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-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


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