i sit
beneath the cedars,
in solemn serenity.
face red
with asking questions,
seeking answers
to the ways
of life and death —
molecules and atoms —
and how we’re all
connected.
my fingers
stiff, from cold —
a child’s stubby crayons —
make difficult the task
of turning pages,
jotting notes
about impermanence,
attachment
and letting go.
i’m surrounded
by spirits of seasons past.
i fear not —
they mean no harm.
their faces radiate,
coming from the light.
in their eyes
i see peace and love —
they are free
of mortal suffering
they endured
in life.
they comfort me. Grieve not, they say, soon enough, you will join us. you will experience the universe and all it has to offer. you still have much to learn. when you are ready, we’ll be waiting.
i feel the joy of life —
(maples sailing leaves
of red and yellow)
moments, lifetimes pass…
then they’re gone,
as they should be.
beneath the cedars,
in their realm of wisdom,
reverently
i sit.
slouching
in forgotten tap-rooms
dirty old men,
forgotten old men,
slop piss colored beer
from, wet, dripping glasses.
the hollow din,
the retelling of the good old days,
echoes sadly
as life quickly passes.
“They used to call me ‘The Silver Fox’
What do you think of that?
They used to care.”
an empty glass crashes
to the muddy floor.
“I guess I’ll be hitting the street tonight.
Sleep in an alley tonight.
Nobody cares.”
slouching
in forgotten tap-rooms
dirty old men,
forgotten old men,
slop piss colored beer.
nobody cares…
Two years after its initial release, the film, Take Me to the River, has been released on Netflix. This is a documentary about the soul of American music, particularly that of Memphis, Tennessee. While telling the story of Memphis and its music, this film centers around the recording of a new album. An album, produced by second generation Memphians that features legends from labels like Stax, Sun, and Hi Records, mentoring and recording with some of today’s greatest talent from the region.
The brainchild of director, Martin Shore, Take Me to the River debuted at the SXSW Festival in Austin, Texas in 2014 but was four years in the making. Mavis Staples and Booker T. Jones were the first “mentors” to sign on. From there, legendary artists including Bobby “Blue” Bland, Hubert Sumlin, Charlie Musselwhite, William Bell, Bobby Rush, Otis Clay, Charles “Skip” Pitts, Lester Snell, Marvell Thomas, the Hodges brothers and more were added as modern-day mentors of the Memphis sound.
Their pupils and recording partners are young up-and-comers from Memphis and beyond. Child actor and rapper, Lil P-Nut, not only recorded a cover of “Trying to Live My Life Without You,” with Otis Clay, but also received some impromptu singing tips from Bobby “Blue” Bland. Bland and Yo Gotti record a modern cover of “Ain’t No Sunshine,” with an old soul feel. Academy Award winning rapper, Frayser Boy teams up with Bobby Rush on the Rufus Thomas classic, “Push and Pull.” And these are just some of the highlights.
The men recording and producing these cuts are themselves, Memphis legacies. Boo Mitchell is the son of Willie Mitchell, founder of Royal Studios. Luther and Cody Dickinson are both members of the North Mississippi Allstars, and sons of the legendary Jim Dickinson, who was a producer, guitarist, and pianist. The elder Dickinson worked with artists including Bob Dylan, Ry Cooder, the Rolling Stones and scores of others.
This film isn’t just watching artists in studios, however. It’s chock full of vintage footage of live concert performances, Memphis neighborhoods, and civil rights unrest, including the murder of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., and the aftermath that spelled the end of the Stax label and studio.
Many of the old timers share stories of how things were done back in their day and talk about one another’s accomplishments and failures. One of the most touching of these is when “Skip” Pitts once again runs into former band mate, Ben Cauley, describing to the filmmaker how Cauley is the only survivor of the plane crash that took the life of Otis Redding. Another is the obvious excitement of Mavis Staples when Luther Dickinson learns the guitar part of a song written by her father, “Pops.”
Also, particularly hard hitting, are the still photos of some of the elder artists, with production notes stating it was their last, or almost final session. Artists that passed away after appearing in this film include Bobby “Blue” Bland, Hubert Sumlin, Charles “Skip” Pitts and Teenie Hodges.
There are great interview clips with other famous Memphis music makers that were even more behind the scenes. Art Bell, owner of Stax Records and Deanie Parker who was not only a singer but secretary, liner notes writer, photographer, editor, publicist and more, all for the Stax label.
One of the greatest scenes is near the end when three generations of artists have only a short time to record a piece. William Bell, Snoop Dogg, and students from the Stax Academy, record, “I Forgot to be Your Lover.” That, in itself, is a pretty amazing feat. What becomes, even more, mind boggling is that the young students learned and recorded the song, Snoop wrote and recorded his rap verses, and the entire project was in the can in less than 30 minutes.
