"jethro" poems
There was a street of crocodiles
Somewhere far away
The floor was made of dark blue tiles
And everyone ate curd of whey
The plastic palm trees and electric sun
Made everything seem fake
Like in a second rate movie set
Where props would always break
The crocodiles cried a lot
They sold their tears in jars
Their tears were put in copper pots
And used as fueling for the cars
The crocodiles were all peace and love
They wore velvet on their legs
Spending the days singing Jethro Tull
Eating organic cage-free eggs
Miraculously in a day
They smoked ten pounds of ****
And soon enough they were pretty broke
Living on the street
This was the street of crocodiles
Somewhere far away
The floor was made of dark blue tiles
And everyone ate curd of whey
The plastic palm trees and electric sun
Made everything seem Fake
Like in a second rate movie set
Where props would always break
The crocodiles cried a lot
They sold their tears in jars
Their tears were put in copper pots
And used as fueling for the cars
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 7:56 AM UTC
She sings, unites beautiful melody with a naturally melodious language
The end result being how I don't have a clue what she's saying
chanting the mantra given to her
by the bearded sage in the terry cloth bathrobe
who told her "your mind is a vast field where elephants gather to play"
before conferring the mantra
She lets the Sanskrit words roll over her tongue
a vernacular of formidable power
effecting even those who don't speak a word
such was I, Sanskrit illiterate, but the repetition
opened the lotus flower of my heart
the baby blue visage of Sri Krishna materialized
from the words she was singing
I took away his flute and blew a line from an old Jethro Tull song
she thought it enchanting
but Krishna was not happy to see his vaunted woodwind in the hands of a mere mortal
he stepped up to me, polite as can be
he says "if you don't give me my instrument I will be forced to cut off your hands, and then what do you think will happen to this poem?"
I stood my ground, possession being two thirds of the law
I blew the flute solo from Genesis' "The Musical Box" (having known it by heart)
the blue boy asked several times for me to
give him that almighty flute
each time I told him "No! You'll have it soon enough"
apparently not soon enough
(For he felt a pair of garden shears slice firmly through his right hand
the same set of shears severed his left
he dropped his stylus and papyrus to the ground
toppled over, landing smashly with a great crash
within a matter of time he bled out from the stumps where his hands had once been attached
Krishna picked up his flute and said
"what a pity"
and vanished into thin air
it all ended quickly as it had begun
and the sweet lady never stopped chanting her mantra
in fact her back had been turned before Krishna even showed up
it was a great shock to find her gentleman friend's lifeless and handless body on the ground
She shed a tear
I was no less miserable and sad
wished above all else
that I had been a real poet
so I could have finished the man's life work)
Aug 29, 2016
Aug 29, 2016 at 5:21 PM UTC
You were my cross eyed Mary
I was over on the end
We used to meet clandestinely
Anywhere we can
You fingers froze antifreeze
Always a cold shock to me
My hot hand poured
Out in ecstacy
You Said ,"Set my liberty free"
Your smoke swirled around your aura
You blew into the breeze
I blew a shotgun into you
You coughed and then you sneezed
You were my cross eyed Mary
"But Mary's not my name"
As you slid in frozen fingers
I heard you drop your ring
references :
"Cross Eyed Mary" is a song by Jethro Tull from their legendary Aqualung record/cd
Ecstacy is a drug
Shotgun is to reverse a joint and inhale and then exhale blowing the smoke into someone's else's lungs
sneeze is anything snorted up one's nose
ring is a form of birth control where a plastic ring is inserted over the cervex
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 9:15 PM UTC
My dreams are dreams of black and white.
I dream of the late Cool Hand Luke,
And Big Daddy in the rain.
I dream of Hepburn, where it's hot,
Of Skelton upon his stage.
I dream of Jeannie,
Of Lucy's man,
Of Hitchcock's crazed suspense,
And of my freckled friend, named Opie,
Relaxing with Papa Griffith.
Jethro swings from chandeliers,
As daddy fends off fiends.
Granny ***** that little hand,
Signaling the end.
