- Last Record: 2011-04-14 05:42:45 -0700
- Joined: Mar 15, 2011
Please watch the handsome and adorable MattConley's video (in resources) before watching this one. Then it will all make sense.
Babbish and GillianGoodman are happy parents of little song called Whiskey Picnic. I hope you enjoy my pantomime of the creative birthing process.
This lil' vid describes why I chose to distribute my poems online at HitRecord.org, sends a thank you out to folks, shows off my sassy skillz, and has a gag reel!
The carnies have brought their tents and smells:
Browning apples, strewn peanut shells
Roasting corn and horses’ tails
Pretzel dogs and pails of ale.
Fall air thick with funnel cake batter,
Mamas in tent dresses, and a smatter
Of little kids wide-eyed and hyped-up
They try but just can’t get enough.
Their hands, covered in cotton-candy-stick,
Their clothes all dripped-on from the things they lick,
So stained and tinged (how mama’s washboards plea)
The babes slam the hammer into the “See How Strong” machine.
The fiendish little boys and girls,
All scrapes and squeals, all cowlicks and curls,
From daddy beg that rust-red ribbon of tickets
To shove in the fists of crook-toothed attendants.
And they sing, “Fun house! Mirror house!
Step right up!
Ticket pile! Turn-style!
Getcher arms up!”
Surrender a ticket and board
A pull of a lever and rise to the top of the world
Hand-dipped corn dogs make stomachs flip
With a ride on the upside-down pirate ship,
Or looking down from a creaky ferris wheel,
Life, just a small old memory from up there-
As the wind blows around like the dust of the world does,
Golden glow the carny lights, brighter than last Christmas.
Written and read by Gillian Goodman
Poem by pathosvlogos read by Gillian South Goodman
From A SHROPSHIRE LAD: XIX To An Athelete Dying Young by A. E. Housman (1859-1936)
The time you won your town the race /We chaired you through the market-place; /Man and boy stood cheering by, /And home we brought you shoulder-high...
Smart lad, to slip betimes away /From fields where glory does not stay /And early though the laurel grows /It withers quicker than the rose...
Now you will not swell the rout /Of lads that wore their honours out, /Runners whom renown outran /And the name died before the man...
And round that early-laurelled head /Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead, /And find unwithered on its curls /The garland briefer than a girl's.
A Whiskey Picnic
Ain’t no grapes and ripped bread, we sip whiskey instead
We drink and dream of casks and caskets
On a whiskey picnic you don’t need no basket
Two shots for the road lightens the load
But five or six And you’re really fixed
On highways and byways we walk the train tracks
And forget the way back
Our voices rattle and chain down whiskey lane
As we sing a song it carries us along
Our whiskey picnic ho-down Feels warm on the way down
That corn wine flow don’t lay us low
Whiskey picnics don’t end when you got bottled friends
Our throats washed in gold, it never gets old
On outdoor dinners we’ll fill our jiggers
And toast God’s barrels, sing whiskey carols
Whet our lips and kiss with candor when our blood’s half amber
We forget to speak and fall asleep
Lay our glasses down on leaf and ground
Whiskey picnic roll-around
We wake for swigs, hair full of twigs
Slurred sweet nothings that pluck our heartstrings
My bottle’s yours, we break only for pours
We’re star-crossed drunks, we raise our cups
To getting’ frisky: Cheers, darlin’, here’s to whiskey.
By Gillian South Goodman
“She tried to make me bleed by the rattlings of her tongue” --Willie McTell
Keep righteous little darlin’
don’t open that mouth
and sing pretty for the blind.
He’s singin’, singin’,
just listen, Georgia girl,
let Willie McTell rest-
he bleeds for no gal-
he asks, but don’t answer.
you fancy yourself a siren,
but you’ll rattle yourself wrong.
The girl don’t listen, she brings
A biscuit for his thoughts,
the long face like the dusty road,
the laugh like the devil, like the sky,
like the bottle, like the bed.
Sing, he said and she sang,
cause a girl never listens,
a girl never listens,
her voice like the creek
lapping up to the shore
and then the bluesman was gone,
his long fingernails,
his coal black skin,
his arms like guitar strings
he tunes and retunes
and walks away alone
into the woods again
singing in tongues
those weary hearted blues
by Gillian South Goodman