Dusti Rodes
2014-03-04 12:00 am
When you go down to the theatre today (To the tune of Teddy Bears Picnic) When you go down to the theatre today, You'd better go in disguise. When you go down to the theatre today, You're sure to get a surprise. 'Cos every fear that ever there was, Is gathered there because, Today is the day that Dusti Has his heart operation. Big ones, little ones, scary ones. Oh what fun there'll be. Spiders, rats and ghoulies Thing that are not really there, You'll be sure to see. Walls walking, bed bottles talking, Through cavern-like mouths. When you're back on the ward tonight, They'd better not turn on the light. When you're back on the ward tonight, You're likely to have a fright. 'Cos every fear that ever there was, Are gathered here tonight. 'Cos today's the day that Dusti Had his heart operation. Dusti Rodes (2008)
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Dusti Rodes
2014-03-04 12:00 am
My Heart Goes Out My heart goes out to you, My brothers and sisters. The goalkeeper was beaten, The ball was on it's way in; Then the whole African nation Was raped and robbed of Victory By the hand of yet another South American. Suarez was sent off, And so he should That was inevitable. Annan lined up the penalty shot But was beaten by the bar The rest was history. My brothers and sisters Sound your vuvuzela long and hard As the death knell to hope. Dusti Rodes (2010)
Dusti Rodes
2014-03-04 12:00 am
'A Handful of Seeds' With a handful of seeds, And just one well, We could make the difference. Whether it be maize, To fill mouths and bellies. Or thoughts, to educate, And stir minds. Irrigated by rivulets of running water Or nurtured by the spring of Inspiration. Change can be made. If we but try. Dusti Rodes (2010)
Dusti Rodes
2014-03-04 12:00 am
WHO? When I say Allan Ahlberg, People say, "Who?" Then I say "Well, I like him, don't you?" People say, "Who ....?" I say "He's a poet" People say, "When?" I say, " I first heard him back in the late Eighties" People say, "Oh, then!" I say, "Heard it in the Playground" People say, "You must be younger than you look!" I say, "No, that's the name of his book!" People say, "Never heard of it!" I say, "Haven't ..... YOU ? " Dusti Rodes (2010)
Dusti Rodes
2014-03-04 12:00 am
Influences in my life The father of the modern computer, Clive Sinclair; Bill Gates, for giving us software. Edward de Bono's Lateral thinking. Metaphysical poets, Spiritualism; The Beatles, of course; John Lennon in particular. The woman at the bus stop; The North American Indian culture. David Carradine, for Kung Fu; John Keating for the Dead Poets Society, Melanie Safkta, Bob Dylan, Joan Baez, John Denver, for just being themselves. Zen Buddism, Taoism, Confucius; Plato, Socrates, Kipling; Schizophrenia, for never leaving me on my own; And a cast of thousands, That have caused me To write it all down. Dusti Rodes (2009)
Dusti Rodes
2014-03-04 12:00 am
BALLOON (From 'Whittlin' Wood' My Heart is like A big Red balloon. My love for you, The air that fills it. If I had anymore, I would surely burst. Dusti Rodes (2014)
Dusti Rodes
2014-03-04 12:00 am
Summer the First Time Inspired by John Ogden's painting ' The Awakening ' Who was it, That said; Tarts have no hearts? No amount Of money ever. Would cover the cost, Or ease the pain. Of Innocence lost. Or was it offered Willingly. As a Sacrifice. On the Altar of Love? The Night knew, But was not saying. The Morning saw, And never uttered a word. Dusti Rodes (2009)
Dusti Rodes
2014-03-04 12:00 am
The Lady in Red Inspired by John Ogden's painting ' Be she a Falcon or a Dove ' ( 2009) Puddles of pigment Of red and white, Bloom like flowers in the artist's palette Likened to a small, wild garden. She poses provocatively, Dignified but still self-conscious, Against the wide blue screen That forms the night. Robed in ravishing red, She stands bathed In Lady Luna's soothing light. While the evening star Plays shimmering consort. She did not fail to see The symbolism held Within the artist's eye. The meanings of her life, Captured there before The paint could ever dry. The Venetian mask Behind which she hides, Masquerades the pain of her past, Blood-red. And the golden promise of things to come. Are reflected by the candle's gentle glow. Lighting the way to her future. Marley said we all create Our chains of pain. Forged one link at a time, By our misery. Hers was a string of Pearl. Individual incidences, Joined by circumstance; Seeking to keep her, Forever fettered to the past. But the key lies in the roses. Poetic echoes reverberating . Be she a Falcon or a Dove ? A raven-haired temptress, Or an angel of love? A scarlet woman or a painted Lady? Hence from now onwards, She will be known only, As the Rose. Dusti Rodes (2009)
