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    SHOELACES
    SHOELACES
    SHOELACES
    Ebook75 pages43 minutes

    SHOELACES

    By Jim Stricklan

    ()

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    About this ebook

    This collection brings together many of Jim's poems, prose, and short stories, never before published.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBookBaby
    Release dateAug 16, 2024
    ISBN9798350972658
    SHOELACES
    Author

    Jim Stricklan

    Jim Stricklan is an acclaimed performing-songwriter, music publisher, and TAB pioneer, living in Texas with his wife Leslie. As a radio broadcaster, he has served listeners in Denver, Houston, Shreveport, and Austin for over thirty years. Jim has written over 400 songs and released more than thirty albums.

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      Book preview

      SHOELACES - Jim Stricklan

      Photography

      Kelly Zant - cover and credits photos

      Leslie Stricklan - color photos

      Alan McClinton - b/w photos

      Book Design

      Michelle Rahbar - Mothership Arts

      Poems, prose and short stories by

      Jim Stricklan © 2024

      Published Online by BookBaby.com

      ISBN # 979-8-35097-265-8

      Also on bookbaby.com:

      50 Years of Making Music

      by Jim Stricklan

      Contents

      Poetry & Prose

      A Way With Words

      Millenium Ragtime Drivel

      Art of Song

      Shoelaces

      Awakening

      Nest of the Recluse

      Mustang Sally

      Garden Dream

      Radio Romance and the 22-inning Stretch

      Observations

      Squirrel and High Wire

      Thoughts about UNlearning

      Short Stories

      A Clay Hill Christmas

      A Solo Journey West

      The Boy Who Flew

      The Platinum Kid

      A Way With Words

      Some say I have a way with words,

      though songs of mine are seldom heard

      on center stage or righteous radio;

      The fickle masses sniff and sample

      trend tycoons’ latest example—

      all the rage of cable video;

      Die-cast divas pout and scream

      in soft drink ads, sex is the thing—

      the bawdier the better for the show;

      Rappers chant moronic venom,

      country rockers split their denim—

      metal makes the deaf statistics grow;

      Add the Elvis imitators,

      platinum lip-synch masturbators,

      countless cover bands with fans in tow;

      That’s why the music industry

      has little room for folks like me—

      who stll believe in melody, you know.

      I couldn’t get the time of day

      In NYC or hip L.A.—

      No way, no gimmick, no deal, and no dough;

      Nashville with its in-house clique,

      is bland enough to make you sick—

      they manufacture dreams on music row;

      So where does music fit in this?

      close to the bottom of the list—

      but you may have a way with words, who knows?

      Jim Stricklan © 1990

      Millenium Ragtime Drivel

      Dragonfly fixation, vexing—

      Diving, blasting away my polar regions,

      suggesting I slip slide back into

      Summer’s sultry Southern dreamscape…

      where distant Belles beckoned, floating,

      gowns softly scraping patina hardwood floors,

      ice tingling glass hopes of a mint julep sunrise.

      Hazy, lazy creepy crawlin’ urban critters,

      slitherin’ over rock, under moss, gasping

      nitrogen and air—obvious kin from the gene pool.

      Scratching, itching, bitching, stint of poison ivy,

      shedding old skin, grin and bear protocol.

      Dig this crazy groove—

      fold the sheets and swing the cat,

      rattle of the tender, aging bones—

      making music in some cosmic crucible,

      the awkward body wagon—soul to soul,

      taken, shaken, not stirred.

      Fumbling fingers of eight, thumbs X two,

      strum along, my whiskey voice like rusting

      Velcro—wonder of fleeting wonders.

      Roaming hooves beat eternal time—

      of scattered buffalo, antique moving mirrors

      of our past lives, loves…

      Forever’s antiquity—ever rebirthing paradox.

      Life and death, such inseparable, endless yarn.

      Steel guitars are turning me on, like Texas chili

      on a gray day, where lovers sleep like spoons.

      Morton’s up there jamming with Hendrix,

      Coy paints the clouds. So we too rock on.

      Tackle calls in the cue, fill our scripts.

      Pray for Peace. Cry for Love. Sing for Food.

      Recount our Votes—or not.

      Run alongside Emus out on Clayhill Road,

      We seek to balance checkbooks, meals, hues,

      Christmas cheer and dead Beatle blues.

      Cattle guard memories of prairie paupers wink

      at me through this computer fog, and whisper,

      "I’ll get

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