Red House

   

There was a woman that I met in El Paso,

what a sweet senorita.

With a smile just like sunshine

and eyes that shined emerald green

She come on to me so sweet,

as she sipped margaritas with me

And I talked with the handsomest women

that I’d ever seen.

As the evening wore on,

she got closer and closer to me.

Then she asked me for money

and started to sing her sad tune.

Then I knew that there was no chance,

we’d be able to finish this dance

I got outta my chair, and I left that El Paso Saloon

I goin’ up to the red house

to find me a woman tonight

I’ll bring her some flowers

and whisper while she holds me tight

And we’ll lie there and have a few laughs ,

make love through the night until dawn

In the mornin’ I’ll pay her my money,

and then I’ll be gone.

Comes a time in the life of a man

when his ramblin’ is done.

When he wants to go home,

hold his woman with all of his might.

Find a woman without any chains,

less the baggage it’s love that remains

I’ll continue the search but  go back to the red house tonight.

          In the Heartland

She identified three black boys

that shot claude deeter dead

In the back seat of a chevy,

out on lovers lane they said

They rounded up the suspects

and they haul ‘em off to hell 

Beat out a confession

Put ‘em all in separate cells

News about the murder spread

Through marion that night

A rumor that the girl’d been raped

Galvanized the whites

And as the prisoners lay broken

White folks gathered on the lawn

Just outside the jail house,

In the dark that comes for dawn

On a hot august night in the heartland, people lie 

They demanded the three colored boy’s

And when they weren’t produced

The vigilantes stormed the jail

And mob rule was introduced

Shipp and smith were taken first

And dragged out in the street

Beaten bad and tortured

Fore the hung ‘em from a tree

The crushed the youngest Cameron,

Till he couldn’t take no more

Why they didn’t lynch him too

No one really knows for sure

And as the rage began to dissipate

Souvenirs we bein’ stripped

From the pant legs of the victims,

Tommy shipp and abraham smith

On a hot august night in the heartland, people die

No one can remember

How the frenzy all began

In a white crowd of 10,000

Was it fear, was it the clan 

No whites were brought to justice,

None indicted for a crime

As the strange fruit hangs there from the tree,

The camera captures time

On a hot august night in the heartland, people cry

                             Ballerina  

 

We talk a lot or so it seems,

of faded hopes and empty dreams

Of time that slipped right through our hands

Of broken hearts and cancelled plans

And though she wishes things were different,

she understands.

There’ve been times I know,

When I hurt her so and made her cry.

But she forgives me and she holds me,

Instead of packin’ up and sayin’ good bye.

My God, I love her so,  I hope she knows.

Said she’d always dreamed of bein’ a ballerina

But she got too old and missed her chance.

That may be so but,

She makes my heart dance.

Now it’s Christmas time,

And I come to you with empty hands.

Again I sit here tired an broke,

Next year, I’ll try to be a better man.

I give this song to you,

I hope you understand.

                                 Cold Rain

Alone in the gall’ry, she waited for him to appear,

Her heart still cautiously hopeful,

Her mind fatally rapt in a vice grip of fear.

In the ante room outside of Chambers,

alone with his thoughts,

Reliving mistakes he had made,

Solemnly summing up what it all cost,

And all he had lost.

It’s a cold rain that falls on the heart,

A chill wind that blows

through the soul torn a part.

A vacuum that’s left

when the storm surge departs

It’s a cold rain that falls on the heart.

Facing the bench he’s surrounded

but still stands alone.

Hands cuffed tightly behind him,

Hopelessly helpless, down to the bone.

As the sentence is passed she struggles

to fight back the tears

Silently cursing her dreams

Tryin’ to figure out what it all means, 

She says a prayer.  

                            Mississippi  

   

I’ve been thinkin’ ‘bout goin’ home,

Where the River runs so wide and deep.

Back to the place where I was born,

Back to the land where my Daddy sleeps.

Heard tell of work up north in factories,

Where a man could earn a decent wage.

A long, long way from the live-oak trees,

And a million miles from my field-hand days

Oooh Mississipi, callin’ me home

I found the work that I came to seek,

Shov’lin coke in a furnace hot,

‘Least I got paid once every week,

But the labor takes everything I got.

Oooh Mississipi, callin’ me home

I worked hard, followed all the rules

And after twenty years in the boss man’s yard,

Mill’s closin’ down and I feel the fool.

Ain’t no way life’s s’posed to be this hard,

So I been thinkin’ ‘bout goin’ home,

Where the River runs so deep and wide.

Back to the place where I was born,

Back to the land where my Daddy died.