Jul 17, 2011
Jul 17, 2011 at 12:22 PM UTC
it started with the alarm
which I forgot to turn off
because everyday
it's how it usually starts
but not today
I sacrificed some hard earned
hours, for a day, just for me
but forgot the alarm
sigh
So I arise
Turned on my phone
read some poetry
appreciated
every.
single.
response.
to me and my ramblings
Facebooked each piece
of my heart that poked me
while being grateful
they tickle with a finger
and not attack me
at my backbone
with a serrated knife
thats not nice
Cooked an early dinner
for my family
Because usually dinner time
clashes unusually with drinking time
and quite frankly
today, I just want them to eat heartily
and leave me be...
but one tiptoed through my sadness
because, he seems to be able
to climb any barbed wire fence,
negotiate the most hormonal minefield
see inside my ***** laundry basket
and kiss the hurts I feel
So I'm sitting here wallowing
in just another day
and I hear music from inside
I put my book down and sway
99 Luft Balloons
(in German, not English)
He hates that song with a passion
but he knows I love it.
Lucky Number...
Kate Bush
Fischer Z
Then my most favourite song!
*See chameleon
Lying there in the sun
All things to everyone*
Run run away
and my heart bursts apart!
It's not just another day
he's trying to make it special
with things to make me smile
bringing music into my life
no, it's not just another day,
it's my birthday
Raising my glass
to Iron Maiden
and Flogging Molly
Metallica and
and Jethro Tull
(the band, not the man)
I'm singing like no ones
listening
I'm dancing like no ones
looking
and I don't care!
It's my birthday
all are welcome
to feel my pleasure
and share!
Jan 28th 2014
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 3:19 AM UTC
My hands were sweaty and my stomach practiced summersaults
I wished for my body to fall into a black hole of space and time;
until this was all just a memory. I longed to be flooded with relief
I don't remember how we said hello, or if she asked how I was
Her lips were ruby red.
She once told me Sunday's were for band t-shirts and your boyfriend's sweats
I used to provide the latter
Now I don't focus on who does
She spoke a lot, I smoked a lot
She hasn't grown up much between our years of separation
Did I expect her to? Do I really mind that she hasn't?
She's still the same, she'll always be mine
In a parallel universe I'm waking up next to her
Butterflies bursting from my stomach as she pulls a Fleetwood Mac t-shirt over her head.
As I said goodbye all I was thinking was 'who the **** listens to Jethro Tull anymore?'
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 11:38 AM UTC
Sapphic poems call upon mathematic
skills, as meter meted out over three lines,
groups of two feet followed by three, again two,
ending with five beats.
Even this old formalist, prehistoric
in his method, limps along through elevens,
just like playing Jethro Tull, Lynyrd Skynyrd;
seven-four, five-four.
Hear the roar of dinosaurs in the tar pits,
stuck in sonnets, villanelles, rhymes and rhythms,
sinking slowly, praying for preservation;
creative fossils.
Apr 11, 2015
Apr 11, 2015 at 7:23 PM UTC
*eating breakfast in a long time,
half a teaspoon of sugar,
coffee black, three marzipan
nuggets coated in chocolate,
two cigarettes...*
and wondering where did the time
go since silverchair
released their debut frogstomp (1995),
or what happened to the offspring
after americana (the song *pay the
man* still wasn't a commercial song),
or the sudden thrill of red hot chilli
pepper's reunion with john and
californication, deftone's white pony,
or when buying the mortal kombat
soundtrack, and someone nice enough
at our price putting a different c.d.,
not the score, but the soundtrack
with actual songs: type o negative
(subsequently ****** kisses),
monster magnet, k.m.f.d.m., and beside,
days with cassettes (m.o.d.'s mr. oofus
ha ha) - and gigs, tool in glasgow
with that awesome german girl
who i gave water to in exchange for a kiss,
wolfmother in edinburgh, a few gigs
in london (papa roach, disturbed,
type o negative, iron maiden, the offspring,
american head charge, rammstein,
slipknot, korn, red hot chilli peppers -
when that arena at canary wharf was still open)...
but then there was verdi's la traviata in st. petersburg,
and aerosmith in hyde park, and boy
did depeche mode rock hyde park too...
i mean, most these influences came from
my uncle, but i can't give him credit
for king crimson, jethro tull and other
prog bands (early genesis, for example)...
or the jazz...
but it's just annoying to not have seen
the holy wood tour by m.m.,
or not seeing slayer when jeff hanneman
was still alive - after all i pledged the
tribulation of growing long hair in school
to him, one day, looking at the band's poster,
i was 15 then and became known as chewbacca
for a while.
