"med" poems
Original English version: http://hellopoetry.com/poem/skyrim-3/
Zu'u lost ont jul zulot fein naan vorey jul,
Midrak zoklot zurun Zu'u stood, veyn pogaan ran.
Nii lost Zu'u wo fund krii sahrot dovah, ahrk zind uben vokul jun,
Ko svaan snol ahrk geikaal mund, nust fund heind dii for ahrk mirodah!
Zu'u lost ahst wah do lein, ahrk nid vust knock zey tum!
Fah dii sos nust came, nuz ko niist siifur nust drowned,
Zu'u lost hailed *** ko dii nor ahrk zoor ko suleyksejun!
Sahrot Lahvirn neben lot lokoltei, voth zey ahst niist zurgah,
Morokei lost golt mu tread voknau, lok bex ahrk stin!
Zu'u nuft wah kos undoriik med you…
But ruz Zu'u rem ronaaz wah krahsek.
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 9:41 PM UTC
I fell in this hole again
I don't know who i am anymore
I feel the pain the sadness
I hope this doesn't get worst
My mind and feeling are ******
My friends aren't my friends
They lied , i trusted them
But they used med
I've been broken both dating way and
Friendship
I've lost myself once again
I'm trying to find my way back
But it's hard
I'm stressing, over thinking
My depression coming back , anxiety
I was truly happy for once but then
Out of nowhere it hit me
I felt alone,thoughts like no one cared
Jan 15, 2017
Jan 15, 2017 at 6:41 PM UTC
Mother always says you are your father’s child,
So , since he’s an alcoholic … & a dead beat dad….
Does that change me into something bad …?
At some point in 2004, my father stopped being a father at all.
He stopped calling, stopped trying, and ultimately,
Stopped caring.
Does that mean that I stopped caring too?
The fact that my father's an *** hole
to the highest degree and chose
Drugs and alcohol over his own daughter….
Does that change the fact that I am anything but him.
Does it make a difference that he no longer cares
or tries to have any relationship with me or the fact
He abandoned all responsibilities and therefore lost all of my respect?
I will always be the "father's daughter" I longed for,
yet never achieved.
I'll have my "daddy issues" to talk about in group.
They tried to fix me with a med
That sick pill taste like lead
Perhaps shock therapy instead
he did zap me till I wished I was dead
The fact that my father did nothing but
Beat me
Bruise me
Bleed me
Hurt me
Break me
so Does that change me into something bad …?
Does this change that I was always told that I'd end up just like him?
Does this change the times I longed for his hugs,
Does it change the memories I hold of being held in his drug ridden hands
and the smell of alcohol on his clothes?
Will I ever come to make amends with the man who brought me into
this world just to abandon me in the same world?
Will he ever know how much I hurt?
Does that change me into something bad …?
Will I Ever be someone different from him
Does that change the fact that I am anything but him.
And that I long for everything but Him!
Layal Charara – October 6th 2014
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 5:04 AM UTC
Det varme brød ånder på træbordet
Sukker, efterlader spor af tilværelsen i sveden
Smurt ind i olie
Som mine lunger nu er smurt ind i tjære
- så blev det hele værre
Mit sind er nok sort nu fordi jeg fodrer det
Med hvide vægge og blå kameler
Farver indersiden af mine øjenlåg med nøgne løgne
Fordi sandheden er som en knytnæve der tæver
Og blod
I skridtets indre maskineri
Der fungerer som en rulletrappe
Kører alle de ufødte børn ud
Kyler alle de ufødte børn ud
Skuffer moder jord igen
Er ************ og abortion nu egentlig ikke det samme?
Jeg drømmer så der står blomster ud af begge ører
Danner min egen rosenhave
Venter på en gartner graver sig gennem torne og forestillinger til han når
De indre vægge i mit rytmisk, blodige hjertekammer
Nov 10, 2018
Nov 10, 2018 at 3:30 PM UTC
Fingerprints and fibers,
Accumulated talk,
Whispers in the corners,
Bodies demarcated in chalk
On the marble courtroom stairs.