Narrator, Terrence Howard begins the film with the words, “There are special places on this earth. Places of origin. The Mississippi Delta is one of those places.” Nothing could be closer to the truth, and Take Me to the River does an outstanding job of documenting not only the origin of Memphis music but its passing to the next generations.
With this gem of a documentary streaming on Netflix, we would also urge everyone to purchase a copy of the DVD. If for no other reason, then knowing that over 75% of the money made in sales goes to musician funds in Memphis. These include the The Soulsville Foundation, The Blues Foundation HART Fund, and the Memphis Church Health Center.
emerging
from the darkness
into the brightest light
shedding the burden of my chrysalis
uncovering, discovering
the me held deep inside
for so very long
unfolding
and inflating wings
for the very first time
seeing my colors like the skin
of a kite drying in the sun
gradually flexing limbs
feeling the breeze
I tremble
experience the lightness
an updraft lifts me from my rest
to float, flutter and fly
over the green expanse
of the meadow
a miracle
a new life before me
as wide and as clear as the sky
never to be constrained
or limited in vision
as I have been
in the past
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In China,
Kuan Yin (who represents compassion),
is sometimes portrayed holding a willow branch
symbolizing her capacity to bend
in the face of the most fierce storms
and winds of life
without being broken.
I was lost, but now am found,
was fear, but now am love —
from sunrise to compassion,
the willow guides my way.
Sunlit days and starlit nights,
seasons change from green to gold.
Blackbirds perching row on row
await the winter’s chill.
Worrier to warrior,
completeness is my quest.
With each breath out I die,
breathe in, I’m born again.
I was lost, but now I’m found,
was fear, but now I’m love —
from sunrise to compassion,
the willow guides my way.
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While pondering Prufrock, and his unanswered, “overwhelming question”
I consider my world of insecurities,
the fourth dimension,
the meaning of life, of afterlife, how high the sky, how deep the sea.
A lot of questions; but, most of all, is that woman looking at me?
And if so, why? Is it admiration? Perhaps my fly is undone.
Is she smiling or snickering? Are my clothes too tight? I’ve just begun. I like to think I’m individualistic, independent;
not a slave to the crowd. My clothes suit me – rather vintage, resplendant.
Or, am I a joke?
Is my style inappropriate, my hair too long?
The words float in space and, in my head, I hear the music to a song.
I’ll admit some insecurity; a lot of insecurity —
more learning, more questions. I like to think of that as maturity. I openly seek, and appreciate, the approval of my peers.
I know that contradicts;
but that’s the way I’ve become throughout the years.
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
It is the sum of who I am, what I’ve done and where I’ve been.
I’ve had much more than my share of restless nights
in one-night cheap hotels.
Unlike Eliot, I consider myself more of a new age seeker. Yes, I have heard the mermaids singing
and no, they do not sing to me.
I have become the watcher, putting in my time, dreaming of the sea.
Infinite waves, at times lapping at the beach,
or crashing on the shore.
Sometimes, I think that life should have more meaning,
that I could be much more.
I have accomplished what I could – “cat will mew,
and dog will have his day.”(1)
As always, the beautiful women smile, and chatter, and walk away.
…
(1)[1600-1 Shakespeare Hamlet v. i. 286]
Phrases in italics are quoted from The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S.Eliot, one of my favorite poems. What I like most are the daily observances, recollections, distractions, insecurities and the questions.
Chilled
under the first
dusting of snow.
The old maple,
gnarled, naked,
emaciated limbs
(a crone)
reaches skyward,
grieving
the death of summer.
Short months past
billowing sleeves
of red and gold
(before that shades of green)
waved
in jubilation —
young girls dancing.
Her canopy
screened lovers
from burning sun,
prying moon.
(They didn’t tell a soul.)
Still,
the lovers come
to relive precious moments,
hear crunching leaves,
inhale damp, earthy odors of decay,
hold hands,
embrace in heavy winter garments,
kiss cool cheeks,
savor the scent of fresh air
on chilled skin.
I embrace her
for the last time this year.
She settles in,
patiently awaiting the buds of spring.
For now,
I say goodbye.
I will return with the leaves.
She will be here
waiting.
Now I lie beneath the covers, worldly thoughts I try to smother,
sleep, a pleasure like no other, eyes feel heavy, a yawn comes on.
Pray to the Lord my soul to keep, plump my pillow and snuggle deep,
sigh and settle, welcome sleep. Sandman, show me somnolent scenes,
dream me drowsy, dozeable dreams, grant me glories to gaze upon;
let me sleep until the dawn.
