Waiting for an Alibi Album: Black Rose: A Rock Legend Date: 1979 Genre: Rock Artist: Thin Lizzy
Thin Lizzy are a hard rock band formed in Dublin, Ireland in 1959. Generally classified as hard rock their music reflects a wide variety of influences such as blues, soul, and psychedelic rock. Drummer Brian Downey and bass guitarist/lead vocalist Phil Lynott met while at school. Lynott was also the principal songwriter and led the group throughout their recording career of twelve albums, writing most of the material. After Lynott’s death (1986) the band emerged in various incarnations initially around the guitarists Scott Gorham and John Sykes. Lynott was the first black Irishman to achieve commercial success in rock music. As well as being multiracial the band drew its early members from both sides of the Irish border and also from both Catholic and Protestant communities during a troubled era in Irish history
Hector Berlioz Romantic Born: 11 December 1803, La Côte-Saint-André, France Nationality: French Died: 8 March 1869, Paris, France
Berlioz was a composer and conductor of the Romantic era. His works include orchestral works, choral pieces, three operas, and compositions of hybrid genres. As the eldest son of a provincial doctor, Berlioz was expected to enter the medical profession, and attended a Parisian medical college before going against his family and taking up a professional music career. His independence and refusal to follow traditional rules and forms and formulas put him at odds with the musical conservatism of the Parisian establishment.
It all started so nicely, a cracking prompt, a few lines coming to mind, and a fresh cup of coffee. So I go to the next form on my list, the Welsh Byr A Thoddaid. Internal rhymes first thing in the morning – even I am saying Jezzie you are some sort of masochist
Good Morning Taffy Form: Byr a Thoddaid
A wake-up call as the dawn breaks The last of sleep needs some sharp shakes But a good morning softened by sweetness A zesty early mood
While the coffee filters now spurt And my arms stretch in a clean shirt By nature’s design, the senses are teased With freshly squeezed sunshine
The poet then ready to word play The writer set to face the day The word play is fun but it’s tough sometimes Internal rhymes, I’m done
Matter of Survival Form: Epistle Theme: A Self-Healing Journey
As a Celtic Pagan the old year is ending and new year is about to begin it seems more than a little apt that my self-healing journey is at an evaluation point so the first half of the year was hideous with my mental health shot and my emotional state a complete car crash the impact of three years of negative toxicity was taking its toll that’s for sure so moving quickly past that shit and sitting with a fabulous therapist a lovely guy who put me into a self- healing course which I thought would be a complete waste of time but I was used to wasting my time and doing the worthless things I do by then so went with it it couldn’t get any worse I am not ashamed to say I got that totally wrong I’m not saying things got better instantly either in fact to begin with they got worse but it was digging among the scraps of myself I found that one thing that was solid that became a new foundation stone to rebuild me I’m proud of how far I have come and I know I still have a long way to go so instead of a beginning, the new year is a continuation because this year I know I am worth it
Gus is the Cat at the Theatre Door. His name, as I ought to have told you before, Is really Asparagus. That’s such a fuss To pronounce, that we usually call him just Gus. His coat’s very shabby, he’s thin as a rake, And he suffers from palsy that makes his paw shake. Yet he was, in his youth, quite the smartest of Cats– But no longer a terror to mice and to rats. For he isn’t the Cat that he was in his prime; Though his name was quite famous, he says, in its time. And whenever he joins his friends at their club (Which takes place at the back of the neighbouring pub) He loves to regale them, if someone else pays, With anecdotes drawn from his palmiest days. For he once was a Star of the highest degree– He has acted with Irving, he’s acted with Tree. And he likes to relate his success on the Halls, Where the Gallery once gave him seven cat-calls. But his grandest creation, as he loves to tell, Was Firefrorefiddle, the Fiend of the Fell.
