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  November 2004
volume 2 number 4
-table of contents-
  home   (archived)
  contributing poets
  Matthew A. Barraza
  Tom Berman
  Jack G. Bowman
  Quiana Briggs
  Tony Bush
  Joseph Camhi
  Velene Campbell
  Michael Ceraolo
  Rosemarie Crisafi
  Dan Danila
  Francisco Dominguez
  John Feins
  Daniel Garcia-Black
  Ursula T. Gibson
  Larry Jaffe
  Donna Kuhn
  Marie Lecrivain
  Sharmagne Leland-St. John
  Laura A. Lionello
  Harold Lorin
  Rick Lupert
  Stosh Machek
  Kelly Ann Malone
  Terry McCarty
  Tim Peeler
  James Pinkerton
  Beverly J. Raffaele
  E.W. Richardson
  Ken Scott
  Wanda Vanhoy Smith
  Rev. Dave Wheeler
  Robert D. Wilson
  mailing list
Tony Bush
November 2004



Theo Diamantis

    Tony Bush is in early forties, still living halfway up a mountain in South Wales UK, and still banging out verse. He recently published a book entitled 26 Images Spoken (see or for details).



Echoes of Celandine (jazz)

She was the coolest chick I never knew,

with hair of black and eyes of blue;

like, I'd watch her as the sun set down,

she held the breath of the whole damn town.

Now, incarcerated, I know the shadows are fast comin' down,

and I can see the strip lights growin' dim.

The fact she split, I can't get my head around,

or the fact the winter nights are drawing' in.

All I seem to do is smoke and dream of wine,

or sit around clingin' to relics, servin' my time;

I can't shut down the thoughts rattlin' thru' my mind:

those ghost dance malicious echoes of Celandine.

It's not as though she much looked my way

or that I could think of a single word to say to her;

all I did was watch her walkin', cool as jazz, in the street;

her smiles, her gigs, were never for me, yet they blew me off my feet,

So one day, anyhow, she just upped and moved away from town;

I cannot forget, or believe, how much I missed her, how it broke me down.

She never knew I existed, I guess, never gave me a first, let alone a second glance;

in her world, in her eyes, losers like me don't stand a chance.

I celebrated my love for her that night in a drunken shotgun roar;

high on T-Bird, low on brains, I hit the local liquor store.

So why now do I smoke these murderin' cigarettes and dream of lousy, bitter wine?

Why do I sit like some burned-out zombie, servin' my time?

And why, after all these years, am I still haunted by the ghost dance, malicious echoes of Celandine.

They say it's better to have loved and lostů

I say,

drop dead, 'cos

you know nothin'.

copyright 2004 Tony Bush