His misery became a pall.
With mourning signs in splattered pairs,
Red flowers on the wall.
All that he had left behind was grief
And powerless rage,
A Tansu chest in high relief,
A coiled brass clock fatigued with age.
Retreating to a white house in Simrishamn,
He’d walk his dog along the shore,
Find sterile clues amongst the sands,
And travel a ferry between two lands.
And now: An experiment! Blame Google Translate for this weird (?) Swedish translation: Please tell me if this is a bad translation!
Fingeravtryck och fibrer,
Ackumulerat samtal,
Viskar i hörnen,
Kroppar avgränsad i krita
På marmor rättssal trappor.
Hans elände blev en pall.
Med sorgsignaler i splatterade par,
Röda blommor på väggen.
Allt som han hade lämnat var sorg
Och maktlös raseri,
En Tansu bröst i hög lättnad,
En spolad mässingsklocka utmanad med åldern.
Att återvända till ett vitt hus i Simrishamn,
Han skulle gå sin hund längs stranden,
Hitta sterila ledtrådar bland sandarna,
Aug 27, 2018
Aug 27, 2018 at 12:24 PM UTC
Everything was going according to plan
Highschool. Pre-Med. Med. Specialization.
Never in my wildest dreams did I think
That you would add up to this equation
Never did I think that things would end up
Like how it is at this moment.
*You never were meant for this equation
And yet, you fit in so perfectly*
I was expecting nothing, and yet.. You
Never did I think that you, once a variable, would become a constant. That you would succeed euler's number or the symbol for radians, pi, as important constants in my life, you're as important but as confusing as i.
I mean, at times you're really confusing me
like rationalizing the negative square root of 3, but it's simply, really how I thought it would be to make sense of irrationality. Things like this would make sense mathematically, but not in reality. In reality, you're more simple, yet oh-so filled with insanity. But it still boggles my mind, on how a lovely variable like you becomes a constant in my life.
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 11:30 AM UTC
He lives in a time of plague.
The tag team of cholera and dedication killed his father, for all Dr. Juvenal Urbino knows, his father was faithful to both work and love.
The good doctor knew from an early age that his work would be his love, and from a slightly less tender age he discovered that his love of flesh and the body ran deeper than mere science could take him.
He met Fermina Daza in the doorway between clinical curiosity and obsession over her doe’s gait, and as he walked through his heart made room for a new kind of dedication.
He thought his devotion would be equally as precise as his practice.
Fifteen or so years of marriage, between years in Paris they bled together like a Van Gogh after a rainshower, the intricacies of their companionship were jointly held in a contractual cradle, but neither of them felt obligated.
Dr. Urbino was before my time, but my story will know the life of Carlos Mucharraz, Pre-Med major, they both dedicate themselves to their love. I’ve never seen her, but I can imagine Carlos likens her gait to that of a doe. He fawns over her from 17 hours away, for nearly a year.
Like a Texas dust devil, he sends his love through the air to Minneapolis to brighten her phone screen and her day.
They’ve only ever spent time together twice.
I’d like to think of his devotion like a boulder, immovable, but twisters slither across prairies as wicked winds push them towards seas of lust, but I’d like to think his love flew above turbulent skies.
I thought Dr. Urbino as a rock.
He must have thought of his fidelity as a disease. His father died fighting cholera, and Urbino would not let his affliction of faithfulness **** him. He thought himself ill, and the mantra of his practice taught him one thing only: cure.
In a slum of San Juan de la Cienaga, pants around his ankles, holding a mulatto girl’s legs around his waist, he crumbled like stale bread as he plunged himself into infidelity.
This man of granite broke and fragmented, his sin etched a crooked cobweb of fractures into his back, I wonder if the beads of sweat stung his spine, or dulled the pain.
But maybe I should put my faith in dust devils.
Humans may be able to shatter the hardest stone, but no one commands the sky, for it straddles North and South, East and West, Fort Worth and Minneapolis.
Jul 1, 2013
Jul 1, 2013 at 7:20 PM UTC
It all starts like a brick,
heavy,
shifting in your head.