Dusti Rodes
2014-03-04 12:00 am
Feeding Fish Standing somewhere, Feeding fish. Fairground freaks, Probably won't last Two weeks. A memory span Of less than seven seconds Or so they reckon. Why do they call them goldfish? When one is orange, And the other is brown; Swimming up and down, Around and around; As though their lives Depended on it, As it does. What have we got in common? I ask myself. Standing somewhere, Feeding fish. Fairground freaks, Probably won't last Two weeks. A memory span Of less than seven seconds Or so they reckon. Why do they call them goldfish? When one is orange, The other is brown; Swimming up and down, Around and around; As though their lives Depended on it, As it does. Dusti Rodes (2011)
Dusti Rodes
2014-03-04 12:00 am
The Blackbird I see him, Everywhere, everyday. The blackbird. Here, near and far away. The blackbird. Tilling the dark brown soil. The blackbird. Continuing in his daily toil. The blackbird. Colliery coal-face in colour. The blackbird. Eyes that glint, With a light, Like no other. The blackbird. I see him, On a fence. The blackbird. In a hedge. The blackbird. Reflected in a window. The blackbird. Perched high, In a solitary tree. The blackbird. I see him, But does he see me? The blackbird. Watching, Waiting. The blackbird. Demonic soul-seeker. The blackbird. Hell-sent carrion eater. The blackbird. Herald to the Grim Reaper. The blackbird. And his name is Death. Dusti Rodes (2007)
Dusti Rodes
2014-03-04 12:00 am
From ‘Blowin’ the Blues' #When a woman gets the blues, she hangs her head and cries, when a man gets the blues, he boards a train and rides ... # (traditional blues song, author unknown) Down in the Deep South, it can take three days to even SEE a train going through a station. Let alone have one stop there. I guess his story started on that fateful night back in sixty-three. Someone had just killed Kennedy. John F, that is. He was shot while driving in a motor cavalcade down in Dallas. It sparked off a whole lot of conspiracy theories for decades to come. Even after the death of J.Edgar. Maybe he took the truth to the grave with him! Who knows? I never really knew him then; I was but a little picca ninny on my momma’s knee, down on the plantation. Barely finished suckling on her teaties. Papa said he was ‘nothing but a no-good nigre,’ and wouldn’t mount to a pile of beans. Just goes to show how wrong some people can be. Sometimes Life can deal people a low card. With him it had thrown away the rest of the pack and was only using a deck of deuces and threes with an occasional four. And it wasn't shuffling them, too well or too often. He was what the white folk call 'coloured' not 'Black'. A mulatto and an albino one to boot. It was probably down to the unfortunate circumstances of his conception. His mother was 'Red' from Rhode Island. An 'easy lay' or so they say. But that was no good reason for her being gang-raped on the streets of Harlem now, was it? His startling appearance often provoked a strange reaction in most people. Raised eyebrows, spinal shudder and shoulder shrug of revulsion, or a sharp intake of breath on initial sighting were common. Standing a shade under seven feet, even with the stooping shoulders and strange way of holding his head slightly forward and lent to the left. Developed from years of attempting to listen with his good ear to what lesser sized folk were trying to tell him. His two hundred and sixty pound plus of bone and sinew barely covered by his leathery weather-wizened skin that had been exposed to the extremes of the elements for far too long. Long days of toiling at whatever work he could get. Bitterly cold nights spent in any shelter he could find. There wasn't any fat on that frame. Thirty-seven years of constant shortage of food had seen to that. Cody Jarrel, cut a vision once seen, that few would forget easily. If ever.... Cody sat slowly drinking the dregs from the bottom of the empty bottles left by paying patrons of the bar. He shuddered so violently, it wracked his frame to it's very core. Sheltering on the back-stoop of the Shanty Shack, from the rain that had been incessant in its task of soaking him while he tried to seek some sleep to rest his weary body throughout last night. It had succeeded, so he let out another shiver that clinked his spine. Down in the doldrums, yet again, the future was looking real bad for him. And little did he realise it then, but it was going to get even worse before it could get better. Much worse. Dusti Rodes (2007)
