Dream of Me – Jerry

In the attics of my life, full of cloudy dreams unreal.
Full of tastes no tongue can know, and lights no eyes can see.
When there was no ear to hear, you sang to me.I have spent my life seeking all that’s still unsung.
Bent my ear to hear the tune, and closed my eyes to see.
When there was no strings to play, you played to me.

In the book of love’s own dream, where all the print is blood.
Where all the pages are my days, and all the lights grow old.
When I had no wings to fly, you flew to me, you flew to me.

In the secret space of dreams, where I dreaming lay amazed.
When the secrets all are told, and the petals all unfold.
When there was no dream of mine, you dreamed of me.

_

Jerry Garcia

Once a Deadhead…Always a Deadhead

Grateful_Dead_28197029
In the attics of my life, full of cloudy dreams unreal.
Full of tastes no tongue can know, and lights no eyes can see.
When there was no ear to hear, you sang to me.I have spent my life seeking all that’s still unsung.
Bent my ear to hear the tune, and closed my eyes to see.
When there was no strings to play, you played to me.In the book of love’s own dream, where all the print is blood.
Where all the pages are my days, and all the lights grow old.
When I had no wings to fly, you flew to me, you flew to me.In the secret space of dreams, where I dreaming lay amazed.
When the secrets all are told, and the petals all unfold.
When there was no dream of mine, you dreamed of me.
_Jerry Garcia

Deadhead: are the large group of devoted fans of the Grateful Dead. Mainly Hippies the Deadheads have created a counterculture that exists at any Grateful Dead or Dead.  Many Deadheads recreation-ally use marijuana and LSD especially during the concerts though this is not the case for all Deadheads. Many types of people are Deadheads, even some politicians such as Bill Clinton have called themselves Deadheads. Deadheads generally don tie-dyed clothes, the trade mark Birkenstock sandals, and many have dreadlocks. They are laid-back and fun-loving, as well as non-judging and accepting of all types of people.

American Beauty

Fear no messenger!

Behold the skew with a charm.

A lattice for her mystique.

Infinitely quotable…never disputable.

Only an American Beauty when holding my poor grammar in her hands.

Within seconds she can embellish my pride by provoking a grand stand.

All too often I am composed of complacency to daily duties.

Still, as mystics do, what they do!

My American Beauty can see directly through.

Ceaselessly, I am a pitiful calamity Jane misinterpreting her chores.

I am the forgotten item at a grocery store.

I am a slapstick Jester in the courtship of an American Beauty.

She is a visionary who can see right through me.

but still 4
If I had a star to give, I’d give it to you
Long as you live, would you have the time
To watch it shine, watch it shine
Or ask for the moon and heaven too? ##Jerry Garcia

the Great Conceal-er, the Great Confessor

Sometimes, I ran so fast; My place in time, became lost.  Stone walls, broken ten speeds and placebo drugs.  Inhibitions that covered the truth of emotional abuse by the adoption of booze, blotter and smoke.

Though, the city-scape had always been, an abandoned countryside.  My skyscrapers, as a child, were pines, years and centuries, in the making.

To date, I can hear the footfalls, the gravel traffic jams, the sandy over washed roadways…that came raining down in sound.  Sounds of silence so loud;

Lulls from the yells became thunderous.

Music has forever been the great conceal-er of pain.  The great confessor of someone else’s crimes…Crimes of ill placed, angry, fist clenched passion.

 

‘We need music.  Not sure why!  Just as we need, ceremony.  Mirth, passion, rebirth, death…a manner in which to box the rain.’     RandomwordbyRuth

Box of Rain

Look out of any window
Any morning, any evening, any day
Maybe the sun is shining
Birds are winging or
Rain is falling from a heavy sky,
What do you want me to do,
To do for you to see you through?
For this is all a dream we dreamed
One afternoon long ago
Walk out of any doorway
Feel your way, feel your way
Like the day before
Maybe you’ll find direction
Around some corner
Where it’s been waiting to meet you,
What do you want me to do,
To watch for you while you’re sleeping?
Well please don’t be surprised
When you find me dreaming too

Look into any eyes
You find by you, you can see
Clear through to another day
Maybe been seen before
Through other eyes on other days
While going home,
What do you want me to do,
To do for you to see you through?
It’s all a dream we dreamed
One afternoon long ago

Walk into splintered sunlight
Inch your way through dead dreams
To another land
Maybe you’re tired and broken
Your tongue is twisted
With words half spoken
And thoughts unclear
What do you want me to do
To do for you to see you through
A box of rain will ease the pain
And love will see you through

Just a box of rain,
Wind and water,
Believe it if you need it,
If you don’t just pass it on
Sun and shower,
Wind and rain,
In and out the window
Like a moth before a flame

And it’s just a box of rain
I don’t know who put it there
Believe it if you need it
Or leave it if you dare
And it’s just a box of rain
Or a ribbon for your hair
Such a long long time to be gone
And a short time to be there

Heretic Blues

Had he loved his women?  He loved them as much as guilt.  As far as, the sharing of misdeeds could stretch.  But this one, the Keeper, carried the culpability, as though it were a cup of tea.  A precious chalice of saturation to a thirsty martyr lurking behind a family tree.isle-of-imcompletes-3

The shame forever evolved.  Resembling a tossed out Marlboro…an everlasting ash of gray .  White, burned out, trash, here to stay..

A partner to, his,  biblical claim.  Delilah…her name.

Theirs was a love affair of another kind.

Delilah, with her Yukon Jack and Pall Malls.

Sampson, with accusations making everything around…small.

If one were too close.  Blinded.  Eyes shut tight.  It would still emerge as though, heaven’s humor.  Were as poignant and pointed, as the Papal’s shoes.

How droll?  His and Her, backward, bibles…old news.220px-papal_shoes

No punchline.  No testaments!  Sampson,  just an aging fool.

A marriage to divine comedy.  Where everyone put on flawed red shoes and danced to heretic, hazy, hues.

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