You wish it'd just be lightning quick,
but it often tends to stay instead.
It makes you question everything,
No, you're not dead.
It's all in your head.
Just go back to bed.
By the way, you can't fix your problem with a med.
It's a cry
It's a scream
It's a begging self-philosophy.
I hold it up with a lie.
If it were a dream,
it wouldn't feel so real to me.
A storm in your mind,
all the creatures combine,
building up pressure,
they'll say that you're fine.
But that's not true,
they will lie to you,
then say there is nothing they can do.
They will fake,
your mind will bake.
It's not a feeling you can shake.
A lot is at stake.
I know.
I know where you go.
Digging yourself a dark, lonely hole.
Scratching out death, is your goal.
My migraine, is like a permanent stain.
Killing me; driving you insane.
I count the days like a prisoner in a cage.
I know how it feels, I still stand upon that stage.
Trying to withstand the rage,
and flip page by page,
but you can't even engage.
Since I was a kid,
it was no secret what the pain did,
yet I never hid.
I would just explode,
implode,
and be the **** you'd discover on the road,
maybe one day they will find a code.
And we all walk a lane,
for those who suffered this pain,
the agony of the grain.
That mysteriously grows in our brain.
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 10:30 PM UTC
Jeg svarer dig ikke længere på snapchat
(uanset hvor meget det frister)
For jeg vil godt have noget med dig
(men jeg er bare pisse bange for at det ender som sidst)
Det knuste mig fuldstændigt
(og jeg ville ikke kunne klare endnu en omgang)
Så i stedet ligger jeg her
(og tænker på alt det der måske kunne ske)
Hvis jeg svarede dig på snapchat
Jun 11, 2015
Jun 11, 2015 at 4:36 PM UTC
Purp-Purple Purp-Purple in my blood, cut it, cut it, cut it
Let it bleed, blee-bleed
Sipping on the lea-le-lean
Smoking that dank
My blood stream-stre-stream
When the codeine hits
It hits real hard
When the codeine hits
It hits real hard, hard-hard
Drop a rancher in, let it-let it splash
Splas-splash
Turn up the system, ***** let the snare drum
Crash cra-crash
Rolling through the hood, chevy dropped low
(Lo-low yeah)
My Chevy real lo-lo-low
I said my leather and wood Chevy dropped low
Johnny's in the basement mixing up the medicine
Mixing up the-mixing up the medicine-med-medicine
**** C's in the backroom letting all the ratchets in
Ratchet-ratchet-ratch-
Letting all the ratchets in
Dumping out cigar trash-tra-trash
Fill it back with the hash-ha-hash
Sip that lean slow
Bringing the good old nineties back
Ba-back
Said bring the good old nineties back
Apr 16, 2013
Apr 16, 2013 at 5:26 PM UTC
This morning we jogged early
I was back in my flat by six-thirty
From my tenth floor view of the Charles River basin,
The morning was incandescently flushed by the peach-colored sun.
The transparent clouds seemed stylistically stained, artfully workshopped, which offered a softened, Tiffany glass effect wholly worthy of worship.
I can’t stop to admire it. I’m jamming things into suitcases.
Cramming things into boxes, giving things away.
I had a second interview Monday afternoon, for Johns Hopkins med school. They put the question to me:
“The semester starts in 18 days - can you do that?”
“Yes,” I replied, and just like that, I'm a Blue Jay.
Of course, I had to withdraw from the masters program but Harvard gave me a full (95K) refund - I think they’re more excited about my med school admission than I am.
I’m not afraid of discordant notes.
They change the landscape.
Take us to new emotional places.
Any major work is going to have them.
.
.
A song for this:
Hang on Little Tomato by Pink Martini
It's Amazing by Jem
Jul 31, 2025
Jul 31, 2025 at 12:45 AM UTC
I walked into a sunset that did not belong to me,
Its vivid colours burning across the Mediterranean Sea.
In a fragile, elusive moment of composure
I gazed at the choppy sea moving closer
To the rugged, pebbly, rocky shore
Where I stood alone against the Rock.
