The Lucky Lad

adventures in dysthymia

Saturday, October 25, 2014

Bangin' On My Bodhran, a lyric

Bangin’ On My Bodhran

I’m bangin’ on my bodhran,
it makes a pleasant thump,
and when I bang it hard,
all the dancers jump!
I keep the rhythm for ‘em,
I keep the rhythm tight;
I’m bangin’ on my bodhran,
I’m bangin’ all the night!

The fiddlers don’t like it,
I think they want my blood,
but who’s to say their squeakin’s
are better than my thud?
They give me dirty looks,
it’s like they’re throwin’ knives;
without a drum to bang on,
they have such empty lives!

I’m bangin’ on...

Some like to use a tipper,
some like to use their hand;
some play all by themselves,
And others with a band!
Some hold them to their side,
and some right in the front;
it matters not how I may choose
to bang on my instrument!

I’m bangin’ on...

Now, when if air is soggy,
my bodhran does get limp;
and though I bang my hardest,
I still sound like a wimp!
But I’ll not be stymied,
when the weather’s damp;
my drum’s not its best
but I’ve two feet to stamp!

I’m bangin’ on...

Stephen Brooke ©2014

A song, eventually. I suspect I could make up endless nonsensical verses for this. And maybe I shall!


Thursday, October 23, 2014

Super-Taster, a poem

Super-Taster

Super-tasters, they name us
now, but as a kid
it was just picky eater,
and he’ll grow out of it.

Super-taster — is that
a super power, and all
those over-seasoned dishes
a sort of Kryptonite?

Never fear. A serving
of mashed potatoes, another
mild-mannered meal, and my
powers will return.

Stephen Brooke ©2014

Only a bit of silliness

Sunday, October 12, 2014

Thrift Store, a poem

Thrift Store

These dreams no longer fit.
I’ll box them up, donate
them to the thrift store,
let them be fingered, held up
to see the size, the wear.
No one there will know who once
wore such impractical garments.

Stephen Brooke ©2014

Thursday, October 02, 2014

Gray, a poem

Gray

I have sought to capture
the elusive colors of the clouds,
rushing after them with canvas and brush.

They ran from me, hiding themselves
in cloaks of shadow and light.
They have taunted me, the clumsy lover.

From sunrise to dusk, I have followed,
wondering if a touch of cobalt
would find that gray, before it fades.

Stephen Brooke ©2014

Tuesday, September 30, 2014

Saigon 1966

I've been straightening out the collection of old photos and albums here recently and, having finished up on my mother's pictures, started in on my Aunt Dotty's (Dorothea Page). Here are several from the time she spent in Saigon in 1966, while she was there with Battelle doing research work for the CDTC (I think they were cataloging Vietnamese boats).

These are all at the Arc en Ciel, a popular nightclub for Americans in the Chinese section of Saigon. Many of are a singer only labeled as 'Karen' with her band; I would assume they are Chinese. Whether local or from somewhere such as Hong Kong, I have no idea. My aunt seems to have been friendly with Karen, anyway.











Presented just as a look at that time and place.

Monday, September 29, 2014

Hand Covers


These are mockups of a couple cover ideas  for the fourth and final DONALO'S DESTINY book (which should be out before the end of the year). I am not sure which I prefer. Or maybe I'll go some other direction.

But I definitely want purple. :)

Wednesday, August 27, 2014

Comfort, a poem

Comfort

Black-velvet Jesus on one wall,
black-velvet Elvis on the other;
plaster madonna on the shelf,
plaster child, plaster mother.

Skeeters buzzing at the screen,
tree-frogs clinging to the pane;
sweet-tea pitcher on the table,
distant thunder might mean rain.
Hound-dog whimpers at the door,
chuck-wills-widow calls to the moon
rising through the sugar pines;
crickets join night’s age-old tune.

Grits are bubbling on the stove-top,
chicken sizzles in the pan.
Sip my tea, ice melts away;
cobbler’s cooling, by the fan.

Dusk sings on the fields and hills,
full of darkness, slow and deep;
hear the rumble, rain is coming,
rattles the roof, soothes my sleep.

Jesus watches over me,
Elvis sings my lullaby,
stars of heaven guard this house
till the morning takes the sky.

Stephen Brooke ©2014

This might be words toward a possible song. Or maybe it’s just a bit of verse and will go no further. A bit of unlike me, either way. Anyway, neither the poem nor its title should be considered finalized.