@Mame,
You reported her to immigration, you burned the house down, you broke her legs, you slept with her husband, you boiled her rabbit.
All of the above.
Left the door open so that the goats and chickens could wander freely throughout the house?
Down the street the dogs are barkin'
And the day is a-gettin' dark
As the night comes in a-fallin'
The dogs 'll lose their bark
And the silent night will shatter
From the sounds inside my mind
As I'm one too many mornings
And a thousand miles behind
From the crossroads of my doorstep
My eyes start to fade
And I turn my head back to the room
Where my love and I have laid
And I gaze back to the street
The sidewalk and the sign
And I'm one too many mornings
And a thousand miles behind
It's a restless hungry feeling
That don't mean no one no good
When ev'rything I'm a-sayin'
You can say it just as good
You're right from your side
I'm right from mine
We're both just one too many mornings
And a thousand miles behind
Bob Dylan, One Too Many Mornings
@eurocelticyankee,
All's well that ends well!
The Song of Wandering Aengus
I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.
When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire a-flame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And someone called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.
Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done,
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.
William Butler Yeats.
@eurocelticyankee,
Great writing. Reading, I can't help being minded of Ray Bradbury's book, The Golden Apples of the Sun.
@edgarblythe,
Ah. I just heard the recording. Beautiful.
@edgarblythe,
I'm pretty sure Donovan recorded it too.
I devoured Bradbury's books in my teens.
@roger,
It shalt remaineth a mystery forever. Nevermore.
@eurocelticyankee,
I have most of Donovan's records. I must have missed that one.
“So, look, I wrote a book called The Goose That Mooed, for what d’ ya call the little bastards? Children. A-A-And I know if you could publish it you’d make a real **** pile of money. I’m going to let you read a copy of it, but I gotta warn ya. You’ll have to bid for it.” Rackly knew exactly what he was doing. The world was crying to have a book like this and his genius would have to be rewarded. He plopped a tattered sheaf of papers before the astonished agent. “Read it. Now.”
Peters the agent tried to push the papers back at this idiot but Rackly slipped out the top sheet and laid it before Peters. He grabbed the sides of Peters’ head and held it so that the agent couldn’t look away without squeezing his eyes shut. He read.
“Well, you porker at the trough. What do you think?”
Peters swallowed. “Feed me another page.”
The agent intently studied the second page. At last, after a protracted internal dialog, he remarked, “Let me have the full manuscript, Mr. -?”
“Rackly. Barnwell Rackly.”
Rackly had loosened his grip enough that Peters could look up full into the idiot’s face. No, genius author’s face. What a beautiful persona they could build around that face.
“I have a great deal of money for you, Mr. Rackly …."
Rackly was shaken from his reverie by the sound of an ambulance siren racing with flashing lights through the haze of the Long Beach night. He checked his watch. Ten fifty-three. In eight minutes he would be duty-bound to leave the dry confines of his auto to brave the six inches of rainwater to punch a series of clocks to prove he was on the job as a night watchman. With no rubber boots, the experience became more distasteful with each passing hour. He didn’t understand why it had to rain every day when it had rarely rained in Long Beach when he was stationed at the nearby naval base. Well - The naval base was gone and the rain was here. He looked down at the spiral notebook in his lap. At least the time spent just sitting was not going to waste. He was writing.
Sitting in the passenger seat, severely hunched over, he was able to read and write in the light of the car light. This was a nearly thankless task. He found it daunting to read his own writing, for nearly every sentence had been scribbled over and rewritten so many times that scribbles were nearly all that was left.
He looked at the watch. Time to make his round, then return to write. And daydream. "One day, Peters -"
@edgarblythe,
Same song/poem, completely different sound.
Both are good.
Being a big Christy Moore fan I like his version better.
I assume you being a big Donovan fan you prefer his version.
What we need is a neutral ear to decide.
@eurocelticyankee,
I don't approach a recording like that. If two artists record the same song I listen to them as though they are singing a different song. That way I can appreciate them on their own merits. I loved both versions here.
Years ago I had a friend who told me he hates Peggy Lee for "stealing" Little Willie John's song, Fever. I told him the same thing. They both are fantastic.
@edgarblythe,
edgarblythe wrote:
Left the door open so that the goats and chickens could wander freely throughout the house?
I guess that was the answer.
My current writing projects are a portrait of my mother and a third tale about a bandit of the old west, Mexican Red.
Thinking about getting a Dodge car. I wonder - Are they still the same pieces of **** they used to be? It's a good buy for that year and everything on it's good. We don't drive far anymore. We have a few days to decide.
