here eyes she said,
"I think it is."
Blood rushed to my head, like a car running a stop sign in front of me,
I crashed.
On my one shoulder was a devil that wanted to yell and scream and call her names.
On the other was the Angel of Karma, telling me that this is one of those moments in life
that you are either going to be proud of,
or regret.
So quietly I said,
"how can I help you find yourself ?".  
All the while frantically thinking.....
Think, think, think of something to say that will keep her from leaving.

Hard rain's a fallin', chillin' me to my bones.
Heart dark and black as Kentucky coal.
And there's just one sip left, of life's bitter wine

Come up a steep grade, something's on the other side.
All I know is to keep on, all I know to do is ride.
And there's just one sip left, of life's bitter wine

And I've been tryin' to lose me on someone elses highway.
Sneak out the back door, hope to get away
from the chains and the fetters of their misguided world.
Ones that they left me......when Daddy was a boy,
and Momma was a girl.

Woke up a sad day, I was all the way down.
Raked the leaves from my eyes, took a good look around....
at that one sip left,
of life's better wine.

Green lights are burnin', burnin' for me now.
Gonna chew my own troubles with an unwrinkled brow.
and wash it down, down, down,
with life's bitter wine.

Who will pick up the torch and light the way again,
keep us on the path of equality and right?
A soldier of love and truth has fallen,
the world is a more fragile place tonight.

Oh young ones look deep inside yourselves with wonder,
at why they could not break this little man.
Take up the reigns and lead the march to freedom,
pick up the torch and light the way again.


*"For to be free is not merely to cast off one's chains, but to live in a way that respects and enhances the freedom of others."-Nelson Mandela 1918-2013

Magdalene's got scars from the back streets and bars.
Where the lust learns to lie, and the promises die.
She says, "There are no mistakes, my heart never breaks,
and when you're born you don't come with instructions."

Magdalene, she don't care with her two dollar stare.
She can get what she wants,  from her dives and her haunts.
She's one up in their game by making a name,
while the jukebox plays "Eve Of Destruction".

Magdalene never cries, so she says, but she lies.
A heart full of pain, another link in the chain.
Blames the world for her life, her addictions, her strife.
Says "I'd like to forgive, but why bother?"

When Magdalene was a child, raised battered and wild,
She tried to run from the ****, but there was just no escape.
Confusion set in when the book called it sin,
but it said to honor thy father.

When I was young I use to sit in my windowsill,
and smell the foundry late at night.
I could hear the rumble of the coal cars,
I could feel my parents fight.

Then I'd watch the trees dancing in the breeze,
while the moon played Peekaboo.
Life was just a game
on Maple Avenue.

And there were bright Winter mornings and long Summer nights,
but I never knew what they meant.
There were sermons on making time and money,
but it never made a dent.

Amid the factories there were dreams to please,
though you wondered if they'd ever come true.
It was hard to escape
from Maple Avenue.

Yet, somewhere inside of me,
where no one had ever been.
Below the goodness,
and above the sin.

Was a spark of silence,
that no one ever heard.
And I'd close my eyes and follow it
and savor every word.

And even without asking
it told me what to do.
It told me son, you've gotta run,
from Maple Avenue.

Now some of us were sinners,
none of us were saints.
Some of us were ***** and dreamless,
but we had no complaints.

We'd trade it all for just a glimpse
of what we might turn into.
But money only traded money
on Maple Avenue.

I've tried to get it all back again,
but it's not like it was before.
You can't come back into the pack,
when the ***** don't know her pups no more.

It's not a small thing for a man to die happy,
it's not a hard thing to do.
That's just one little thing I've learned
from Maple Avenue.

He is just a wild mustang,
not roamin' where the other mustang roam.
With one eye on the horizon,
the other on a place he calls home.

And it's a rough road that he travels,
but he know he'll reap all the seeds he's sown.
He is just a wild mustang
not roamin' where the other mustang roam.

He may fall and he may stumble,
but he never seems to let it keep him down.
Just gets back up, shakes off the dust,
and knows next time to run on truer ground.

He keeps his nose to the wind,
as if she was a tellin' which way to go.
He is just a wild mustang
not roamin' where the other mustang roam.