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 5:36 AM UTC
Surely there was fire in that place
Long dragon tongues of flame
Tasting everything in sight
Leaving it burning cinders
Incredible heat wafted from
The prophet
Sweat bullets dripped then burst
Covering his face
Blanketing his broad shoulders
With salt liquid warmth
Every eye in the arena
Trained on him
No, they could not look away
They'd sold their souls
Happy with the bargain
Even if not quite
A fair exchange
He sang of proving one's devotion
Jethro Tull sings Aretha Franklin
The sweat made it work
And the flying tongues of fire
That set upon the heads of
Everyone in the building
Forced them to speak Hopelandic
So everyone could understand
So no one understood
But the prophet
Who sang songs of desolation
Songs of depression
Songs of dislocation and isolation
Heavy weights to bear
And not a dry eye in the house
Smoke rose through those windows
Firemen never came
Crowley paid lackies to keep the doors
Locked from the outside
So
The prophets demise
Buried in several feet of ash and soot
His last words:
"So Be It"
Hundreds upon hundreds of his
Disciples
Mouths stuffed with debris
The tongues of fire ascended
When the last pulse tapered off into stillness
Suzi Quatro didn't break a sweat
Heavy axe slung laying 'gainst her shin
Bruised but hidden by spandex
Old men and dogs in the audience
Leering, craving different meats
Suzi doesn't notice
Fonzie's still a few years down the road
Suzi's got credentials
Winkler ain't weakened them yet
And with those credentials
She's gonna rock
She's gonna make 'em forget about
The prophet
And all the heavy **** he was always
Layin' on 'em
She said "Watch me play bass guitar"
And whipped out 50 classic bass riffs in a row
The people who had followed her in
Seemed impressed
But not nearly as amazed as they were
By the sight of countless tongues of flame
Descending upon their congregation
The end result being
Remarkably similar to the incident with
Flaming tongues and the prophet
What it all means
Nobody knows
Best not to interrupt good rock and roll shows
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 12:12 AM UTC
I met Jethro by a stile Howarth way
Knee deep in snow and soon talking.
He was old but not very and his eyes
Were full of reflected glared light.
He called me young lady at first
Then lass...I called him master then
Mister as we stood on his ground measuring.
His farm was breaking even but his
Beasts and sheep had to eat his money now
Which is the nature of things he supposed and
As we looked down the moor we saw his wife
Unplucking his frozen shirts from a line and waving
Us to tea which I wasn't going to ignore...
We talked about the Brontes and he showed
Me his copy of "Wuthering Heights" that was given
To his family all those years ago...
The kitchen danced warmly with age then...
I asked him if he thought he was rich...
He said take a good look around...
Rich or poor has no meaning if you
Are as mad as a hatter with greed or despair
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 12:54 PM UTC
Jethro Tull once wrote a song "Nothing is easy"
Aint that the truth
why can't we just go to work
come home ,eat our fill,nap in our recliners
no struggle and strife
just be happy
guess that's easy
and as "Tull" said Nothing is easy
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 11:41 PM UTC
To start again we take a pen
create a bill of rights
because,
sermons will not feed you
in the long term this is what we need to do,
storm the walls of warehouses and and pull them down
burn the cities,burn the towns
astound the populace,face the thieves who turn a trick
and kick them out.
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 5:04 PM UTC
That's the good thing about possum innards, just as good the second day.
But whjen our dinner guests see what Granny is cooking, they run away.
These city fols have the weirdest reactions that I've ever seen.
When we serve buzzard eggs, they puke after their faces turn green.
Jethro is my nephew, and I need to have a long talk with that boy.
Mister rysdale loves our money but his wife is always annoyed.
Whenever we hear music, somebody is always at the door.
Even though Jethro is bigger, Elly May pins him to the floor.
People tend to catch on fire if they smoke after drinking from Granny's still.
As long as we have 100 million, MR. Drysdale won't let us leave Beverly Hills.
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 8:17 PM UTC
I'm sitting on a wooden bench, atop a hill, facing acres of nature's finest. A hundred metres to my left is a paved road, and other signs of human interruption are scattered around in my field of view.
Despite this however, despite the destruction I know tarmac and paths and civilisation to cause, the scape was dominated by sky and trees and fields; the blue of air, the green of pine, and yellow of rapeseed.
Found litter in hand, and songs from the wood in my ear (both literally the Jethro Tull album and figuratively the birds through the creaking of trees), I realise that here at least there is balance. We as a species believe that we wield so much power over the rest of the earth, and count as evidence the cities we've built that flatten anything that lived their previously. But we are nothing new, when landslides and hurricanes, floods and earthquakes do just the same. We may be a natural disaster in many places but we are still natural.
