Dr.Spud44's Ripples of Hope Creations

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Turning Lead Into Gold

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It is puzzling that we struggle with this life

We worry about what others think about us

When they really don't reflect on us at all

We reach out our hand to others hoping

 

Often, our hands get slapped away or dismissed

Not only because of meanness or disagreements

But for something perhaps even worse-indifference

We, They are wrapped up in our own worlds

 

The ones we created in our minds for reasons

We really never challenge or analyze fully

Falsely believing that our disputes are

So unique, important-a trap we gladly embrace

 

The gift of consciousness is not recognized

Here we are in this shared reality orbiting

On an isolated blue orb in a silent universe

We don't spend enough time looking up or in

 

Rather, we mostly react to events,conditions

Most of them petty and meaningless in the end

We shrug off our victories and shiny moments

Focusing instead on the struggles, dilemmas

 

We look for all kinds of myths or explanations

Of why this life must have some hidden meaning

Some still adhere to Bronze Age stories to help

Others can hardly wait for the other, better life

 

Which is so odd, unbalanced as this now life

Is amazing, wonderful and could be enjoyable

Many seem to enjoy not enjoying, claiming

The right for if you only knew my struggles

 

I've been used, abused, refused and forced to lose

The universe is out to get me and I can prove it

People hurt me, tear at my giving heart unfairly

The search for happiness is never really earnest

 

Yes, it is puzzling that most do not relish living

They put a noose around their neck voluntarily

Wishing for this, hoping for that, ignoring...

The marvels along the way on this journey

 

Seven billion souls exist on this planet but

How many truly live? And am I one of them?

If not, why? This life is a flash in eternity

I need to remember that at all times-will I?

The Weary Blues

     
Droning a drowsy syncopated tune,
Rocking back and forth to a mellow croon,
I heard a Negro play.
Down on Lenox Avenue the other night
By the pale dull pallor of an old gas light
He did a lazy sway ....
He did a lazy sway ....
To the tune o' those Weary Blues.

With his ebony hands on each ivory key
He made that poor piano moan with melody.
O Blues!
Swaying to and fro on his rickety stool
He played that sad raggy tune like a musical fool.
Sweet Blues!
Coming from a black man's soul.

O Blues!
In a deep song voice with a melancholy tone
I heard that Negro sing, that old piano moan--
"Ain't got nobody in all this world,
Ain't got nobody but ma self.
I's gwine to quit ma frownin'
And put ma troubles on the shelf."

Thump, thump, thump, went his foot on the floor.
He played a few chords then he sang some more--
"I got the Weary Blues
And I can't be satisfied.
Got the Weary Blues
And can't be satisfied--

I ain't happy no mo'
And I wish that I had died."
And far into the night he crooned that tune.
The stars went out and so did the moon.
The singer stopped playing and went to bed
While the Weary Blues echoed through his head.
He slept like a rock or a man that's dead.

Little Willie, always clowning,
Was the cause of papa's drowning;
Mother patted Willie's back;
"Sonny, I look swell in black.”

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