Oh My Chameleon Perceptions

Oh, my Chameleon Perceptions

Grey, with fellow Enid musicians Steven Harwood and Mike Harbour, turned four of my poems (Perceptions, Chameleon, Unexnon, My My) from my first book Tea & Sprockets into this song which will appear on Grey’s forthcoming album, Booze & Psychedelics due out in the fall. Click here to listen if the embed doesn’t appear.

Below are the four poems that make up the lyrics to the song.

Perceptions

Lying in the leaves,
Music flowing through her bones,
Thoughts, ideas swell inside,
Visual creation.
It needs no explanation.
Springtime day at noon,
Life begins to bloom,
Kicking stones straight down,
Laughing now.
She’s such a clown.
World is ending.
She cares not.
Life blooms on.
That’s her sole thought.
Drumming on,
Marching on,
They shoot.
She feels not.
They’ve died.
She knows not.
They’re in pain.
Alone. Forgot.

Chameleon

In a new world
devoid of devotion
to tradition and song
lost in illusion
forgetting the wrongs
of a generation’s past.

Into the night
we step into darkness
seeking the light
of the sun and the moon
forgiving the world
for it’s only doomed.

Sadly awaking
I look to my left
seeing the dragons
breathing fire at dawn
clutching my chest
beginnings are gone.

Strong evolution
revolutions gone past
escaping the prison
of timing and space
into the reasons
we all leave this place.

Nonsensical murmurs
of the front porch light
piercing mosquitoes
illuminating misdeeds
from men who seek evil
but play good in the light.

My My

My my.
What do I actually care?
Because I don’t!
Not in this vast darkness
in the infinite corridors
of my mind.

I cannot care.
For when I cease
to care, my
my head is free!
Yes, freedom
slowly cut out
surgically removed
from
the national
conscience.

Subconscious are my,
my thoughts.
Silent protest on
the lawn
picketing—fences.

The dull ache.
The notion.
Yearning.
Screaming.
SHUT UP!

Alas, refrain!
Impolite.
Innocence.
There is no right
to silence.

Silence your pain.
Memories.
Screaming.
Aching.
Nervous breaking.
Flood.

Unexnon

I am uncertain.
Day to day.
Are you true?
Why do I ponder?
No importance.
I trust your words.
Your actions confuse me.
Sanity is but a dream.
Nonexistent. Labeled.
Tell me who I am.
Who are you?
I cannot say what I want for I do not know.
I walk among earthquakes,
pondering the purpose, but not seeing one.
Joy is fleeting.
Why do you use me so?
No, I like it. Overwhelmed. No time.
Have I misjudged everyone?
Or is the world more skeptical than I?
I am a fool.
Damn my inhibitions.
They lead me into a cage.
Trapped for no reasons.
Destined for a lonely world.
Thousands walking.
Paths collide. We are blind.
I fear what you’d think.
Do you know?
I retract my harsh words.
You were right.

open book of family story

Dining with your Skeleton, an Enid, Oklahoma poem

If you grew up in Enid, Oklahoma as I did, and have studied the town’s history, mythology, and artists, you’ll understand the cultural references in this poem that appears in Abundant Sparks & Personal Archeology. This poem also appears on the spoken word album Happy Accidents recorded in Enid in March 2015. (This is a repost, as I noticed there was a broken link on the old post.)

Dining with your Skeleton

From the sweet simplicity of wooden sidewalks of yore
Words intricately woven by that judicious James
Your sweet wheat blows
Through the fields where dreamers lay.
The gentle serenade of Hedges
Waltzes with the soulful Mitchell,
carrying me beyond those rough days
Spent struggling for survival.
How I admire your modern day bards,
As they fly on pegasys wings,
Igniting my soul. I study your myths,
From George to Holden to Roye.
You build the statues of my heart,
Painting the dreams unending,
That carry me onward, a rooted rose rock.
I’ve walked your hallowed halls in exile,
With infamous grey evangelicals,
Amid the Roman columns of values,
Silhouetted in skies once inspiring
The likes of Cessna and Woodring, that Musketeer.
Placed my feet solid in red dirt
That may hold not the mummy of that rascal George,
But the Union Patriot turned messiah gopher, Corbett.
They like me never saw your Victory ships,
Nor your Carnegie. Though these days
My eyes oft admire mountains and palm trees,
The faint train whistle carries my heart,
Whispering “Remember your history.”