The Rock of Gibraltar watched with a smile
As the turbulent Med pulsating with life
Scattered its waves against the strand,
And the sapphire waters kissed the ancient land.
The stormy sea embraced the coast
With fierceness intangible as a ghost.
The air vibrated with a taste of freedom,
With barely audible words of wisdom
That travelled across the centuries
To fill the tangy air with memories.
The voices from the past enveloped the Rock
In an alluringly mythical, protective cloak.
I gathered the strength I drew from the Rock;
Fears discarded, the resolve growing strong,
I walked the Med Steps to the very top
Against a dazzlingly splendid backdrop
Of the breathtaking views of the bay,
Basking in the aura of fears thrown away.
Intoxicated by the beauty, hungry for more,
I was feeling elated to the very core.
The fear of heights temporarily conquered,
The contentment felt almost awkward.
Suddenly, the world seemed a different place:
Offering the nature's graceful embrace.
As the starry night slowly descended,
In my solitude, I felt protected
By the mighty Rock standing tall and grand
Guarding the ancient, immemorial land.
Copyright: Nara Hodge 2018
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 1:31 PM UTC
The dead-bolts on the interior doors
Against the nephews most securely locked
(One is destructive; the other explores)
Ignored by their mother (usually crocked)
The brother-in-law babbles about his bowels
And surgeries over the festive spread
Ignoring his wife’s disapproving scowls
Detailing each grim therapy and med
The puppies are safely penned inside
Because of an incident with a crowbar
And a nephew who kicked and screamed and cried -
He wasn’t allowed to **** the dogs or bash the car
His mother comforted him in his tears
And glowered at me for telling him no
And comforted herself with a few more beers
Her special child is sensitive, you know
The brother-in-law’s colonoscopy
With lurid adjectives of graphic doom
Comes with the pie and more iced tea
His miseries circulate around the room
Then from the living room an expensive crash
“Not me!” “Not me!” More screams and denials and cries
An old family vase – it’s now just trash
“You shouldn’t have glass around,” their mother sighs
The brother-in-law offers to show his scars
He finds his shirt buttons, makes his move
We other men escape outside for cigars
Cigars!? The women uniformly disapprove
One nephew leaps upon a garden seat
And jumps and yells until it falls apart
Their mother says her boy is cute and sweet
“Are you all right, my dear little heart?”
The brother-in-law holds his tummy and groans
And tells us all about his flatulence
And just which foods lead to what moans
(Perhaps he should practice some abstinence)
The women come outside to cough and choke
With practiced puritan disapproval and sneers
About the satanic scent of tobacco smoke
The world’s best mother chugs a few more beers
The brother-in-law explains why he can’t drink
It’s about his digestion (be surprised)
And we shouldn’t smoke; if only we’d think
And we (got a match?) are properly chastised
Then at the end of this mandatory day
Of mandatory Hallmark merriment
All of them finally go the (space) away
And how did the mailbox get broken and bent?
But the brother-in-law pauses at the garden gate
“Say, did I tell you about my new pills…?”
And so dear solitude again must wait
While darkness slowly falls upon the hills
Nov 21, 2018
Nov 21, 2018 at 4:51 PM UTC
En smøg på vej til skole en smøg derfra
To i træk i frikvarteret en halv i det andet
Jeg skriver stil med avancerede ord
Og debatterer i dansk og samfund
Jeg ryger en fra gymnastik
Og tæsker pigerne i badminton
Jeg lukker døren og skruer op for varmen
Og læser Yahyah og Strunge til jeg skal tisse
Jeg holder kæft ved middagsbordet
Og gemmer ordene til papiret
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 7:45 AM UTC
Det er en normal dag
Med mit es i tænkeren.
Udødelig tryghed.
Rejsen mod esset dækker mine tanker,
Som et lagen af frihed.
Lagnet varmer mere og mere jo tættere destinationen nærmer sig.
Da jeg når destinationen
Bliver jeg genforenet med mit es
Udødelig frihed
Vi vasker vores sociale vasketøj
Og stier ud mod horisonten.