And he's never been the kind
who was content to stay.
To follow with the heard,
or be afraid to stray.

And there's never been a filly
who could ever tie him down,
for he knows just where he's goin',
but he don't know where he's bound.

He's searchin' for the answers
he has yet to comprehend.
He know's he'll need a love,
but for now he'd settle for a friend.

He's always been a loner,
though never really like to be alone.
he is just a wild mustang,
not roamin' where the other mustang roam.

As a child
I would sometimes urinate in my sleep.
The warm wetness would turn cold, and wake me.
Ashamed, I’d take off my Pjs and crawl under the comfort of my Sister covers.
She was studying to be a teacher and taking courses in child psychology
About the time I started “bedwetting”.
Recognizing my unnecessary guilt, she told me not to be upset.
“If that ever happens,  just spoon with me and we’ll take care of it in the morning.”
I did know what that meant.
Mother would get so mad.
Of course I had no idea why I would "wet the bed",
but she did.
Our Parents would often argue into the night.
And although I did not understand any of it,
like a dog,
I felt the tension.  
I sensed the discourse in their voices.
It was the same discourse they used to scold me.
Therefore, I thought they were angry at me.
The silence was worse though.
Even though their biting tone would cease, I could still feel the smoldering anger.
The air was thick with it.
My Sister was a young woman, soon to be married and out of that hell.
She was the Mother I never had.
She had a huge black RCA transistor radio and use to put it next to my bed,
tuned to a Rock and Roll station.  
I never knew why she did that until many years later.
It drowned out our Parents fighting.
The music became my solace.
“I like bread and butter, I like toast and jam”
And soon,
I stopped urinating in my sleep.
Of course the by-product of her intervention was
that I have been a professional musician and entertainer all of my life.
Music has been and always will be my solace.
It blocks out the arguing in the world.

*thanks Sis

Puce fresnel washed its light on his over sized African patterned dashiki,
while paisley notes poured from his reeded dreams.
Like the Hamelin piper I was mesmerized by hypnotic tones,
every sweet and spicy slur, every bend of every breath,
I followed him down history’s path and heard the world come boldly through.

“You got to keep the magic”, was his advice .
“Don’t give away too much of the theme.”

Through fake fog he swirled his love,
his passion, his calling.
“Summertime”, played on an oboe
is like hot liquid southern summer ***.
It crawls up your spine and explodes in your brain,
and you understand the songs meaning without one word sung.
Hundreds of years of vassalage reenacted in every blue colored measure.

This man did not think of himself as a descendant of slavery though.
He was, like all of his brothers of color,
a descendant of great Princes and Kings,
stealthy Hunters and fearless Warriors,
grand Land Owners and Wise Men,
Great Leaders of Peace and Brotherhood,
and he lived out his life as they did,
changing the world one note at a time.
He played the music of all people,
“World Music” it later came to be known.

Listen….he is in the rhythm still.
Wherever there is an ethnicity holding on to their heritage in song.
Wherever there is an indigenous rhythm, a harmony, a feeling……
Yusef is there, and he will be there forever.


*Yesef Lateef
Born October 9, 1920 in Chattanooga, TN
Died December 23, 2013 Shutesburry, MA

Musician, author, spokesman, educator

Instruments: tenor saxophone, flute, oboe, bassoon, bamboo flute, shehnai, shofar, arghul, koto


Recalling a magical night at Stratton Mt.,Vermont, in the winter of 1975 when I opened for Yusef Lateef.

She
       had
              to
                  find
                         herself,
                                      but
              ­                              she
                                                  was
                                                         already
                                                                ­      there.

Visit my home
Visit my Parents
Parents are shaky
Parents are old
Old and crippled
Old and afraid
Afraid of life
Afraid of death
Death is real
Death is coming
Coming of age
Coming and going
Going for broke
Going to try
Try to behave
Try to shine
Shine and sparkle
Shine my shoes
Shoes to fill
Shoes are big
Big, but belittles
Big and bad
Bad little boy
Bad wooden cane
Cane or crutch
Cane for Dad
Dad is old
Dad is limping
Limping too much
Limping from Karma
Karma is debt
Karma is old
Old and battered
Old and grey
Grey brings fear
Grey and blue
Blue on blue
Blue but free
Free as wind
Free as snow
Snow and snow
Snow must go
Go back home
Go from fear
Fear and tears
Fear is past
Past is gone
Past is insane
insane....
past...




