Tag Archives: art

The Wings of Shahwah

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Sirens

The Wings of Shahwah
I fell
into the abysmal hell
where angels doth fly
with wings of feather,
gliding high
into the nether
of angelic decadence.
Rhyme doth come with ease
when betwixt by lust,
for it blows a breeze
of formidable thrust,
Rendering the prey powerless
and thus,
stricken by the whims
of a lady’s prowess.

Wherefore art the dwellings
of the sirens
who call upon brazen youth,
feeble in mind and deft of might?
In green pastures frolic a coterie
of maidens,
fair in complexion
and fine in proportion –
well endowed in their rears
with shapely cushions
and graced with a loft of resilient bosoms.

By God,
who hath created this gem,
free me from the trials
of endless desire
and a hunger that may
never be quenched.
A toil I bear to death,
I am left out of tune
and bereft;
My senses weakened,
T’is a knackered beacon
of fortune’s plight,
burning the eyes from sight.

Yet as I continue to fall,
the ship of a thousand
dreams shall overbear
and ne’er haul.
Upon thy rosé cheek,
O goddess of flesh!
Do I attest to thy
sublimity!
Damnéd I may be,
be it an eternity,
I am forever enslaved
to your heavenly affinity.

By Mensur Gjonbalaj
July 10, 2015

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Many A Song Were Written …

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Many A Song Were Written
The feel of her flesh’s steamy steel
wrap my breathe like a rolling film reel
Sliding and gliding, my soul rides through the wet slopes of her fire
She’s really got me going, got me going higher
I used to be a slave to life and its daily toils
Now I’m living free in this mortal coil
I’ve spent countless nights composing melodies, feeling oblique and sad
Thinking of all the crazy and finish ways she’s driven me mad

Many a song were written in the light of her wake
and still, many a year later, don’t do any good for my sake
Money lingers, scarce and hard to come along
Yet despite my soul’s equivoque poverty
I can’t help myself from carrying on
in the wrong of fantasy
and the heights of ecstasy

Not necessarily living lavishly, nor large
but such is fate when passion’s in charge

By Mensur Gjonbalaj
June 3, 2015

Home by Jack Johnson (A Dedication)

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Home

Over the past week I’ve been away from home, traveling out and about while doing a little bit of soul searching. I love traveling. It’s great for the body, mind, and soul, and can sometimes help you expand your outlook on life. But another thing my travels do is help me realize just how important my loved ones are to me.
Home is where the heart is and my heart is with those whom I love.

I dedicate this wonderful acoustic song by Jack Johnson to all those dear to my heart …

Home
I’ve gotta get home there’s a garden to tend
There’s fruit on the ground and the birds have all moved back into my attic,
Whistling static
And the young learn to fly
I will patch all the holes up again

Well, I can’t believe that my lime tree is dead
I thought it was sleeping, I guess it got fed up with not being fed
And I would be too, I keep food in my belly
And hope that my time isn’t soon.

And so I try to understand
What I can’t hold in my hand
And wherever we are home is there too
And if you could try to find it too
‘Cause this place is overgrown, needs some whacks and mow.
Home is wherever we are if there’s love here too

In the back of our house there’s a trail that won’t end
We went walking so far that it grew back again
There’s no trail at all
Only grass growing taller
Get out my machete and battle with time once again
But I’m bound to lose ’cause I’ll be down if time don’t win

I’ve gotta get home there’s a garden to tend
All the seeds from the fruits buried and begin
Their own family trees teach them, thank you and please
They spread their own roots, then watch their young fruit grow again
And this old trail will lead me right back to where it begins

And so I try to understand
What I can’t hold in my hand
And whatever I find I’ll find my way back to you
And if you could try to find it too
‘Cause this place is overgrown, needs some whacks and mow.
Home is wherever we are if there’s love here too

Central – John Frusciante

John Frusciante

John Frusciante

The following is a song written and performed by John Frusciante, former guitarist of the Red Hot Chili Peppers. The song Central is a track taken from his 2009 solo album The Empyrean.

Central

I’m central to nowhere
Thinking of sweeping it clean
When we choose to go were losing more than just our surroundings
I’ve gone around the sides of this universe as it stands
Outside the limits of all existence
Where light never ends

We should be grateful to the gods
Whoever they’re real to they are
I value my placement as in Hell
Remember that moment that I fell

Anything that could one day be is as real as what I’m saying
If something is nothing it must not be something in any possible way
Lo-lo-lose yourself in the far off worlds that are right under your feet
Switch below with above all the way up into infinity

We should be thankful who we are
Whether we know ourselves or not
Walking alongside myself
Neither of us listens very well

I’m dreading a time that is not near
As a man on cross I have no fear I can’t believe these words I’m saying
You gotta feel your lines
You gotta feel your lines

I’m dreading a time that is not near
As a man on cross I have no fear I can’t believe these words I’m saying
You gotta feel your lines
You gotta feel your lines

I’m dreading a time that is not near

Ahhh!

