happy labor day . . .

When I was just a little thing
I used to love parades.
With banners, bands, red balloons,
and maybe lemonade.
When I came home one May Day,
my neighbour’s father said,
“Them marchers is all commies.
Tell me kid, are you a Red?”

Well I didn’t know just what he meant-
my hair back then was brown.
Our house was plain red brick-
like most others in the town.
So I went and asked my momma
why our neighbour called me red.
My mummy took me on her knee
and this is what she said,

“Well ya ain’t done nothing
if ya ain’t been called a Red.
If you marched or agitated,
then you’re bound to hear it said.
So you might as well ignore it
or love the word instead.
Cuz ya ain’t been doing nothing
if ya ain’t been called a Red.”

When I was growing up,
had my troubles I suppose.
When someone took exception
to my face or to my clothes.
Or tried to cheat me on the job
or hit me on the head.
When I organized to fight back,
why the stinkers called me Red

But ya ain’t done nothing
if ya ain’t been called a Red
if you marched or agitated,
then you’re bound to hear it said.
So you might as well ignore it
or love the word instead.
Cuz ya ain’t been doing nothing
if ya ain’t been called a Red.

When I was living on my own,
one apartment that I had.
Had a lousy rotten landlord
Let me tell you he was bad.
But when he tried to throw me out,
I rubbed my hands and said,
“You haven’t seen a struggle
if you haven’t fought a Red!”

And ya ain’t done nothing
if ya ain’t been called a Red.
If you marched or agitated,
then you’re bound to hear it said.
So you might as well ignore it
or love the word instead.
Cuz ya ain’t been doing nothing
if ya ain’t been called a Red.

yes, we fight for bread . . . we fight for roses, too . . .

yes . . . we want bread . . . and yes, we want roses, too . . .

song and singer saving the seventies . . .

It's Not the Uke Blues

I was so sad and forlorn I was going to sing the blues.
So I pulled out my Ukelele and tried to pay my dues.
I pulled up a few minor chords just because.
But...then ...what I didn't know was...

You can't play the blues on a Ukelele.
No, you cannot play the blues on a Uke.
You should try a mouth harp, a guitar or even a banjo,
But. you shouldn't play the blues on a Uke.

I mean how can you be sad thinking of Hawaii?
With those palm trees and the ocean all around.
How can the plink tink of a Ukelele.
Do anything but get rid of your frown?

You can't play the blues on a Ukelele.
No, you cannot play the blues on a Uke.
You should try a mouth harp, a guitar or even a banjo,
But. you shouldn't play the blues on a Uke.

Well Jake Shimakaro plays “while my guitar gently weeps”
But he's known for doing the Ukelele impossible.
Picking up and singing with my Uke makes me sappy.
I suddenly forget all the reasons to be unhappy.

You can't play the blues on a Ukelele.
No, you cannot play the blues on a Uke.
You should try a mouth harp, a guitar or even a banjo,
But. you shouldn't play the blues on a Uke.

Geneva Fry
used with permission

soaked in wine . . .

I'll admit that I enjoy a myriad of things soaked in wine . . . certainly home-cooked dark breads of almost any kind, the crust of Italian bread while eating pasta and a good tomato sauce (or probably a white sauce as well), and of course, the finger-tips of my beloved . . . but this was new to me until I saw it in Anna Nicholas' book Kitchen Garden which A. and I both enjoy browsing while waiting (in the kitchen) for something to reach the correct temperature:

Fennel seeds when soaked in wine
Revitalize a heart that love makes pine.

Ecole de Salerne,1500

Joseph Priestly and mouse poem

He was just an ordinary mouse, nothing special. He lived, very briefly, 237 years ago, in the laboratory of a great chemist, Joseph Priestley. Here he sits, in his cage.

OH! hear a pensive captive's prayer,
For liberty that sighs ;
And never let thine heart be shut
Against the prisoner's cries.

For here forlorn and sad I sit,
Within the wiry grate ;
And tremble at th' approaching morn,
Which brings impending fate.

If e'er thy breast with freedom glow'd,
And spurn'd a tyrant's chain,
Let not thy strong oppressive force
A free-born mouse detain.

Oh ! do not stain with guiltless blood
Thy hospitable hearth ;
Nor triumph that thy wiles betray'd
A prize so little worth.

The scatter'd gleanings of a feast
My scanty meals supply ;
But if thine unrelenting heart
That slender boon deny,

The chearful light, the vital air,
Are blessings widely given ;
Let nature's commoners enjoy
The common gifts of heaven.

The well taught philosophic mind
To all compassion gives ;
Casts round the world an equal eye,
And feels for all that lives.

If mind, as ancient sages taught,
A never dying flame,
Still shifts thro' matter's varying forms,
In every form the same,

Beware, lest in the worm you crush
A brother's soul you find ;
And tremble lest thy luckless hand
Dislodge a kindred mind.

Or, if this transient gleam of day
Be all of life we share,
Let pity plead within thy breast,
That little all to spare.

So may thy hospitable board
With health and peace be crown'd ;
And every charm of heartfelt ease
Beneath thy roof be found.

So when unseen destruction lurks,
Which men like mice may share,
May some kind angel clear thy path,
And break the hidden snare.

my life has been the poem . . .

My life has been the poem I would have writ,
But I could not both live and utter it.

by Henry David Thoreau

cornbread and beans . . .

This world, with all its rooms, is my only home.
No one leaves without returning.

We always meet again, so oil the front-porch swing;
prepare the cornbread and beans.

But keep it simple - no flagons of champagne.
No lengthy discourses, no long sighs of farewell.

No need to come in out of the sunshine and rain
until we sit down to the cornbread and beans.

Bill K. Boydstun
used with permission