Author: Toastingfork

Not afraid to rhyme.

Sideman

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Rock is Not Dead – Magnetic by svpermchine

Sideman

A genius upon guitar,
An unassuming superstar,
His youthful vocal reaching far ‐
And me, I played the bass.

But we were friends at school, you see,
I made him easy company,
I kept him smart and demon-free ‐
And that became my place.

We formed a band, he wrote the songs,
I slung my bass and tagged-along ‐
And quickly we could do no wrong,
The camera loved his face.

I held the yes-men at arms-length,
I gave him caution, gave him strength ‐
And took my pay, at just one-tenth,
With level-headed grace.

He had self-doubt ‐ I understood,
I told him often he was good ‐
But never great, I never could ‐
I had to keep him chaste.

For my job was to be his ground,
To keep his focus on his sound,
And stop excess from getting round ‐
To give him just a taste.

I paid the bills and cashed the cheques,
I kept a rein on drugs and sex,
And hushed the rumours of his ex,
And slowed his undue haste.

And after seven years of sun,
We split-up for his solo run.
I didn’t mind, my job was done ‐
He hadn’t gone to waste.

Throw your Hands in the Air till it Cuts like a Knife

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This, apparently, is the lyric sheet for Lose Yourself by Eminem

Throw your Hands in the Air till it Cuts like a Knife

Musicians’ lyrics are words for music,
An afterthought to fill the tune.
And that’s what makes them words of int’rest,
Knocked-up quick, and none too soon !
Musicians’ lyrics, they’re corny or woozy,
But always organic in self-expression –
Their very essence is always the quintest –
When forged in the deadline of ending the session.
Musicians are never librettists,
They never write words to stand alone –
They’re woven into the very chords,
Their voices are played like a saxophone.
Musicians’ lyrics are hard to resist,
They’re what turns a tune to a song.
They master what poets are groping towards,
When the audience all sing along.

Note that this poem is about bands who write their own songs, not about professional songwriters who often have individuals working exclusively on the words.  It’s intended as a celebration of those musicians for whom the words are simply less important than the tune.

Freudenfreude

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Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Freudenfreude

Can’t we stop the cynicism
Just for once, and just for now ?
Just for the hell of being alive,
For being bright and bold !

Stop looking for cataclysm,
Any chance and anyhow –
And just let’s well-and-truly thrive,
Before our fire grows cold.

To our ev’ry enemy,
May you find a happiness
Within the happiness of others
And the smiles that they deploy.
To coalesce serenity,
Then treat us like your brothers –
Kill the envy,
Hug the joy.

Can’t we try to stop the schism,
Can’t we live-and-let-allow ?
Embrace the infidel, and strive
For unity to hold.

Can’t we see we are a prism,
Hurtling through a world of wow ?
So let’s all yell as we arrive
By ringing-out the old !

Was That The Year, Then ?

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Was That The Year, Then ?

Well, that was indeed a year, alright !
Lots of causes, lots of effects –
Every morning, the sky got light,
And then got dark again each night –
But that was the only black-and-white
In the whole damn terraplex…
We had our share of fear and fun –
So truly a year for everyone !

Collectively, we were dynamite –
We never knew what was coming next !
Our science made us shine more bright,
Our anger made us bully and fight –
And yet we still survived inspite,
As we swerved and swung and flexed.
What we can say, now that it’s done –
That’s how stuff happened by the ton !

We really hit the lows and heights –
Blissful joys and emotional wrecks.
We bounced through the months like dancing sprites,
We filled our share of memory bytes,
And on our way, we saw some sights,
And were probably oversexed.
I guess, all told, now our year has spun,
That the Earth really moved around the Sun.

Public Domain Day

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One-Eyed Jacks, The General, Charade, It’s a Wonderful Life, Night of the Living Dead, Fear & Desire, The Last Man on Earth, Gulliver’s Travels, The Gold Rush, A Star is Born

Public Domain Day

Welcome, works of long-loved art !,
From artists who have lasted on
For long beyond their time –
Finally, you’ll take your part
In the ever-growing pantheon
Of the no-more-in-their-prime.

If a life is three-scores-ten,
So too is death, it would appear,
When the royalties still flow.
But that was way back when,
And now your grandchildren, I fear,
Must let their unearned windfall go.

Cool your lawyers, drop your walls,
It ain’t about how much you’ll earn
In the common ownership marquee !
The world will turn its eyeballs
On your genius without concern,
Now that, in ev’ry sense, you’re free !

