Month: July 2017

I spoke to a rock

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Enjoy this poem, and if you can, please consider supporting my work. My new poetry book is here, and my music can be purchased from Bandcamp or CDbaby. 

Thanks y’all! Have a Goodin’

jP

 

I spoke to a rock

sitting in the mountain

stream.

 

Introduced myself.

 

I asked if it had ever

heard the metaphor

 

about its role

in the family.

 

It said no.

 

The rock told about rushing

waters, gully washers

and slowly being pushed

downstream.

 

The rock told of

how it used to

be way up the hill

and how one day –

it hopes to see the river.

 

It asked why I was

visiting, and I told about

my son, who was afraid

to move, about my wife

scared and determined.

 

I told about the railroad

and how my family, mind

and body suffered.

 

The rock told of how

it misses the greater

mountain that

it was a

part of –

 

and how once it fell

down a steep slope

and broke off from

a boulder &

how its edges used

to be pointed and sharp.

 

I told the rock –

I play music and write

about where I used

to work.

 

It asked

about that locomotive

whistle it hears

in the night –

echoing in the hills.

 

I told the rock

that haunting –

eerie, lonesome

sound is an old

tired, worn out

metaphor greatly

used by poets,

writers

and musicians.

 

We sat

quietly

together.

 

I listened to the

waters gently

trickling over

the rocks.

 

When I got up

to leave, the rock

said,

 

come back

someday –

I’ll still be here.

Maybe just a little

further downhill

and a slight bit

smoother.

The Last Poem, At This Table

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The last poem
at this table …

Twelve years ago …
this boy was two
and we
moved out
here
on old
plantation
land, close to
Berrytown –

Let us pray …

I sip this coffee
for the last time
rubbing tired hands
nursing a weary mind
looking into a future
out this back window
for the last time.
This place, where
I sat, wrapping boot
laces, worn down,
exhausted but,

proud
to be laboring,
in tradition,
proud to be
taking care of
family.

& now, careful to
not boast that I
am escaping the
plantation.

& like a field
slave, who knew
how to look to the

stars, could
read the code –
I break into the
masters house,
to take my woman
and son, away.

Yet, I wanted to
work here,
build dreams –

my
time,
body
& soul
was
almost
stolen
by
another
man’s
venture.

#railroaded

 

& this place,
fell apart, of
over a decade
not being
able to be here.

I could tell stories
of many a lashing –
isolated lonesome
feelings of being
used –
watching my
friends
raped.

so, what I am
doing –
at this table –
this morning –
is loading up
& taking
all i worked
for, to the
promised land.

The master is
sleeping,
& he will wake
up to find
my wife and
child,
gone!

& yes, i had to
convince
her …

sometimes
she listened to
the other house
slaves who told
of wild men and
woman, planning
an insurrection.
Told, “don’t go –
we have it so
good here.”

(and she,
is the wild one ???
Born of native
blood and spirited
like a wild horse
that has been
tamed by
the deep
dedication
of mothering.)

I, have been called
crazy before …
branded a
traitor …
yet,

(re-learned
the language
of the soil …
became fluent
playing and listening
to the drums speak
when the master
was not looking.
Secretly seeking
council with
elders,
some who
had tried to
leave before
and were to
old to escape
but had
a clear
picture of
where to
run.)
& now, i say
my peace, to
those afraid
to go!
My heart
will always
be with
them …
my work
now,
is to eventually

set them free …

peace be with you …

John Paul

Sunday, July 23rd 2017

Middletown, Kentucky

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Bye Louisville!

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Bye Louisville.

What did you ever do

with that Bingham fountain?

I’ll never forget when y’all tried

to blame that accident on the

worker who sank the Belle.

You only like that boat when

you use her in pictures, to lure

people here for your big party.

And you know what Louisville?

Look what we can do …

we still don’t have a citizen’s

review board, and your boys

in blue need a lesson on

what you are using as

an excuse …

Compassionate city?

Give me a break!

And let me tell you a story!

Once I was just a little boy,

sitting under the Thinker

statue … worried to death

that my Mom and her friends

were going to get arrested –

because they had occupied

the Dean’s office. Me and

that thinker guy had a lot

in common that day. He was

frustrated and alone, I was

listening to everyone call

my mom … a loser!

But we won that fight!

Even the security guard

gave up to our side

when we shut down the

information station!

He told the CJ, that

he was not working,

on Papa’s farm no

more and was going to

protest with us!

And I am sorry Louisville …

but I stopped going to your

big fireworks party when you

turned it into a big commercial

for whatever war, we were in.

I’ve talked to some UPS workers

and sometimes, they wish those

cool planes would crash into

the Ohio River.

And hey babe, Louisville, you

sure look good draped in those

fine French clothes, but York and

Sacagawea are my heroes.

Lewis and Clark were employed

by a government that was looking

to do the same thing you did with

your parks.

Once, black people

weren’t allowed in Cherokee!

You’re never going to live that down!

Now, your Boone hero stands

erect, with gun, at the entrance.

Too bad the 74’ tornado didn’t lift

that perversion and take it away.

And let me tell you one more story!

When Muhammad Ali died, I was

moved to tears when they stopped

on I 64 and my Belle gave her whistle

salute! She was all steamed up and

singing the old man river

blues to her native son, who had

been treated just like her, by a city

who really only likes her …

when she

makes money! SMH …

So, see ya’ later, babe! My home

is not across the Blue Ridge

Mountains! I am doing what

those Kentuckians did when

people got too close. It’s time

for me to leave.

I’ll never forget …

when I was a kid,

playing in the

spray pool,

and somebody

wrote,

 “no niggers“

on the roof

at George Rodgers

Clark Park.

That was my front yard!