Dusti Rodes
2014-03-04 12:00 am
In the Wind The lonely nights. They were the worst part. The long hours spent building the bike. Burning the midnight oil until the cold light of dawn took over the illuminations. He sat, oil-stained mug in his grease-decked ham of a fist. Java's best, steaming, burning his throat raw with every lug. Was this his thirteenth or fourteenth today? He couldn't remember now. The massive doses of caffeine failing in their allotted task of feigning off fatigue; the accumulated grounds covering the mug bottom in a remnant of Mississippi mud, deep, from down in the Deltas. The first finger and thumb of his free hand were deftly putting the finishing touches to the joint he was rolling. It was a little art he'd picked up during his frequent stays at Her Majesty's Pleasure at various establishments around the country. His makings lay strewn over the old table that served as totem-factotum to his needs. Diner, workbench, even pillow on multiple occasions over recent months. He raised the cigarette to his lips, and with a single action that comes with years of practise, sealed it with his saliva. With it now ensconced in his mouth, he reached for the lighter, lit it, and took a deep toke. The sweet smell permeated his flaring nostrils, while he drew down the smoke deep into his lungs. As he exhaled, his heavy eyelids closed momentarily. The necessary effort required to open them again proving too much in his tired state, he allowed his mind to wander. Where had it all started? When was it now? Pour quoi? The combination of drugs and fatigue was fast inducing sleep, which only served to confuse the thought processes he was desperately trying to assimilate to no avail it seemed. The auto-jumble sale in Birmingham, that was it! That's where he'd first seen the bike, and realised its potential. An ex-WD combo. A 1948 six hundred cc, single cylindered side valve, from the Birmingham Small Arms company. With a camouflage green paint job. 'Distinctive', the vendor had called it. Hardly Milwaukee Iron, but beggars can't be choosers, can they? He'd only paid two hundred quid for the lot. And the seller had thrown in set of front suspension springer forks from a 1949, M20. The 500cc model that the dispatch riders normally used in the wartime. They were standard equipment on both the combination and solo set-ups. And they were chromed already! Save him a fortune that would. He'd altered the rake on the steering to an inch and three quarters over stock. That'll give him that low-rider effect he wanted. Just like Peter Fonda's in the film. Dusti Rodes (2007)
Dusti Rodes
2014-03-04 12:00 am
Every Cloud Has a Silver Lining (From 'Working the Wilderness') The authorities decision last Fall, to only empty the organic waste bins every two weeks from then on, worked in the Winter when nothing was growing and the temperature was zero or below most of the time. But the warmer weather has arrived, and now the bins contents such as mown grass cuttings, rotting weeds, chicken carcasses, egg shells, fish heads, tails 'n' scales , animal's entrails and the like, stinks to high heaven. The bin is teeming with ants and their eggs, absolutely mingin' with maggots, and the air is filled with flies most of the time. But they say there's a silver lining in every cloud, if only you bother to look for it, don't they? The bait for my fishing don't cost me anything no more. In fact I'm even making profit by selling some of the ant eggs, casters and maggots to my neighbours for THEIR fishing needs! Dusti Rodes (2007)
Dusti Rodes
2014-03-04 12:00 am
Clearing Levees and Cleaning out Culverts From ‘Working the Wilderness’ They moved in a monster of a machine the other day. It was mounted on a very large low-loader, pulled by one real fancy rig. With a bucket jaw, mechanical mandibles, and telescopic legs powered by hydraulics, it looked just like a giant locust. In leaving the landscape raped and ravaged by its passing, it might just as well have been. What with the wet winter and the really cold spring, Mother Nature got off to a bit of a slow start with her growing plans this year. But it must be said we’ve had some exceptional sun these last couple of months and she’s caught up magnificently. Folks around these parts were looking forward to an abundant harvest of wild fruits. Blackberries, elderberries, apples, even a few pears from the only tree hereabouts. Even the oaken bushes were full of acorns at this time; the pigs would have