Missing Those Kissing Toes

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n654_w1150 by BioDivLibrary is licensed under CC-PDM 1.0

Missing Those Kissing Toes

The tinsel has been strung all week,
The holly wreathed around the door,
The cards bedeck the mantlepiece,
The tree is lit-up like a store.
But if we came inside to peek
On where to kiss – no go, it seems…
The mistletoe has yet to lease
It’s tenure on the ceiling beams.

The trouble is, our hostess speaks,
It dries out quickly in the warm –
And pleasures in the kiss decrease,
She finds, when beauties don’t conform.
For who can peck on rosy cheeks
Beneath such yellow-wilted leaves ?
And so, the gooser of the geese
Won’t dangle down till Christmas Eve.

“It isn’t really quaint and meek,
You know, but a toxic parasite.”
So says my clued-up, teenage niece –
“Infact, just like this kissing blight:
Demanding favours, beak-to-beak,
And women feeling bound to please.
From Pagan Briton, Ancient Greece –
Let’s leave tradition on the trees.”

But we don’t need to be so bleak,
My love, with New Year looming big !
Let’s open up our Winter fleece
And warm our lips beneath the sprig.
But if we came inside to seek
A spot to kiss, we’re out of luck –
The mistletoe, by cruel caprice,
Has not a berry left to pluck…

Looking With My Fingers

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Photo by Soly Moses on Pexels.com

Looking With My Fingers

Do you remember Transformers ?
Those futuristic toys of not-quite-convincing cars
That changed into those robots that looked alot like cars.
But they were such barnstormers
To the eight-year-old me so in love with the bizarre –
Though I never got to own one, so I ogled from afar.
Well I saw one on sale today,
And I’m grown up now, and can buy one if I like,
If I dare – and discover how it morphs into a bike.
But in the end I turned away –
As much as I am wanting to examine ev’ry joint,
I know that joy would turn to boredom once I got the point.
I only need to borrow one,
The same as my desire to caress a saxophone –
I just want to fiddle with the levers, then leave well alone.
But just look at all that fun !,
That pipework out of steampunk, that Lego-clockwork scrap,
And those button-keys of typewriter, to spring a better mousetrap !
It’s like a foreign language
That I know I should acquire, but I know I never will –
I swear that it’s a lack of motivation, not a lack of skill…
But if I could play a smidge,
Like learning how to code, or strumming a guitar –
I just want to know how does it turn into a car ?

Shaggy Legs

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A selection of heavyweight horizontals from Darcy Clothing

Shaggy Legs

One stocking, two stocking, three stocking, four,
All hanging on the chimney-breast, drying from the hoar
In the last of the embers of the evening’s sycamore –
While their would-be wearers are upstairs a-snore.

One stripy, one chequey, one polka-dot,
And one of them chunky with a Celtic knot.
Here and there are patches, where the wool is shot,
To keep their feet safe from the Winter as they trot.

One mini, two midi, one bigger skin,
Though all of them kiddie-sized, toe-tip to shin.
Yet looking rather empty here with no legs within,
Are four half-pairs – but where are their kin ?

One two three and a fourth is the score,
Though I wonder why they hung-up the footwear they wore ?
Placed by the fire where no-one can ignore
Are one stocking, two stocking, three stocking, four.

Yes Virginia, There Is A Conspiracy

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Hallmark Christmas Card by Norman Rockwell

Yes Virginia, There Is A Conspiracy

I know it’s a pretty dream, Virginia,
That an adult might be true,
But they’re lying through their teeth, my dear,
And laughing back at you.
They pat your pretty head, Virginia,
And feed you a fairy tale,
Then chide you when you fib, my dear,
Their hypocrisy’s off-the-scale.
The lesson to remember, kid,
When asking for the gist,
Is to never trust the printed word
Of any journalist.
For ev’rything the adults tell,
Each lesson, tale, or fact,
Is just a product that they sell,
A vast and secret pact.
Virginia, you need to know
The rule they all live by –
To keep hold of the status quo
They’ll lie and lie and lie.
I know it’s a crying shame, Virginia,
That they won’t tell you straight
That Santa Claus is a con, my dear –
For goodness sake – you’re eight !

Bough-Dangles

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Photo by Valeria Boltneva on Pexels.com

Bough-Dangles

We spruce our spruces thoroughly,
Bedecking ev’ry inch of tree
With tinsel boas, bauble bling,
And fairy-lights by endless string.
And then we push it, fruits and all,
Abruptly up against the wall –
A lonely corner evergreen
Where half the dressings can’t be seen.
The lights at least from round the back,
Like glow-works pilfering a snack,
Can still be glimpsed-on now-and-then
From deep within their needle den.
But other trinkets pine away,
Unnoticed all the holiday,
Till hands come questing for the gains
Of the few remaining candy canes.