And nature does not break, it only bends. Everything is assimilated; growing up around the fences are new walls of sweet-smelling gorse and pine. Ivy twists up towers and cement cracks to make way for persistent weeds that conquer through tenacity mankind's best attempts at order.
We have never sat on the throne of Earth, this is not our kingdom, but a niche into which we have been able to nestle ourselves, between the plants and animals which tolerate us as a nuisance but not one that is ultimately devastating.
A thousand years from now the tall turbines in the distance and the marking paint in the forest beside me will be gone, but the wind and the trees on which they rely will be unchanged. There lies the true power on Earth.
May 22, 2016
May 22, 2016 at 3:25 PM UTC
Sitting here without a clue
my mind is on the blink
And I'm not sure of what to do
my thoughts refuse to think
But give me several lifetimes
and a quart of Johnny Black
And I might write a line or two
to let you know I'm back
Or maybe I should hang it up
and play guitar instead
I'm pretty good at strumming
when I've had my Johnny Red
At least old Johnny says I am
and I won't disagree
Old Johnny and his brother
have been pretty good to me
So I reach for my old Fender
and I plug it in the amp
Then bring those six strings
into tune and flip off all the lamps
And sitting in the darkness
I recall my favorite tune
A little song I've always loved
from 'Dark Side of the Moon'
And 'Hotel California'
is a special tune for me
Even though the Eagles
went and ripped off Jethro T
I pluck that B flat minor
thinking how it all began
When I'm through I think of you
and start to play again
But the guitar starts to crackle
and the strings begin to rust
Like everything I ever knew
it crumbles into dust
I look outside my window
and I see you in the rain
A trick of nasty weather
manufactured by the pain
But the rain's begun to vanish
and I see you pretty clear
I get up from the sofa
and I wipe away a tear
And all at once you're standing there
beside me in the room
And I see my lifeless body
lying naked in the gloom
You take my hand within your own
and sadness disappears
Without a word I realize
there's nothing left to fear
And in the east a glimmering
declares the rising sun
The nightmare's finally over
and the dream has just begun
May 31, 2012
May 31, 2012 at 2:33 AM UTC
Elly May,
It used to be you were one click away,
But no longer so I'm bound to say,,
How much I miss you Elly May.
Suddenly,
I'm not half as fond of old TV,
There's no subtle sexuality,
Oh, Elly May where can you be.
Why'd she
Have to go I don't know, they wouldn't say.
Now there,
Is no Jed or Jethro or Elly May.
Elly May,
In the ce-ment pond you used to play,
With your private zoo in lingerie,
Oh, how I miss you Elly May.
Why'd she
Have to go I don't know, they wouldn't say.
Now there,
Is no Jed or Jethro or Elly May.
Elly May,
Love for you was all that made my day,
Now I need a place to hide away,
Oh, how I miss you Elly May.
Mm-mm-mm-mm-mm-mm-mm.
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 9:07 PM UTC
Who decides what historical events adorn
textbooks students read,
hence a starry notion born
grew up while
this lumpenproletariat day dreaming,
Asian aw shucks husky
husbandry furrowed brow gritty farmer
barnstorming across
expansive fields of baby
(barely) barley corn
crib bed crop 'pon harvest time,
(an maize zing genre), especially
when enriched with humus
laden loamy muck cob bra,
then aye delightfully
trumpet from dehorn
of good 'n plenti kernel Sanders gave me
saluting rank and file fool's capped
fecund fashioned earthborn
dunce sing tassels,
versus growing seasons gone by,
when draught of ideas forlorn
despite futilely blowing on my flugelhorn
high and dry reap peat head paltry yield,
asper when this strapping chap
a sweaty backed greenhorn
pondering why agrarian laborious life of toil
omitted as part and parcel of "newsworthy"
posterity sagas deeming
shenanigans of highborn
and/or "FAKE" headlines crowd inborn
noble folks,
who grease palms of industrialists,
whose quaking self importance
thwarts aside rural cosseted
krummhorn grounded bumpkin mor'n
how kapellmeister coaches bourgeoisie
helping determine
zero absolute value of newborn
fated to slave away
till body electric outworn,
yet paradigm shift of
(butter late then ever)
jiffy popcorn version
sown by seeds of Jethro Tull,
whose bonhomie with brio didst reborn
agricultural revolution took root,
whence before long some did scorn
and lamented machinations
ordered simple existence ripped and torn,
where antithetical views suppressed
and unto revolutionaries
became legion and well-worn.