*Blitz Poem
Line 1 should be one short phrase or image
Line 2 should be another short phrase or image using the same first word as the first word in Line 1
Lines 3 and 4 should be short phrases or images using the last word of Line 2 as their first words
Lines 5 and 6 should be short phrases or images using the last word of Line 4 as their first words, and so on until you’ve made it through 48 lines
Line 49 should be the last word of Line 48
Line 50 should be the last word of Line 47
The title of the poem should be three words long and follow this format: (first word of Line 3) (preposition or conjunction) (first word of line 47)
There should be no punctuation

Tomorrow morning they are going to take them,
what am I going to do?
He says it doesn’t matter to him, because I have a pretty face.
In all the years we've been married, he’s never told me I had a pretty face.
I don’t think he’s going to be able to handle this.
Hell, I don’t think I'm going to be able to handle this.
God ******, I am going to loose my hair,
I am gonna loose my beautiful ******* hair, then everyone will know.
People will put sanitizer on their hands after they shake mine.
All my friends and family will treat me differently.
They’ll feel sorry for me, they won’t know what to say.
And then there’ll be those who will say too much, or the wrong thing.
"I’ll pray for you", some will say,
But I know what they are thinking, they think....
"that is what she gets for drinking her martinis and smoking her ***".
Some will even say it is God’s will.
**** God!
He is stealing my beauty,
my wonderfully gorgeous ****, my hair.
They are a part of me.
I don’t give a **** what a man thinks about my *******,
that they are **** or voluptuous,
they are a part of me.
And now, like a side of beef,
they are going to section me up and take them from me.
What will they do with them?
I mean after they biopsy.
Can I have them to bury?
Sorry, I know that wasn't necessary, but I am mad.
I am mad and afraid, I am so afraid.
I know my husband, he will never be the same.
He doesn’t **** me with his eyes closed, my **** turn him on.
But then any woman’s **** turn him on.
When he reaches to touch them, there’ll be nothing there.
I’ll look like a little boy, nothing.
Maybe I have identified with them too much,
I have made them a big part of my personality.
I've fed my children with them, my boyfriends fought over them,
they have got me into and out of trouble more than once.
****, I am going to have to get a whole new wardrobe.
And now, in the morning
they are going to cut them off of me
and put them in a stainless steel operating room bowl.
Like chicken fat.
Why do I feel like this,
I didn’t cry when the dentist pulled my wisdom teeth?
What if he told me I had to or else I would die, I’d pulled them myself?
I trim my nails, and get my hair cut and dyed.
I exfoliate my skin.
I lost 10lbs last year and I didn’t shed one tear,
my ******* will weigh more than that.
But I am loosing something else,
I am loosing normal.
I'll have to find a new normal.
I am loosing myself
and replacing it with a different person.
I’ll be one of them,
I’ll be a survivor,
a hero.
I'll hold hands with other survivors and walk 10 miles
and wear a **** load of pink.
Hey, but I don't look too bad in pink.

*later this week a friend is going to have a double mastectomy.  These are just a few of the words I have collected from other breast cancer survivors. I had to do something for her. My hope is that we become more aware of the fear and pain that breast cancer victims go through.

The good wife has gone mad, the cows have gone dry.
The dog has up and died, and the cream has turned.
And now I can not find the new can of lye.
And even the gray cat seems to be concerned.
When the wee one came to help harvest the rye,
I thought him to be childlike, but soon I learned.

Though Celtic in his speech, from the Moors he came.
Dancing and playing, everything was a game.
My house guest brought nothing but trouble to me,
no fanciful friend, but a Pixie you see.

*Rispetto, ( Italian:: “respect,” )  a Tuscan folk verse form, a version of strambotto. The rispetto lyric, in its earliest rhyme scheme, has been usually abababccdd.