Udødelig Harmoni.
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 4:11 PM UTC
Our summer fellowships are over! We learned a lot - for instance - how summer’s a lot less fun when you’re hemmed-up, inside working. I mean, we preesh’d the clinical experience, the learning, and especially how good these fellowships will look on our med-school applications - seriously - but there were a hundred rules - aren’t rules incompatible with summer?
Hmm, Ok, let’s see, something poetic..
As the summer sun's blistering radiance waned, shadows,
muscled by sunrays to the marginal edges and corners,
gradually spread, like water - soothing, lenifying and assuaging
simmered nerves with their refreshing, canopied touch.
If sunlight scorched with heat, twilight soothed and gentled,
while varnishing, the dimming world with rainbow, event-horizons,
larger, more inventive, colorful and glorious than any mere mortal art.
Night gradually squeezed, unseen, through those vivid sunset cracks,
and refreshing night-air, drawn in by the last, escaping updrafts of heat,
rustled cooling relief to weary workers seeking the solace of evening and home.
back to unpoetic realities..
When work was finished, we’d retreat from the heat, racing up to the rooftop pool, like two happy porpoises out of school.
Whoever invented poolside food delivery, should win the Nobel Prize for ‘thank you very much.’ We wouldn’t go back to our rooms until it was dark and we’d started to prune.
Now, we’ve a month to relax before our Junior year begins. We got letters from Yale that said, “As upperclassmen..” “Upperclassmen!” We shouted as we danced in hand-holding circles, singing, “Upperclassmen, upperclassmen, upperclassmen, upperclassmen. upperclassmen.”
We’ve grown so much at Yale.
Aug 2, 2023
Aug 2, 2023 at 12:05 PM UTC
julemusikken går i ring på mc D
Julen er musik på en fastfood restaurant
Platte pop numre blusser glæden frem i mig
Og selvom jeg ikke vil, nynner jeg med i mit hoved
Hvad er jul uden plastik og dårlig samvittighed?
Hvad får bjælder til at ringe hvis ikke de blev spillet i radioen?
Jeg sidder her på det falske lædersæde og drikker cola
Og venter på sne
For for mig og alle andre på mc D
er sne det eneste der mangler
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 3:00 AM UTC
Amaze me
Free me from my own reason
My complication
Mesmerize me
Ban me to your mystical prison
Your temptation
Amaze me
If you think I’m a keeper
Mesmerize me
I’m a high sensation seeker
Amaze me
When waves are too high to ignore
Mesmerize me
When they crash at the shore
Amaze me
Turn my life into a fairy tale
Mesmerize me
With every innocent detail
Amaze me
Through joyful moments that forever stay
Mesmerize me
Through the disabling boredom of everyday
Amaze me
As long as I worship you today
One day, another might block your way
So mesmerize me
To a point you abuse my head
Be the med, and drug me instead
We are poetry and symphony
Creating the ultimate synergy
Take the challenge
Keep the balance
And vacuum tears of joy out of me
Forever amaze me
Until I feel nothing but you
Forever mesmerize me
And I shall mesmerize you too
~Epic Monkey
Aug 4, 2013
Aug 4, 2013 at 2:47 AM UTC
The Land of Nod (Hebrew: ארץ נוד, eretz-Nod)
is a place mentioned in the Book of Genesis
of the Hebrew Bible, located "on the east of Eden"
(qidmat-‘Eden), where Cain was exiled
by God after Cain had murdered his brother Abel;
According to Genesis 4:16:
_And Cain went out from the presence of the LORD,
and dwelt in the land of Nod, on the east of Eden._
(וַיֵּ֥צֵא קַ֖יִן מִלִּפְנֵ֣י יְהוָ֑ה וַיֵּ֥שֶׁב בְּאֶֽרֶץ־נֹ֖וד קִדְמַת־עֵֽדֶן)
"Nod" (נוד) is the Hebrew root of the verb
"to wander" (לנדוד). Therefore, to dwell
in the land of Nod is usually taken to mean
that one takes up a wandering life. Genesis 4:17
relates that after arriving in the Land of Nod,
Cain's wife bore him a son, _Enoch_,
in whose name he built the first city;
"Nod" (נוד) is the Hebrew root of the verb
"to wander" (לנדוד). Therefore, to dwell
in the land of Nod can mean to live
a wandering life; Gesenius defines (נוּד) as follows:
_TO BE MOVED, TO BE AGITATED_
(Arab. ناد Med. Waw id.), used of a reed
shaken by the wind, 1Ki.14:15; hence to wander,
to be a fugitive, Jer. 4:1; Gen. 4:12, 14; Ps.56:9;
to flee, Ps. 11:1; Jer. 49:30. Figuratively, Isa. 17:11,
נֵד קָצִיר "the harvest has fled" ["but see נֵד ,"
which some take in this place as the subst.]
