a few ballads, starting with the newest...

Ballads aren't the easiest things to compose: they have to merge the narrative with the lyrical and do it neatly and elegantly and in a rolling manner that reveals no hiccups. I am not always up to the task. It doesn't help that I was told by one who smelled of after shave that 'nobody writes ballads, anymore." Hmm. I guess this nobody does [fool that I am]:

John Bailey [this one varies the meter, a little]

I knew John Bailey when the summer
Fled the tired town
As Salt Lake leaned into September
When the rains came down.

A slosh, a haggard bum, he wandered
Stooping with a bag
Door to door to rest his feet,
And slump to the steps and sag.

A hacking santa claus, a billy goat
Gone shaggy and gruff,
His whiskers green with cud he hadn’t
Spit quite far enough,

He limped away to sit,
His shopping bag set close beside,
An ample burden of mysteries
He never would confide.

On Autumn Sundays when the wind
Danced papers strewn through town,
Down empty boulevards we strolled
And he’d invite me to sit down

And watch the hippies begging change
Where 2nd South met State,
He croaked “this bag is all I got—
“This or else the gutter grate.”

“What’s in that bag,” I asked him,
And he said “it’s me religion,”
And clung to it like a teddy bear,
Like fleas to a mangy pigeon.

“Whatever you believe in
Always keep it close you see,” .
These fuckin’ hypocrites are better than
The likes of you and me.”

And while I sat beside him,
Wondering who it was he meant
He pointed to the intersection,
And the heaven sent.

“Bunch of pan handlin’ hippies,”
And he waved them off with a growl,
Which made them laugh. “And what are you?
“A pervert on the prowl?”

“Pervert? Shit,” he put up his fists—
“Then show us all what’s in your sack!”
“None of yer business—“ he grabbed it and hugged it
Close, and turned his back.

The one they called the Moonman,
Justly known to fly that high
On root beer laced with hairspray,
Truly one to stupefy,

Staggered toward him leaning low,
Rolling with the rolling walk,
And made a grab for Bailey’s bag
As Bailey mailed an arcing sock,

That sent the moonman sprawling back
And blinking at the marble sky
That drizzled on his beard and both
His balled out bulging eyes.

He hopped back to his feet and came
With madness spewing out,
And fingers flailing at our faces
Like a spraying spout,

And tore the sack asunder
Spilling from the sudden slash
The scattered magazines to lie
And mingle with the trash.

The hippies then converged like murder
All about a pile of corn,
Pecking over copies, all
Of which were Swedish porn;

But left behind one tattered cover,
Half the face of a smiling whore,
Once an old man’s secret lover,
To remind him all the more

Of lost religion learned in private
From the view of freer lands,
And set him down on jilted hopes,
To laugh and cry into his hands.

“However cold that country is,
The Lord sure knows it can’t beat this
For people frozen to the bone
And treacherous as any kiss

“Of Judas— Preach utopia!
It fits ‘em like a glove,
But they forget a perfect world
Ain’t got no place for love;

“Ain’t got no place for weakness—
They will purge the place of sin
And every comfy chair there is
To seat an old, imperfect man.”

And that’s the last I heard of John
Who went his way and died
While I went on existing
In a world that can’t abide

The imperfections of a man
Who suffers for desire,
For any smile returning to
To the source of human fire.

Years have passed while imperfections
Dent the smooth, utopian dream
That die-hards force right down our throats
With bucket loads of sour cream.

I wander empty boulevards
Where vacant, eyeless, stand
The temples to Utopia;
And I’m the lonely man

Who wants religion while the winds
Of winter sweep the town
And bite me to the bone
And don’t invite me to sit down.


And here's this monstrosity I consider to be one of two masterpieces by little old me:

Better Days

A busted shard of neon dangles
Off the brick and its legend says,
For all the world to gape and gawk,
That here is a bar called Better Days.

And of the souls who drank its brew,
Many have seen what others never
Will ever enjoy even though
It is their curse to live forever.

In old Salt Lake no better hole
Beat Better Days when a schooner of brew
Was had for a quarter; but knives came free
In case you forgot what’s good for you.

And fights were fiercer way back when,
Especially at the height of the craze
When hotrods ruled the night on State
And stops were made at Better Days.

And bikers flew their colors high,
And swarmed the streets like hornets flying,
And beat the shit out of dumb punk kids,
And left them on the roadside lying.

Moods of desperation darken
When the crimson devil plays
A fugue of rancor and of sin
When sunset comes to Better Days.

Stale as smokes in ashtrays stinking,
Staler than the piss and beer
Is any skinny meth-mouth bitch
Seducing any john in here.

And if she is the poolshark’s bitch
Then ain’t no matter who she plays,
That sorry motherfucker’s dead
If he’s walked into Better Days.

A scuffed up biker in a beard,
Tobacco fingers grimy brown
Put the moves on the poolshark’s bitch
Until a cue stick beat him down.

And up he came with a derringer
And lightning flashed and thunder rumbled;
Out of the way the poolshark danced
The while the biker spun and stumbled.

Then the poolshark reached in his pants
For the pistol kept tucked under his balls
And put five slugs in the biker’s gut
That went on through and into the wall;

And wheeled the sonofabitch around
And sent him crashing through the door;
Behind him smoke in the air hanging foul
And warm blood pooling on the floor.

And into the night of noise and light
He tried to hold his guts inside,
And fell to the ground in the cold south lot
And brought his knees to his chin and died.

His face glued to the smoky sky,
And the eyes in his head were a colder glaze
That stared upon the broken sign
Proclaiming the bar that was Better Days.


