Counting the dirty cracks in the sidewalk,
Listening to a great old song,
Echoing through my ears,
Whispered on a warm summer breeze
From a southern night, long ago.
Memory’s door is always open,
The path is free to tread:
A little boy singing with the radio,
Rhinestone dreams shared across the miles.
Bedrolls and sleeping bags,
Traveling down the line,
Spotlights and fan mail;
That subway token still inside my shoe.
The caress of your voice still lingers,
Transporting me across the miles,
Through the years,
And keeps you, forever, gentle on my mind.
A pure honest voice,
Soaked in Mississippi Delta blues
And Southern Comfort®.
A cathartic melodic scream
Singing songs to broken hearts.
Smile of an angel
Laughter of someone who knows
What its like to fall.
Inspired by Kindra’s recent post about Janis Joplin.
Photo by David Gahr via JanisJoplin.com
They went and visited the Scorpion King,
Watching as his gladiator children,
Too timid to kill,
Lusted to feast
On the heart of a cricket.
His legs were all broken,
The Queen watched with pleasure from the sidelines,
As he clawed through the gravel
Living on borrowed time.
At the after dinner party
The Maestro played electric mandolin,
Tethered to a ball and chain.
Freight trains roared past Folsom Prison,
Where the Jewish Christmas feast
Was celebrated in July.
25 July 2005
Straight outta Hibbing,
Guitar in hand, New York bound.
Think I’ll write some songs
Written on the occasion of Dylan being awarded the 2016 Nobel Prize for Literature.
Could be sung to the tune of ‘Song for Woody‘ by Bob Dylan.
You’re out there traveling another mile down the road,
Listening for messages when the cold winds have blow’d,
Writin’ ’em down and sendin’ ’em out,
Trying to figure what this crazy world’s all about.