“I have played,” so he says, “every possible part, And I used to know seventy speeches by heart. I’d extemporize back-chat, I knew how to gag, And I knew how to let the cat out of the bag. I knew how to act with my back and my tail; With an hour of rehearsal, I never could fail. I’d a voice that would soften the hardest of hearts, Whether I took the lead, or in character parts. I have sat by the bedside of poor Little Nell; When the Curfew was rung, then I swung on the bell. In the Pantomime season I never fell flat, And I once understudied Dick Whittington’s Cat. But my grandest creation, as history will tell, Was Firefrorefiddle, the Fiend of the Fell.”
Then, if someone will give him a toothful of gin, He will tell how he once played a part in East Lynne. At a Shakespeare performance he once walked on pat, When some actor suggested the need for a cat. He once played a Tiger–could do it again– Which an Indian Colonel purused down a drain. And he thinks that he still can, much better than most, Produce blood-curdling noises to bring on the Ghost. And he once crossed the stage on a telegraph wire, To rescue a child when a house was on fire. And he says: “Now then kittens, they do not get trained As we did in the days when Victoria reigned. They never get drilled in a regular troupe, And they think they are smart, just to jump through a hoop.” And he’ll say, as he scratches himself with his claws, “Well, the Theatre’s certainly not what it was. These modern productions are all very well, But there’s nothing to equal, from what I hear tell, That moment of mystery When I made history As Firefrorefiddle, the Fiend of the Fell.”
TS Eliot Born: 26 September 1888. Missouri, USA Nationality: British-American Died: 4 January 1965, London, England
Eliot was an essayist, publisher, playwright, poet, literary critic, and editor. He is considered to be among the major poets of the 20th century and a central figure in English-language Modernist poetry. Eliot was born in Missouri and moved to England at the age of 25 where he settled, worked, and married. In 1927, at age 39 he renounced his American citizenship and became a British citizen
There can be only one song for this week from me. My all-time number 1 track for decades. “While My Guitar Gently Weeps” was written and performed by George Harrison. Harrison was a musician and singer-songwriter who rose to fame with the Beatles. Often referred to as the quiet Beatle he embraced Indian culture and spirituality. From 1965 George Harrison wrote at least two songs per Beatle album, including “While My Guitar Gently Weeps” Harrison died in 2001 from lung cancer. His ashes were scattered in the Ganges and Yamuna rivers in India according to Hindu tradition.
Dhani Harrison is the only child of George and Olivia Harrison. He is a musician, composer, and singer-songwriter. In 2004 he appeared alongside Jeff Lynne, Tom Petty, and Prince performing “While My Guitar Gently Weeps” to mark the post-humous induction of his father into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.
I look at you all See the love there that’s sleeping While my guitar gently weeps
I look at the floor And I see it needs sweeping Still my guitar gently weeps
I don’t know why nobody told you How to unfold your love I don’t know how someone controlled you They bought and sold you
I look at the world And I notice, it’s turning While my guitar gently weeps
With every mistake We must surely be learning Still my guitar gently weeps
I don’t know how you were diverted You were perverted too I don’t know how you were inverted No one alerted you
I look from the wings At the play you are staging While my guitar gently weeps
‘Cause I’m sitting here Doing nothing but aging Still my guitar gently weeps
Dub the mic on the piano and quite low this Just keep it in my maracas, you know You know, those old pianos
You may enlarge any image in this blog by clicking on it. Click again for a detailed view. This pretty little bird with its gray plumage, its golden face, and tiny red epaulets on its shoulders, is a Verdin. I photographed it yesterday morning in Tucson’s Ft. Lowell Park. Verdins are a common sight in […]
My galley charged with forgetfulness Through sharp seas in winter nights doth pass ‘Tween rock and rock; ad eke mine enemy, alas, That is my lord, steereth with cruelness; And every oar a thought in readiness, As through that death were light in such a case. An endless wind doth tear the sail space, Or forced sighs and trusty fearfulness; A rain of tears, a cloud of dark disdain, Hath done the wearied cords great hinderance, Wreathed with error and eke with ignorance. The stars be hid that led me to this pain; Drowned is reason that should me comfort, And I remain, despairing of the port