It doesn’t seem too much to ask, nightly nap after daily tasks.
Let me sip from a soothing flask, no further need to labor on;
tomorrow is another day — to fight the fray, to harvest hay,
maybe to while the time away. Never mind the resolutions,
problems having no solutions, the curtains of the day are drawn;
I want to sleep until the dawn.
Now, I begin to feel a twitch, a muscle spasm, now an itch.
I really hate to whine and bitch, but this condition can’t go on.
Turn on the light, read my book, squint, give the clock a second look,
wonder how many pills I took. Covers rumpled, twisted, tangled,
I’m annoyed, nerves are jangled. Maybe, turn the radio on;
I need some sleep before the dawn.
Think I’ll go down and watch TV, something relaxing — history,
maybe drama or mystery, don’t want anything that’s too long,
don’t want to think or contemplate, would be nice just to vegetate,
if it’s too slow I’ll ruminate. Jay is always good for a laugh,
just in time for the second half. Shopping channel has got a con;
I can’t believe I’ve got this on.
Hush sleepy papa don’t you cry, sleep will come — by and by.
Sing me a soothing lullaby or sweet and lowdown, bluesy song.
In the wee hours of the morning, thoughts arrive without a warning,
evil thoughts like hornets swarming, spoken by a voice inside,
meant to weaken and deride — I’m not worthy to carry on.
No time for sleep — here comes the dawn.
…
I often have a problem with Insomnia. The above represents a fairly typical night for me. The form of this poem is loosely based on Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Raven” which is, I believe a Sapphic variant. The rhyming pattern is: aa/ab/cc/cd/db/b.
Eugene had a mind of his own,
not, as some would say, a sound mind,
but his own mind, nevertheless.
“It’s awfully considerate of you to think of me here. And I’m most obliged to you for making it clear that I’m not here.”
Eugene was a great musician,
taking music to the limit;
his songs will always survive.
Eugene took drugs to the limit;
he’s now in Interstellar Overdrive.
When we observed him with an axe,
you may understand our concern.
Was he in danger, or were we?
Eugene had already left us in spirit,
but he wandered away that day
and was lost to us forever.
This poem is dedicated to the memory of “Syd Barrett (born Roger Keith Barrett;
6 January 1946 – 7 July 2006) who was an English singer, songwriter, guitarist and artist. He is most remembered as a founding member of band Pink Floyd, providing major musical and stylistic direction in their early work, although he left the group in 1968 amidst speculations of mental illness exacerbated by heavy drug use.”
Axe is also British slang for guitar. Pink Floyd’s use of the title Careful With That Axe, Eugene may refer to “Barrett’s behaviour (which) became increasingly unpredictable, partly as a consequence of frequent experimentation with psychedelic drugs such as LSD. Many report having seen him on stage with the group, strumming on one chord through the entire concert, or not playing at all. At a show at The Fillmore West in San Francisco, during a performance of “Interstellar Overdrive”, Barrett slowly detuned his guitar. The audience seemed to enjoy such antics, unaware of the rest of the band’s consternation.” (Source: Wikipedia)
I sit
beneath the cedars,
in solemn serenity.
Face red
with asking questions,
seeking answers
to the ways
of life and death —
molecules and atoms —
and how we’re all
connected.
My fingers
stiff, from cold —
a child’s stubby crayons —
make difficult the task
of turning pages,
jotting notes
about impermanence,
attachment
and letting go.
I’m surrounded
by spirits of seasons past.
I fear not —
they mean no harm.
Their faces radiate,
coming from the light.
In their eyes
I see peace and love —
they are free
of mortal suffering
they endured
in life.
They comfort me.
“Grieve not,” they say,
“soon enough, you will join us.
You will experience the universe
and all it has to offer.
You still have much to learn.
When you are ready,
we’ll be waiting.”
I feel the joy of life —
(maples sailing leaves
of red and yellow)
moments, lifetimes pass…
then they’re gone,
as they should be.
I lived a dream,
everything was possible,
a spirit, a whisper
of love.