I can still smell the walnuts

on my fingers as me and my

friends built forts

in her woods

.

We were playing in the waters

that the so-called founding

fathers drank! The capillaries

of the Bear-Grass that you shit in!

And yes, that is a shame!

That creek runs in my veins

and I still can hear all

of Audubon’s birds!

You don’t want to know

what they told me about you!

But now, I am leaving

with a heavy heart

and a worried mind!

So, let me set the record

straight …

There is a tree in that park …

And if you ever cut her down,

I am going to come back and

tan your hide.

I spread my mother’s ashes there.

My mother’s ghost haunts

that park, just like the

Indian stories haunt that

majestic tree, see …

Once upon a time,

an Indian woman

was dying. Her husband

had been shot by one

of your buddies, and she

sat in that park, holding

her baby, grieving!

She cried so much

that her tears watered

that tree and it grew up

around her! And to this

day, you can still hear her

and her baby crying when

put your ear to the

trunk.

And you and your buddies …

still don’t get it! The ghosts

dance in that park, and I,

used to roam that place at

night! They told me all your

deepest dark secrets.

They told me Shawnee,

Chickasaw, Seneca and Slave

stories.

And I danced with

them under your pink,

hot steamy summer

polluted skies.

so, buy Louisville!

Keep it local

and weird …

 

I’m sick of

your bullshit.

Love,

John Paul.

P.S.

When Mark Anthony

Mulligan dies,

it’s gonna be your

fault, not mine! He

loves you more

that I.

I Got My Learnin’ From the L&N – The Best Of JP

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This new release is compiling over 12 years of original songwriting that was created while I was employed on the CSX railroad as a conductor and then as a locomotive engineer. Most of the tunes on this collection started out as ideas that were transferred to the blank sides of paper work as I drove a train from Louisville to Nashville.

Railroading can be a poetically romantic job

and is truly an American experience. Writers, poets, reporters and songwriters use the rich metaphors of “the railroad” quite often. I had a wonderful career!  During my long days and lonesome nights, rolling straight down the center of Kentucky, I met some of the most wonderfully resiliant folks!

One of the first questions you get asked when get “hired on” at the railroad is

“What did you do before ya come out here?”

This question for me, was sort of difficult to answer. Well …. I was an Artistic Director of a Christian Arts organization slash Dishwasher slash African Djembe player slash community organizer. I brought all those experiences and more to a new job. Not only was this a job, I was being introduced to a way of life and

a culture that has its own music, language, history and long held traditions.

I like to say that If Americana was a quilt, then railroad themed music is the thread. The word “qwirk” is an old term used to describe a person’s unique stitch in a quilt. So trust me “the railroad” has its quirks about it.

The tunes are mostly in the folk music style of G,C and D. “I throw in an F to impress the girls,” I believe Hank Williams Sr. said that. My father Joe Wright suggests that Jimmie Rodgers tunes are supposed to be played in C, so… strum accordingly.

I wanted to throw a few tunes out there and tell the stories behind them. Please check out the tunes below individually on Bandcamp for desciptions and photos. Folk musicians are somewhat part reporter, part historian and part folklorist. That is what I love about folk music! There are big stories behind the tunes and the stories are important.
If you would like a hard copy of this CD please send 12 dollars via Paypal to railroadmusic333@gmail.com

Don’t forget to leave your address in the note section provided by PayPal

Thanks Y’all and have a goodin’

JP

A Picture of Henry David Thoreau

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A Picture of Henry David Thoreau

07-09-2017

Louisville, Kentucky

Sitting under the glare of Hunter S Thompson –

at the concreate table outside of the coffee house

my Mother loved, next to the bookstore she

used to drag us kids into years ago –

the carpenter bees visit the passion flowers as

I fall into a well of thought.

Just one opening of the door, and an image –

a book stares at me, and the bearded David

is sitting on the display table – and over

on a different shelf almost all of Wendell

Berry’s works are hand signed – no mark up

applied to the printed price – a massive cloud

just above, orange hue silver linings – my friends

the mockingbirds are singing – little chirping birds –

talking, talking, talking – but those bees! They root

through over grown vines to find a spectacle of a flower.

I miss my friend John Hagan – we used to sit at

this table – minds wandering, words flowing

alive with conversation – I feel him now. I

can still see him walking down the street –

his glide, hop of innocent happiness,

his loving smile greeting on arrival.

The smell of food, spices and flowers fill the

light breeze as my gaze goes looking up

to that cloud – I think funny honest thoughts.

What if Thoreau was married?

That story he wrote would have been quite different!

What if the Dali Llama had a teenager, rebelling just to rebel?

What were those conversations

we used to have here all about?

I, like Rumi long for my friend!

The Friend!

It is easy to write poetry if your intended audience is God!

These words may or may not matter!

That cloud is gone just like the memory of

many nights, walking these streets, on this road –

years ago –

ecstatically manic and following the thoughts

and words of Bawa, my Sufi teacher! It is easy to

write if your mentor gives you a job, and then

the next thing you know you have half the

shelf dedicated to bringing to life the words of a whirling

dervish. As the sun sets on Hunter, his memory

as large as a building – this paper is coming to an

end – My honesty takes over and my pen could say what is

really on my mind!

But the the feller at the bookstore just walked

by carrying garbage to the dumpster – so I won’t get mad and

let this pen write that I don’t know why I think I should keep going.

Maybe, I should keep my inspiration quiet?

Keep it to myself.

I am waiting for a sign- but all I seem to get is another sun set.

Another cup of coffee – another worried mind,

another mindful thought before I go –

this paper is almost gone!

I was asked by a mad farmer why I decided to write poetry …

My answer was:

“I don’t know.”

I told Wendell Berry once that I had not read all his works.

He said:

“You don’t have to!”

John Paul

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