Much as Cain's name is connected
to the verb meaning "to get" in Genesis 4:1,
the name "Nod" closely resembles the word
"nad" (נָ֖ד), usually translated as "vagabond",
in Genesis 4:12. (In the Septuagint's rendering
of the same verse, God curses Cain
to τρέμων, "trembling")
A Greek version of Nod written as Ναίν
appearing in the _Onomastica Vaticana_
possibly derives from the plural נחים,
which relates to resting and sleeping;
This derivation, coincidentally or not,
connects with the English pun on "nod";
Josephus wrote in Antiquities of the Jews
(c. AD 93) that Cain continued his wickedness
in Nod: resorting to violence and robbery;
establishing weights and measures;
transforming human culture from innocence
into craftiness and deceit; establishing
property lines; and building a fortified city;
Nod is said to be outside of the presence
or face of God: Origen defined Nod
as the land of trembling and wrote
that it symbolized the condition of all
who forsake God; Early commentators
treated it as the opposite of Eden
(worse still than the land of exile
for the rest of humanity); In the English tradition
Nod was sometimes described as a desert
inhabited only by ferocious beasts or monsters;
Others interpreted Nod as dark or even
underground—away from the face of God—
Augustine described unconverted Jews as
dwellers in the land of Nod, which he defined
as commotion and "carnal disquietude"
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 12:16 PM UTC
A Bountiful Sky for Foolish Old Men
early up, haunted-stoked~woked by a multilingual sky,
an impish childish creation of an immature god,
inconsistently incapable, of making up his moody mind,
whiny then smiley, cloudless besotted, morphed
into crystalline blue of a well behaved in Sunday best,
warming the souls of the begotten and the misbegotten,
the hardened and the poetic souls, tho he laughs at
himself, for he too is both, curmudgeon and a mr. softee,
whiny child in rapid aging body, wearing of discovery
of new places for to ache, pains that don’t fit med scales
of 1~10, unless it is the Richter Earthquake formulation.
despite all, his eyeballs seethe, immaculate degeneration still
allows the seeing of broad brush paint strokes of the team of
angelic artistes that do the detailing of the palette above,
how!
they, love their big bold brushes that sky swipe atmospheric
residue into 31 Baskin Robbins flavors, with swirls of caramel
chocolate butterscotch that make the man’s complaints whisked
into who-cares-a-damn anyway ice creamery reverie and all
that other stuff disbarred from the aborning morning clarity of
“good morning ole man, where’s my coffee” diurnal tuning that
the women hums, reminding those in the earshot crowd of one,
that s’mores and chores, tasks and at lasts, dogs need walking, gardens watering, cushions plumping, evening dishes moving from dishwasher onto wallpaper-covered shelves, geese-away-chasing, and loving poetry
by a poetoftheway scribbling…
8:01 AM Frieday, Jun 30
Jun 30, 2023
Jun 30, 2023 at 8:32 AM UTC
On Christmas Eve, the street was dead
Most folks were home or gone
The buildings all were empty
That is, except for one
Gianni kept the lights on
As he did most every night
To let the people of the street
Know that everything's all right
Gianni's was a haven
A safe house for the street
The residents were welcome
And there was always a free seat
On Christmas Eve, though magic...