I’m dreading a time that is not near
As a man on cross I have no fear I can’t believe these words I’m saying
You gotta feel your lines
You gotta feel your lines

by John Frusciante

As We Were

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As We Were

She had me in deep
Met her at CBGB’s ’78
Wandering streets like a creep
Wander and wait
Till I saw that face
Loud and distorted
She slapped a mean bass
The noise I snorted
like a drug I couldn’t get enough of
Riot, it was a teenage riot
Back then,
all we had were ourselves
and our music
Making love to our guitars
Beating the amps with the stars
They told us we were throwing our loves away
But we lived in a world of decay
Full of hate and disarray
There was no tomorrow
Only today
We had something to say
and though they covered their ears
We said what we wanted anyway
Reciting our deepest fears
without reprise
Revealing the truth
Atop a mountain of lies
I refused to sit and wait
So I stood up to decide my fate
And deny anyone else the right
I had no partner
Until she came along
It wasn’t love at first sight
And didn’t consist of petty fights
About this and that or her need to always be right
We simply were
As we were
No deep protestation
No unnecessary obligation
Me, her
Her, me
The music we fused
Together amused
Her head of gold
And my copper mold
Blended, entwined
Forever confined
Sense? It never made any
Order? It never had any
It was what it was
We were who we were
The music was rich
and made us rich
Never the bitch
Never failing to deliver the pitch
When the music was over
We went our ways
Ending those magical days
The spark may have never died
But since she’s been gone
All my guitar has done is cry
Regardless the pain of my fate
I carry on: wander and wait

by Mensur Gjonbalaj
April 28, 2014

Greensleeves

Greensleeves. Dante Gabriel Rossetti. 1864.

Greensleeves. Dante Gabriel Rossetti. 1864.

Greensleeves is an English traditional folk song written in 1580 by Richard Jones.

Greensleeves

Alas my love you do me wrong
To cast me off discourteously;
And I have loved you oh so long
Delighting in your company.

Greensleeves was my delight,
Greensleeves my heart of gold
Greensleeves was my heart of joy
And who but my lady Greensleeves.

I have been ready at your hand
To grant whatever thou would’st crave;
I have waged both life and land
Your love and goodwill for to have.

Greensleeves was my delight,
Greensleeves my heart of gold
Greensleeves was my heart of joy
And who but my lady Greensleeves.

Thy petticoat of sendle white
With gold embroidered gorgeously;
Thy petticoat of silk and white
And these I bought gladly.

Greensleeves was my delight,
Greensleeves my heart of gold
Greensleeves was my heart of joy
And who but my lady Greensleeves.

The Harp of Cnoc I’Chosgair

harp celtic

The Harp of Cnoc I’Chosgair

Harp of Cnoc I’Chosgair, you who bring sleep
to eyes long sleepless;
sweet subtle, plangent, glad, cooling grave.
Excellent instrument with smooth gentle curve,
trilling under red fingers,
musician that has charmed us,
red, lion-like of full melody.

You who lure the bird from the flock,
you who refresh the mind,
brown spotted one of sweet words,
ardent, wondrous, passionate.
You who heal every wounded warrior,
joy and allurement to women,
familiar guide over the dark blue water,
mystic sweet sounding music.

You who silence every instrument of music,
yourself a sweet plaintive instrument,
dweller among the Race of Conn,
instrument yellow-brown and firm.
The one darling of sages,
restless, smooth, sweet of tune,
crimson star above the Fairy Hills,
breast jewel of High Kings.

Sweet tender flowers, brown harp of Diarmaid,
shape not unloved by hosts, voice of cuckoos in May!
I have not heard music ever such as your frame makes
since the time of the Fairy People,
fair brown many coloured bough,
gentle, powerful, glorious.

Sound of the calm wave on the beach,
pure shadowing tree of pure music,
carousals are drunk in your company,
voice of the swan over shining streams.
Cry of the Fairy Women from the Fairy Hill of Ler,
no melody can match you,
every house is sweet stringed through your guidance,
you the pinnacle of harp music.

by Gofraidh Fion O Dalaigh. 1385.