Wednesday, May 20, 2015

The Bedtime Story

find me

Where the wind was
there were whispers,
the light
before the night…


My people lived in Beauty.
Beauty given,
Beauty received.
As far as the eye could see…


Sad the day I awakened.
erewhere in Beauty, no.
I woke up
where Beauty had never lived.
The only Beauty,
what I had brought
with me.

And so I wander these days
this way,
a trail of Beauty behind.

If  you cross this path,
follow it

January - May 2015
The Bamboo Room
NewMain, Virginia

© 2015 Jimmythe Peach

Thursday, May 07, 2015

The Wheel (lyrics)

between the earth and the stars

If I were resting in your arms.
I would be subject to your charms.
Life would be peaceful, life would be calm.
I’m only seeing what is wrong.

There is a mountain made of gold,
And a forest that is old,
Near a river that runs clear…
I would be holding you but you’re not here.

Seasons come
Seasons go
Still the ocean
Needs the shore
I am lost
I am alone

Now the daytime has turned to night,
I can’t go down without a fight,
There is crying but no tears,
I feel nothing, I feel no fear.

Seasons come
Seasons go
Still the ocean
Needs the shore
I am lost
I am alone

A Couple of Panos

The Bamboo Room - Up

The Bamboo Room - Down

A couple of panos of The Bamboo Room, the place I go to in my mind to read and write and play music. 
Well, it used to be. I'm in here today for the second time in, geez, four weeks. 
That mess on the floor is a reflection of my messed up head. 
A while back it felt like something came loose, or broke, or snapped and my facility to play the guitar and write disappeared in a fog between my ears. 
First, I lost the guitar. 
Let me tell you, owning four guitars and a bass, stuck on stands around a room has had zero effect on whether or not I pick them up. 
Months, a year, years since I experienced an insatiable need for the beat and the bop.
And now, it hurts to write. 
It is as if the only things left to say are in the belly of a cold volcano. And i have to use my hands to scratch them up, out, and onto the paper, or, the screen.
On the other hand, everyone tells me how pleasant I have become. 
Pleasant, as if I were enjoyable weather for the rest of the world's spring day. 
Somehow, I have become agreeable, amiable, and worst of all, socially acceptable.
I'm not sure pleasant is a healthy ingredient to a certain type of creative person. Someone like, say, me. 
Maybe words and music left and pleasant seeped in to fill my empty places. 
Please don't take this as a final epistle. I am not going anywhere. I can still love and be loved. 
I believe I am at the center of a galaxy of people I love. 
And animals. and the dirt clod I rubbed between my hands this morning, sifting into a brown flour near the bird feeder.
Still, today, this is my formula. 

pleasant = hollowemptydrossdriftforgottenforgettinglostmissingsunke... = pleasant

Saturday, December 20, 2014

Slap Jack

A friend told me she'd read somewhere Obama wants to tax.
When I got mad, she poked at me and said those were the facts.
So I watched Fox enough to see the furor in Sean’s eyes.
He smoked and steamed, pulled out his hair, said no to compromise.

To tax it seems a novel thing, a surcharge on all cats,
The hairless breeds, and Siamese, old, blind with cataracts.
Seems cats produce a carbon load and have to pay for it.
How to collect from catamounts not easy they admit.

Cats won't pause for any clause requiring a levy.
They have no coin, no currency, and wallets are too heavy.
I’ll have to pay in a few days not only for my living.
For my fat cat I’ve named Slap Jack, I also will be giving.

           April 10, 2010

Monday, August 04, 2014

First Kissing Warm Rain

Soft is the night
yellow misty in the throw-glow
of streetlights.

In the hour of time stops
we walk between sidewalks.

In our hands, the sound of
eucalyptus and front yard flower beds
dripping warm maple

Noh-traffic tattoo
footsteps and fingerprint cartwheels
in the middle of the street.

Where I lost myself, leaning back
on every tree I will ever touch
after this feels like
first kissing warm rain.

For my Inamorata Sighs

Sunday, July 27, 2014

from The Book of Mary Grace

Now that field is full of houses,
where the flowers were
is gone.
The wind is blowing
from the past…
Blonde on blonde hair
in the air
carries abalone shell
rainbow laughter.

Friday, July 18, 2014

Speaking With Dragon

    speaking with Dragon

      "The ocean is still missing," he said.

  I had trouble understanding,
   it didn't make sense,
   missing, how could an ocean

         be missing?

        I opened the map...
       right where the ocean should be.

      There was a note that said,

     "U can'T gEt theRe froM hErE."



       "... he don't live here no more."

Thursday, July 17, 2014

Seven Shades of Blue

I knew seven shades of blue
when I met you.
No other colors were coming through.
You introduced me to my heart
and claimed you were my counterpart.

Seasons changed and so did I.
Where you lived behind my eyes
poems seemed to multiply.
A strange, smeared palette, a waxing world,
and the pillowed comfort of the perfect girl.

When I could no longer touch the ground
or follow warm small thoughts around,
you cried to me with silver sounds.
But busy with a life on stage
I lived inside my velvet cage.

Then stumbled to my knees and
wailed, lost all will, all reason.
Love can be such a cruel season.
Hard to hold like water in the hand,
a xeriscape of affection I never planned.

Tuesday, July 15, 2014

Geneva Awaits The Morning

She had heard rumors about tomorrow.
This time she swore to believe them.

In the past the future had let her down.
What began with starry promises
turned into stony, lovesick afternoons
and endless evenings caught dreaming
in someone else’s back room.

Something about midnight’s echo
convinced Geneva a different dawn was in place.
If a new day could be unwrapped,
opened with the sun,
no fragile enemies would hear.

First light promised to heal the hollow places
where sadness traces appear.

So now…
Geneva awaits the morning.

Monday, July 14, 2014


After rhyme declined in ‘99 
I began to weigh my words. 
Rather than timing the rhyming, literally, 
I found sound has an affinity 
for a much larger harmony. 
A word's weight is different than the   
sound of the thing. 

Some words echo when not said out loud 
Some words rise like mist off the page 
Some words cannot walk alone 
Some words act differently 
Some words find old souls 
Some words can swim 
Some words are for the future found 
Some words were never there 
Some words have music in them 
Some words without a sound 
Some words are misunderstood 
Some words will never be forgiven 
Some words cannot be taken back 
Some words fit perfectly 
Some words are poetry 
Now, many people believe that
something new cannot be true. 
Old ways are the only ways for them. 
But, look around, things have changed, 
and there is no going back.

Used to be, the shortest distance 
between two points was a line. 
Now, it turns out the shortest distance 
between two points is a fold in space. 
So I shall look where I am going,
weigh my words, and describe it. 
The future I am living in requires
new phrases that will become clichés,
not old clichés that will become phrases.