a real feasting this Fall. But it is all history now. The man from the Ministry decides last winter’s floods were too much and now the levee needs widening down by the bridge and several of the culverts could do with some serious cleaning. So they sent in that mammoth on Monday. To get the trailer and its wide load down to the bridge, the rig took the most direct route it could, tearing up the surrounding vegetation as it lumbered along in its task. Gone are the banks of brambles full of blackberries where they cut out the culverts, so too are the briars with their precious bounty of rosehips. The birds will sorely miss them this winter if it turns as cold as they say. There was a fine crop of elderberries on those several trees down by the bridge. I was looking forward to maybe celebrating some special event with the produce formed from the fruits. Looks like I can only dream now of what might have been. They were uprooted easily by that mechanical monstrosity in its relentless quest to widen the levee. As me and the Maverick went walking this morning, I couldn’t but help notice how desolate it all looks at the moment. The grassland all torn up, rotting down with the effects of the last few days’ dry weather, now soaked by last night’s storm. Rivulets of water running down ink-black soil banks, exposed by the monster’s jaw work. The rutting of the pathways caused by the sheer weight of trailer and the rig’s tyre tracks also being filled by the fallen rain. A real shame I reckon. But Nature being what she is, she’ll survive the ravages and in time return the status quo, just differently Dusti Rodes (2007)
Dusti Rodes
2014-03-04 12:00 am
Strange Times Yesterday, while painting the south-facing picket fence in the searing heat of the afternoon sun, my back was burnt to blisters. My hair took on the texture of dry matted straw and was bleached a further two shades of blonde through the holes in my faithful ol' hat. Today, I'm waiting for the water in the kettle to come to the boil in order to make myself a cup of skinny latte and the heat from the two bars of the toaster doing the bread seems to be warming the whole scullery. The rain, driven by a whistling wind, continues to batter itself against the panes that yesterday shone with the reflections of rippling sunlight. We are indeed living in strange times! Dusti Rodes (2007)
Dusti Rodes
2014-03-04 12:00 am
From 'Fixin' Fences & Paintin Pickets It’s all very well having a south-facing postage stamp sized front yard. Picturesquely encompassed by a white picket fence. But that makes the prairie outback a north facing wilderness that requires a multitude of feather-board panels six feet high by eight feet wide to prevent range wars with my neighbours. And after nigh on nine years now, they need painting. There's only one thing really wrong with this place in my opinion. The layout of the land. It's They say that there is something therapeutic about hand-painting fence panelling with a four inch brush. Long stroke up, long stroke down. Never side to side. Time spent alone with your thoughts. Having the opportunity to be able to meditate and commune with Nature. Well, after nearly three days of trying I for one haven't found what it is yet! Having spent most of the day sorting out the two compost bins, causing friends and family to hastily stand upwind of me whilst in conversation, I finally started my self-appointed task late Saturday afternoon. At the time the warmth of the Spring sun made the job a pleasant one, and even aided the drying process! But Sunday ... well, that was a whole different ball game! As I have said, the back area is North-facing. At this time of the year the sun doesn't get to most of it till much later in the day. so while to all intent and purposes Sunday's weather was beautiful, I spent most of my time shivering in the shade. And as for yesterday, Monday to you mere mortals, it was that cold all day that the brass monkey that had kindly offered to give me a hand had to have two emergency welding repair jobs! Come about three o'clock when I finally finished painting the interior of the fencing, all I was fit for was getting to a HOT shower in order to stave off hypothermia which I am sure had started to set in previously! When I was telling a friend about how bitter the weather here had become, she aptly described me as a 'human icicle'. All I've got to do now is start on doing the outside of the fence! Oh, Happy days! Dusti Rodes (2007)
Dusti Rodes
2014-03-04 12:00 am