Beneath the cedars,
in their realm of wisdom,
reverently
I sit.
in my nearly seven decades
on this earth
i know some things to be true.
if there is a key to life
it is ACCEPTANCE.
this is a goal that i aspire to,
i’m not always successful,
but with each slip
i affirm that i can do better;
i will do better.
i don’t have answers.
i don’t have solutions.
i don’t have resources.
what i offer is a safe haven
where YOU can come home.
i will ACCEPT you —
no questions asked,
no explanation expected,
nothing requested
in return.
i open my heart
to YOU.
i don’t like
to say i’m a loner —
the label
has antisocial connotations
that cause me
discomfort
it’s not that
i don’t like people
but, sometimes
they get under my skin.
i don’t mean to offend anybody
you haven’t done anything wrong,
you’re not inadequate,
or lacking in social skills
it’s just that
i live in my mind,
it’s not a big mind,
sometimes, two’s a crowd.
i’m not hiding anything,
i’m trying to figure things out —
sometimes,
i’m not too quick at that,
i have to mull things over,
imagine the consequences.
often,
i decide not to do anything
(‘a rebel without a clue’),
leave the ball in someone else’s court,
let them make the decision.
i’m not proud
of this attitude
but, it’s the only one i have
so, it’ll have to do,
until i find a replacement;
that’s not going to happen —
so live with it,
or leave me alone.
I have read Rebecca’s first book Summer of ’71 and gave it a 5-Star review on GoodReads and Amazon. The character of Max, from the first book, continues his adventures in Great Caesar’s Ghost, however the books are completely independent.
I haven’t read many books that involve time travel, but this one quickly dispelled my disbelief. In each time period the author gives a fascinating account of the era, in terms of dress, appliances, architecture, speech and morals. As in Summer of ’71 I learned something on every page. Rebecca has a unique and delightful manner of storytelling that gives the reader the feeling that she is a friend that they may converse with on an intimate level.
Be prepared for excitement, adventure, eroticism and thorough enjoyment as you read Great Caesar’s Ghost by Rebecca Branch. I rate this book 5 Stars. Her next Book Roman Holiday is expected to be released in July of this year.
Reviewing “Summer of ’71, by Rebecca Branch, is like writing an account of a gourmet banquet where each course tastes better than the one previous. This book is: travelog, history, historical fiction, memoir and mind-blowing erotic romance.
The characters, Max and Molly, are both lovable and vulnerable. We experience events through both personalities. Molly, the stunning international fashion model, who has been used and abused, finds herself stranded and homeless in Rome. She is offered accommodation as the house guest of Max, the seventeen year old, shy in sexual experience. He is a historian who, over the summer, guides her through the city of his Roman ancestors. The two grow to love and desire each other, but are hindered by past insecurities. Will this be simply a summer romance or will it develop into something more?
The sex is uninhibited, but not unkind. Always there is choice, consent, respect and dignity. Always there is equality of gender, sexual preference, race and class. These are big issues and it takes a big book to deal with them. Superb, in every way, this novel was written by a very skilled and intelligent author. I learned something on each fascinating page. I have already ordered the author’s second book, Great Caesar’s Ghost: A Time Travel Romance (Art Historian Super Heroes Book 2).
when i was younger
i considered life a game.
i’d try anything once
for the experience.
there was nothing
i wouldn’t do
on a dare
that wasn’t a period
of great decisions.
they seemed
like good ideas
at the time —
seldom,
they were
now i’m concerned
with what i can accomplish
in the finite time ahead.
i don’t expect to die
in the near future
but the end
will come
each day i become
more of an activist
for the rights of all humans
and animals.
that’s a bit scary —
new territory for me.
i feel vulnerable
to attack
when i was younger
i said, and still say,
‘if your back’s against the wall
fight your best fight,
take your lumps —
the rest’ll take care
of itself’
there’s blood on the wall, blood on the floor,
some of it’s mine, but he spilled more.
got what I came for, took a lot of pain for.
watching my back, i leave by the side door.
I was a young boy with a withered leg,
abandoned, in a cold hospital bed.
Faceless attendants wore gloves, masks and gowns.
No parents for cuddles, kisses or love.
Alone were the Lost Boys with polio,
the silent, unpredictable killer.
Quarantined, isolated like lepers,
our only strength came from one another.
Expected to die, we boys joined forces.
We supported each other, forming a bond.
After lights were turned out we would whisper
together, “Shush, the Sisters are coming.”
Older patients had access to wheelchairs.
Sometimes they’d transport me to other wards —
to meet other boys was high adventure.
An empty bed usually meant a death.
Six decades since, in the still of the night,
after lights are out, I can sometimes hear
that haunting refrain I heard as a child,
whispered, “Shush, the Sisters are coming.”
.
Note: Polio was one of the most dreaded childhood diseases of the 20th century. By 1910, much of the world experienced a dramatic increase in polio cases and frequent epidemics became regular events, primarily in cities during the summer months which left thousands of children and adults paralyzed. The first polio vaccine was developed in 1952 by Jonas Salk and announced to the world on April 12, 1955 – Source: Wikipedia.
today’s greatest talent from the region.