would take place inside the back
For each Christmas Eve at midnight
They'd get more than Santa with his sack
Precisely at the hour
When Christmas Day became the date
The house lights dimmed just slightly
As if by magic, or by fate
There on stage with Gianni
Sat the Bluesman and a band
Some only played this concert
It was the best one in the land
Hymns and Christmas carols
Sung like angelic odes of joy
And as always ...there's the Bluesman
Smiling, looking just a little coy
You never knew his secrets
There was always more than he would show
And most folks would pay a fortune
To know just what this man did know
Holy, Holy, Holy,
and songs from years gone by
were mixed with hymns that grabbed your heart
and made most folks there cry
It was invitation only
Just the folks from on the street
The locals didn't post it
It was kept quiet.... indiscreet
He played for near three hours
His little band of odds and sods
Singing songs of Christmas
Singing songs to God
He always had his med-sin
that small flask was by his side
And Gianni, every watchful
made sure it never did go dry
The Bluesman, stopped the concert
the room was quiet, all subdued
And everyone just sat there
I swear, not one person moved
He opened up the window
Pointed to the brightest light
He said "another saviour may be born"
"And it may just be tonight"
It was on a night like this my friends
That Mary did give birth
When Jesus Christ, our saviour
was given life right here on earth
My music sends a message
To all, both near and far
The same message was sent years ago
By one bright shining star
Gianni, led them all outside
And they stared into the sky
Silent Night indeed, Gianni thought
And then the Bluesman bid goodbye
He went back through the kitchen
To where he slept most winter nights
Where Gianni, gave him refuge
You know it's safe....from the bright lights.......
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 11:51 PM UTC
It was a hot summer night
Nearly ninety, I'd say
When out back of Giovannis
The Bluesman sat down to play
He pulled up his crate
Took a sip from his flask
"This here's my med-cin"
"In case someone happens to ask"
He started a story
That we'd never heard
We're the folks of the street
And we followed each word
It's a tale of James Withers
A man in need of a hand
But to us on the street
He was the Sand Castle Man
The bluesman strummed gently
He didn't want the words to be lost
For this was a story
That had a hell of a cost
You see, James the sand man
Lost a life to the sea
His grandson, young James
Drowned when he was just three
Each day James went down
With his grandson in tow
They'd make castles together
Some fast and some slow
One day the pair
Were at the end of the pier
When a rogue wave hit hard
And took what James held most dear
His grandson...swept out
Lost at sea, never found
They searched for three weeks
But the poor boy was drowned
James kept a vigil
Every day on the beach
He'd look out on the water
His heart out of reach
He kept making sand castles
As he did with young James
With shells and old driftwood
And he gave them all names
He'd have non-existent armies
Fight non existent wars
In his hard packed sand castles
He carved windows and doors
There was make believe dragons
In pools by the sea
Guarding make believe princesses
Who no one could see
There were turrets and moats
And each day he'd build one
To be lost to the tide
As the days work was done
Each day a new castle
Each day a new war
But, nobody knew
What he was building them for
The tide would come in
And would sweep it away
All that hard work
Gone at the end of the day
But, each morning he'd come
Build one more for the tide
With invisible armies
To flow away for a ride
People would watch him
Make the castles of sand
With imaginary soldiers
In imaginary lands
The bluesman sang soft
Took a sip once again
From the flask on his hip
It's just medi-cin
The crowd didn't stir
We were like moths to the flame
As we heard the bluesman
finish his tale about James
I asked him one morning
If he ever would end
Building castles of sand
He said, Bluesman, my friend
I know that each castle
Will be washed out to see
And I hope that my grandson
Gets a message from me
I make each sand castle
Like we both used to do
I come back every day
And start another anew
It helps with the closure
I send my soul to the sea
And I hope that my grandson
Knows they're for him made by me
He finished and thanked us
And we went on our way
All of us changed some
From what the bluesman did play
Next time I'm out wandering
And see the castles of sand
I'll know what he's building
Now...that I understand
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 11:55 PM UTC