And this one:

Orphan Sister

Astride a bicycle recently bought,
As near to the best his parents could buy,
Miles had conquered the vacant lot
Behind the weed-grown junior high.

As any kid who goes it alone
He played alone, as he preferred
The rustling weeds in the hot wind blown.
Behind him then he thought he heard

A man speak out behind the weeds
With words that touched the hairs behind
The head, as high and thin as reeds,
Inquiring, “Would you be so kind?”

He stepped into the high June heat
In beard and hat and heavy black coat
Saying “Somebody here I’d like you to meet.”
A ghost of a girl stepped out on the road

Smiling a weary, wire-thin smile,
As thin as she in her ashen dress,
The wear of it worn and out of style.
She appeared to be starved and nothing less.

The stranger said “She needs a home,”
And paused to study the lot with a frown,
Content to see they were three alone
In a vacant lot on the edge of town.

“Take her boy, would you please?
I promise you nobody’s breaking the law--”
He took off his hat and sank to his knees
As sweat ran streaming down his jaw.

“Boy, believe I’m a desperate man.
Times been bad for me and her;
She needs a family, you understand--
Her folks been dead these past five years.

“Saddens me most this turn of the page
But you could make a home for her
And when this girl has come of age
You’ll find a boy who’ll marry her.”

Miles made a start to the edge of the lot
While the summer heat like a show of applause
Arose to remind him he’d better got
Some better idea of prevailing laws.

She’d once known love in a loving home,
And had been somebody’s precious pearl,
By circumstances forced to roam,
And so he felt for the wandering girl;

And slow-rolled back to where they waited,
Wondering at that roll of the dice
That made the world so complicated,
Pearls dearer than their price.

“If it’s money you want my folks are broke--”
“All I ask is you give her the care--”
“This better not be some damned joke--”
“This ain’t no joke, my boy, I swear.”

The more Miles thought to turn and flee
The less he could but stand and stare,
Unconvinced to leave it be,
Her small pale face, her thin black hair,

And rattled a sigh--”Alright then, Mister.”
Then the stranger bowed and wept:
“Go, little one, and be his sister.
Now the promise I made is kept.”

He straightened up in a sudden gust
And hobbled away on his tiny feet
In a swirling ghost of a billion years’ dust
That danced away in the billowing heat.

And then a dot on the far horizon,
His absence allowed the boy to be
The master of the situation:
“I think you’d better come with me.

“Climb aboard and hold to the bars.”
He walked beside and held it steady
Westward toward the benevolent Star
Lowering in the sky already.

“Hopefully they’ll have dinner made,”
He said, although the end of day
Loomed to remind him at the grade
To wonder what his folks would say.


Alright, here's my first published ballad from 1984:

Florence Wheeler

The trees that Missus Wheeler loved,
Whose gnarled fingers raked the air,
Lie timbered to the side of the road
But Florence Wheeler is not there.

She visits in my sleep each night
As young as sixty years ago;
Her hair is black, and brown, her eyes.
She hasn’t spoken much although

I’d only give my old excuse:
“I’ve much to do, too much to do...”
The sycamores stood by and waved,
Now all they are is firewood.

“How long does sleep compass a life?”
She asked me in the dreamy night.
You push your trade and sleep the sleep
That makes your effort somehow right.”

I never had the time, you see,
To talk at her gate, as I have said.
There’s little point in it at all
Now that Florence Wheeler’s dead.

“I died for my trees,” she said, “Although
“Some say they died off long ago.
But I recall when they were young,
When it seemed best to let them grow.”

“The city chopped them down,” I smiled.
“They said the trees were in the way
Of power lines that must go through,
And time was short; they had one day

“To make the deadline--” then I stopped.
She said “I think I know you now,
And why you never came to my gate,
And why you’d rather sleep just now.”

I stepped outside in the cool, crisp air
To see the movement of our moon,
And red flags wrapped around my trees,
And swore that they would go, and soon.


Alright, one more:

Winter Incident

There lived a girl named Alice, who
In loyalty stayed forever true;
Her mother yet forever rued
The day the angels brought her.
So Alice left home early on,
But circumstances plagued upon
The soul of her ‘til all had gone
And left a ruined daughter.

As she had grown so wearily poor,
Returning to her mother’s door:
“There’s nothing for me anymore
And I won’t last the winter.”
And when she sickened she was sure
Her mother’s potions were no cure;
Something in them seemed impure,
To agony they sent her.

“I will not last the night, she said.
“I doubt your words,” her mother said.
But Alice said “I’ll soon be dead
And gone before tomorrow.”
Then as the night came racing round
To settle down upon the town,
Into that night fell Alice down
To leave this world of sorrow.

They slid her corpse into a grave.
The bishop claimed her soul was saved,
But three nights later did she rave
Despite her mother’s trouble.
The old dame heard the moans and sighs,
Fearing the worst she searched the skies;
Never were there heard such cries
To turn the nerve to rubble.

Among the squat trees in a clear
She saw her Alice standing there;
The moonlight glanced a glowing tear,
The dead face of her daughter.
“Oh, daughter mine, then will you go
“To where the spirit waters flow?
“To heaven she must surely go
And as the good book taught her.”

But closer came the ghost in view
And clutched her mother cold but true:
“No, mother, I have come for you.
Tonight we leave together.
I’ll take you were the dank and cool
Beneath the salamander’s pool
Seep in the hallways of the skull
Away from wind & weather.”

Her fingers icy, long and thin,
They stabbed her mother like a pin
And dragged her by the arm therein
The place that knows no toil.
Come morning then the townsfolk came
To find the mother dead the same
Where she had scratched her daughter’s name
Into the frozen soil.