Jazz Duellin' "Some people spend their whole lives, and not hear the sounds stored insides 'em. Forgits the notes, jist plays the music. We's alls gots 'em. Black notes, white notes, notes that's been done stretched, even bent ones. Theys orl ins there. It's hows youse use 'em, that's the trick! Whethers you beats 'em, till they is blue; or you coaxes them out gently likes fine wine from a bottle, it's up to youse. Some folks puts 'em in orders that mosts don't even finks of! And that's olrights too. It's up to youse. Jist gotta finds your own ways o' makin' 'em sounds... It's orls I kin tells yer..." He hadn't played the piano in a long time. Disillusioned, downed by the drugs, That ran riot in the community and company that he kept. He had drifted away. Somewhere. Anywhere. But there. Harlem could frighten even the strongest of souls. And he'd never claimed to be that. They called him Cajun. A remnant of time spent in New Orleans. The honky-tonks, the seedy bars and the backroom bordellos, That he had often frequented while down there, In what seemed now like a hundred life-times ago. But he was back in the old neighbourhood. He'd come for the funeral. One of only a few true people, He could call friend. Word spread like wildfire, as it does in these times, That he was back in town. At the graveside some of the old crew ambled over to him. Asking the usual stuff. How's he doing and the like. Told him they were holding the wake at Creole's Place that night. And would be sure pleased to see him there; The brother being a friend and all. When he walked into the Place that night, He was greeted by a sight he had almost forgotten. The air was thick with the smell of stale beer, Rotgut rye whiskey and weed joints. The lights, they were turned down real low. But people saw him standing there, And still took the time to say hello. He hadn't even been nowhere near a piano, In a long while. They had seen to that. Six years in the slammer cramps a man's style. Lithe fingers, gone fat. The used-to-be so supple sinews now taunt. He flexed 'em. They fought back. The spotlight on the stage area, Reminded him of those damned searchlights, That had sent their searing shafts of light skyward. Cutting into the darkness outside his cell, Night after night. Robbing him of the only escape available, To the inmates of the hell-hole. Where he had been incarcerated .... Sleep. Creole, the 'Fatman', on bass fiddle, 'Bleedin' Lips' Murphy, blowing blues horn. 'Skins'Duval, up there on drums. The Fatman called out, coaxing for him to come up on the stage. Most folk never really hear the sounds inside them. But some can't help but create, The music they were born to make. Cajun was one of those. He hears the roar rising from the void within. Like a volcano. Molten music, Stirring deep in the depths Of his frame. That must come to the surface, Like lava, straining to escape the confines. A piano is made of wood 'n' wires. Hammers big and small. Ivory keys that need gentle, Or sometimes even firm coaxing; To give their best or better. To some, it's just a piano, A boxful of sounds. A mechanism for making music. For others, like Cajun, It's an extension of the soul. The drums, they spoke something. Grumbled, mumbled low. Real low. The fiddle responded with a taunt strain. The horn blew for all it's worth. The note long and very low down. Somewhere deep, deep in the depths. They were having a conversation, Wanting Cajun to join in. To leave the safety of the shoreline, And strike out for the deep water. Then Creole started beating the box, With his waxed bow. Stacking the blues. Coaxing, urging, Cajun to take up the thread. Waiting for him to do things on the keys, That showed he was wading in the water with them. And Cajun answered them all. With authority. The dialogue became a monologue. The piano was doing the talking now. All everybody could do was but listen. In awe. The riffs and licks spoke with an urgency. They told of places, That none of the others had ever been to. Describing pain, that few else had ever felt. Diving to depths of despair, Unplumbed by mere mortals. But Cajun had been there. Seen the sights. And he was telling everyone. That which he had experienced. Reliving the roller coaster ride, That his life had been so far. And he took all those, Gathered there, that night. On the journey. Dusti Rodes (2007)
Dusti Rodes
2014-03-04 12:00 am
Bayou Blues As I ramble through my sorrows, Drifting aimlessly, On Life's road that seems to me As being many miles too far. I'm living in yesterday's tomorrows. And seeing things as they rarely are. Dusti Rodes (2007)
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