               

    I’m Goin’ Drinkin’ wih Jesus 

I’m goin’ drinkin’ with Jesus

to wash away all of my sin

I’m gonna confess that my life’s been a mess

I wanna get on the right track again

So,when I get the call from St. Peter,

when this earthly life is at end

He won’t hesitate, he’ll just open the gate

‘Cause I went drinkin’ with Him

I lived my life just outside of the law

Served time for the bad things I done

I been walkin’ the line and I hope there’s still time

Tired of livin’ a life on the run

I wanna get right with the Lord up above

Become friends and start hangin’ around

No more regret, gonna settle my debt

And lay all my burdens down

One evenin’ I dreamed I was runnin’

Runnin’ as fast as I can,

When out of the night came a powerful light

And a voice that said, “come take my hand”

Was it a dream or a vision?

I don’t know and I really don’t care.

“Just follow me” he said, “I’ll set you free”

“You’re place at the table’s prepared”

                      Stone Cutters Son

I come from Dublin when I was quite young

The son of a son of a stone mason’s son

And I work as a carver in a stone shed

just outside Barre.

My Father and I used to work side by side

And he worked in these stone walls

‘till the day that he died

When his lungs finally give out

and he passed from the quarry TB

I don’t want this kind of a life for my boy you see,

He deserves better than me.

When I came to Vermont I found me a wife

She’s a fine dark haired woman

with big blue eyes

And she came from the foothills of the Alpines

in North Italy

My son is a student at Spaulding High School

I want to send him to college

but I know that I’m foolish

I’d work harder and longer if I knew

it would mean more money 

‘Cause I don’t want this kind of a life

for my boy you see,

He deserves better than me.

Our shed in the winter is damp and it’s cold

The floor is of dirt and the wind it does blow

I’m not ashamed of my work, it’s important to me

But I want something more in this life,

for my boy you see.

Aviation is what my boy wants to do

And if that’s what he wants, then I want it too

There’s just too many men with out jobs

across this country.

Life in the stone shed is hard work indeed

And the dust in my lungs

makes it harder to breath

But there’s food on my table

and good times with my family

But I want something more in this life

for my boy you see,

Something more than the life

that was lived by his granddad and me

One where goin’ to work

doesn’t worry his family.

He deserves better.

            Daniel Wilkes

You ask about my life? 

Well there ain’t that much to tell.

Mostly hard years with some good ones

‘long the way.

I was born in Dunnahoe Bay,

just this side of Minturn,

And I’ve lived in Dillon County all my days.

Minnie, that’s my wife,

was married with two children,

But her husband died of typhoid back in ’09.

We been married thirty years now,

have two children of our own,

She’s a good Ma and our family’s doin’ fine.

My Christian name is Daniel

and my given name is Wilkes.

A plain dirt farmer’s all I’ve ever been.

I s’pose me and my wife Minnie

have seen some better times,

But if we have good Lord, I can’t remember when.

I never had much learnin’,

but I can read and write,

And I can figure just enough to get me by.

I was hitched up to a plow

just as long as I remember,

followin’ a mule most all my life.

Mac my oldest boy, is a real big help ya see,

Without him I’m not sure how we’d survive.

After years of tendin’ cotton, my legs is givin’ out,

And Mac’s the one that keeps this farm alive.

Mr. Roosevelt says times are hard

but it ain’t been that bad,

‘least no harder than it ever was before.

Maybe I’d feel like a lost a lot more than I have,

If only I’d a started out with more.

                   1953

One evening of passion on a cold winters night,

Left her sixteen and pregnant and dazed,

And when she mustered the courage

to tell her folks of her plight,

They were ashamed and

planned to send her away.

When she started to ‘show”,

she boarded the bus,

For the home where mistakes go to hide.

She thought of the fate of her yet unborn child,

And it made her tremble inside.

Nineteen fifty three,

Is the wrong time for this mother-to-be.

She’s been told that adoption is her only option,

It’s nineteen fifty three.

Those at the home were so kind to her,

They cared for her needs every day.

But when she delivered a strong, healthy boy,

They were forced to send him away.

Nineteen fifty three,

Is the wrong time for this mother-to-be.

Born out of shame, she can’t give him her name,

It’s nineteen fifty three.

Many years have passed

and her hair has turned gray,

But always the memory lives on.

And she wonders still to this very day,

Whatever became of her son.

Did a good family find him and love him so dear?

Did he grow to be honest and free?

And would he understand

why she did what she did,

In nineteen fifty three?

             Aftermath

Look in to my eyes and see,

I’m not the one I used to be,

I’ve changed because of what I’ve seen,

I’ve changed because I’ve heard the screams

of those who lived and those who died

and loved ones that were left behind

because a man who’s filled with hate

and somehow can’t negotiate

a peace within himself so that the

world becomes safer place to be.

I struggle now to understand

The kind of faith, the kind of man

That plots and schemes to take the lives

Of innocents that had no eyes

To see the kind of terror that

Can terrify an Arafat

That takes us by complete surprise

And when accused he just denies

That what he’s done is wrong and that

His holy war’s not holy after all.

What can we do to start to heal

To comprehend what seems surreal

And do we now respond with war

knowing that between our shores

more of us will have to die

in acts designed to terrorize

and undermine the freedoms we

assume are part of being free

and change forevermore a way of life

We hoped would always be.