Jun 5, 2018
Jun 5, 2018 at 7:34 PM UTC
Just twelve, I swear, I must have been
The day they took the Witch of Steen
And put a halter round her neck
To teach her magic some respect.
The women in the village square
Tore off her clothes, and pulled her hair
Then called their menfolk out to view
Who crossed them there, what they would do.
They tied her hands behind her back
The rope around her neck was slack,
But tied to Jethro’s stubborn mule
They led her naked, like some fool.
And all her secrets lay out there
Uncovered, in the open air,
She looked quite beautiful to me
Her naked form, such artistry.
The mule dragged her, painful and slow
Along the lanes where they would go
As gusts of breeze blew out her hair,
Revealed what she was hiding there.
And I, I followed, just a lad
Whose eyes were full of her, by god,
Whose ******* were pert and firm back then
Whose thighs held secrets, hid from men.
I saw that tiny tuft of hair
That hid her womanhood in there,
That plagued me since, for every night
I’d think of it in dread delight.
But still they led her, lane and field
No place that she was not revealed,
They took her to the ducking pond
Where life or death would lie beyond.
And when they laid the ducking stool
With her aboard, across the pool,
Her voice rang out, this buxom maid
With words the villagers dismayed.
‘For all that you come judging me,
Look to yourselves, your pedigree,
What sons and daughters sprang at night
From phantom fathers, bred in spite.’
‘When husbands were out tending fields
And wives would wait, temptation yields.
What shadows stood by window ledge
Gained entry to some marriage bed?’
The women quaked before her spell
And screamed, then ducked the witch to hell
And would have left her there to drown
Had not the menfolk brought her round.
In mercy then, they set her free
And she had screamed, ‘A curse on thee!
‘Your cattle will roam free and late
Your catch won’t hold the cattle gate.’
‘Your crops will flatten in the fields
When hail and sleet destroy their yields,
And mud will fill your village hall,
Your church collapse, your roofs will fall.’
She left there with a final shout
The things she cursed, they came about,
But I was left a lifetime dream,
That naked witch, the Witch of Steen.
David Lewis Paget
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 5:42 AM UTC
Oil was struck on my land and 100 million is what I was paid.
My nephew has a great education, he graduated the 6th grade.
Granny makes her own whiskey, and she makes lye soap.
But if you're wondering if the neighbors are happy, nope.
Mrs. Drysdale doesn't like us, she constantly complains.
She says living next to us is going to drive her insane.
Elly May is my daughter, and she's awful fond of critters.
But now she has rabies because her raccoon bit her.
My sister Pearl insisted that I move here from the South.
Elly May won't drink water, and she's foaming at the mouth.
Jethro does some cyphering, he can count up to ten.
If you've met somebody smarter, I'd like to know when.
I love my mansion, especially the billy yard room.
If you get too close to Granny's still, you'll be knocked out by the fumes.
The people of Beverly Hills wants us to move away.
But they'd better get used to us, we're here to stay.
Sep 1, 2018
Sep 1, 2018 at 12:40 PM UTC
The Cars, Jethro Tull, ELO, Stones, Sabbath, Blondie.....yeah you might of heard of them but I had these artists on 8-track.
8 years old sitting in the boat of a brown and green station wagon.... Saudade
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 8:57 AM UTC
By the time I got to Woodstock, I was pushing Sixty-five.
I was qualified for Medicare when I finally arrived.
All the famous bands that played there, by and large, they are no more.
You can hear them still on vinyl; just not at the record store.
It was mud and drunken nakedness in the summer of sixty-nine.
There were psycho-active drugs too if you were so inclined.
All the gorgeous girls who made that scene back in Love’s own summer,
Now use Clairol to hide the gray and are somebody’s Grandmother.
And what about the tall lean dudes who lusted for them then?
They now rely on small blue pills to get it up again.
Imagine standing on that stage staring out at the tie-dyed throng
as Janice Joplin poured her heart and soul out in a song.
I hear Hendrix was electric even as the skies did pour.
And Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young were up for an encore.
Lennon couldn’t make it and Jethro Tull declined.
Joan Baez was magical; Joni Mitchell would have cried.
They are but ghostly echoes now, playing to an empty field.
We were all once young and beautiful, and Love was true and real.
Still, Time is a heartless arrow, relentless now as then.
I only fooled myself to think I could go back again.
May 21, 2019
May 21, 2019 at 9:03 AM UTC