If you’re not part of the ‘staff’ of the Orchid Room but would like to add to the music, please take a seat in this room (by leaving your words in the comment box) and enjoy the ambience. A light buffet is in the corner but don’t tell Squires about the cake. That will be rolled out at midnight, universe time.
Like this:
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Can someone turn Moondog up http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jSimbyS_YlA&feature=related
genius bubble
beguiling bubble
of genius,
glistening
with iridescence
like a
beetle shell,
never bursting,
merely morphing
in form,
jusssht wanna shay, thatsh bubububeautiful!
shlerp (shmack my lipsh)
the barzz closhed two hoursh ago here. good thing thish joint is shtill open
Hows come theres twos of you tipota – hic,hic – shanku very mush – heehee.
pssst, gabe, follow me tuthuh ladiesh room, gimme a boosht out the window wiill ya
cmon shmucksh shay shumthing
hahahaha
whoom am i talking to? to whooooom am i shpeaking
hahahaha
uhoh mamu izsh walkin thish way
duckin out
Sheesh ok tipota – slipped mamu a fiver – we can shtay as long as we can walk – oops!!! Where’s everybody – this planet needs to sort out a better system of day/night thingy across hemispherical dimensions.
pleased to making your acquaintances. to whom do I owe the pleasure?
You talkin’ to me – hmmhmm – I’m a friend of the great poet Squires who I understand is partaking of a birthday this evening (tipota! where are you – sheesh, I think she’s out the window) – I’m here incognito – actually I have to be off soon as my guard is returning with the keys to my cell – if I disappear you’ll have the lowdown on whats happened Bradsky – keep it under your collar. Now where’s that cake?
Happy Birthday, Paul. This one is a bit of a wink and a smile and a tip of the glass…
*Oy! Squires!*
Take the bloody flippers off,
you silly bloody fool,
I want to feel sad, not glad,
not insane or potty or dotty
with happy memories and grins.
Don’t tip your hat with your
Frank Sinatra smile,
thrusting your Tom Jones at
ALL the ladies and not so ladies
that blush so as you jiggle.
Don’t croon Eartha, Johnny
with a laugh, sip, trip Chaplin-esque,
to make us gasp and hold our
breath at your outrageous cheek
not knowing whether it’s okay
to have a good time. Really?
Just sit and twirl your impressive
moustachio, your favourite ice-cream
(pistachio) in a giant tub,
the three legged dog asleep
at your feet, the cat on your lap,
and critique this debacle
of rhyming malarkey which
neither befits, sings or praises
you appropriately, until
you notice those things, unsaid.
(((((((bigsqueezyhugforyou))))))))))
Thank you, (((((((((((((((((((((((((Ebby)))))))))))))))))))). He would have loved this, eh?
When the Music Stops
Beautiful clown of porcelain and silk
Gold fabric and silver filigreed lace
Wind the key in the center of his back
A sad song plays delicately
A single tear lies motionless on his face
His head inclines; arms outstretched
He looks as if he is longing to embrace
Soft is the whir of his machinery;
The music box invisible
As he moves with awe inspiring grace
When the song ends he stands frozen still
Gone the tinkle of his beautiful chime
Silent, the whir of his mechanism
Silence is louder than music
It speaks of the life within the mime
He is one of many in the collection
But his is the favorite song
Trembling with sadness and beauty
Only he can make you close your eyes
And weep silently for his perfection
That I could have been a porcelain doll
With only a single tear I might cry
Your hand would have wound my heart
I would have played the violin
As the painted sadness slipped… from my eye
The jester will quietly cease moving soon
His embrace comes to a coda and stops
His efforts of animation ended
His beautiful music silenced
They will carry and lay me in my box
Sorry, I dropped off to sleep there for a bit over on the couch! Where are we? Is it time for that cake yet? Let’s light those candles and sing!
Happy birthday to you,
Happy mirth day , you too.
Happy earth day Paulus McGrinnington
Happy birthday to youuuuuuu.
Hello.
A grey fedora sits on a mahogany stool in front of the piano…no one dares to remove it so the piano remains silent. Well, this is a party, not a wake and I can play Happy Birthday on my guitar. “Happy birthday to you…hope you forget all your blues…hope there’s a girl in the cake too…Happy birthday to you”.
Excuse me, I have a bowl of punch to spike.
I see you. Don’t think you’re beyond seeing, old man, high up there in the larch, swinging your legs and whistling and throwing larch cones at the pretty girls who walk underneath, grinning like a cheshire cat.
I see you.
I hear you, Squires, laughing softly as you stir up a storm in a virtual teacup, as endless and looping as those very concentric circles that you went on and on about, looping and endless. All for fun yet so serious.
Your time machine stands in the corner. Someone has filled it with boxes left over from a jumble sale and wrapped it in christmas lights. We’ll sort through it one day when it’s rainy and we’re bored.
I know you know we loved you, pain in the arse that you could be, linking arms tonight and drunkenly swaying to a strange sort of Auld Lang Syne of Happy slurring purriness, bouncing about in black and orange stripes and doing a crap rendition of the hokey-kokey.
I smell you, uncle, sea salt and cigarettes swirling quietly around the bookcases while I type, mingling with every word~ urging me on.
That piano, the one with the famous musicians, the one where we all took a turn and sang and danced and that duck, that poor, strangely placed duck. I’m laughing now, properly laughing.
Yeah,
all those things.
Cheers.
yeah,
all those things
A toast! A toast! It’s time we toast!
I had forgotten that I even had a WordPress account….the joys of the great wide internet…ah well…F. or fg….it’s no difference to me. I’m the same old chap with the guitar. I tried to upload a picture of myself (not that my mug is that pleasing to the eye) but just so nobody would think I was hiding…I’ll be fifty next month so I’m celebrating right along with Paul today…Woohoo!! yadayahyahyahyah I may break forth with an ode to the platypus in a moment.
Someone nailed that poor duck’s bill to the bar, I had to set him free. I see a bird high in the rafters…a white bird, long, sleek and elegant…not a heron…perhaps it is an egret….certainly not a regret…for it brings…joy in its wings…
A Toast
Sand and stone, leaf and loam
Mountains of the earth
Come now spirits, flesh and bone
Requests a new rebirth
Ice and steam, flowing stream
Primordial Ocean vast
Trident in Poseidon’s dream
Perform my will and task
Wind and breath, life and death
Whirling fear and breeze
Do not leave my plea bereft
Spirits come to me
Dancing flame, secret name
Burning in the soul
Candle spire and forest fire
By my will controlled
Bowl of earth and water
Dried by wind and flame
Painted magic pottery
Perform my will the same
Come you muses of the mind
Grapes of wrath are crushed
Into ruby colored wine
Tears and fears be hushed
Stirred with eagle feather free
Let my words soar high
Hear you muses, come to me
Teach my soul to fly
One with all the elements
Mingled in this drink
Let me speak with eloquence
My words inscribed in ink
I spill words and wine like blood
To the corners of the earth
Make my message understood
Give my soul rebirth
The duck’s in the jacuzzi with Eartha, F. Try not to look. It’s not pretty. And a toast for Gwen – champagne with a frosted strawberry in the finest crystal glass.
Ebby? The Time Machine… could we? If we wished hard enough?
F? Could you play a simple thrum in B minor? I would prefer someone with a sweeter voice would sing but then, like he said, the jewellery don’t come free. (Sssssh, no sadness from me.)
This day.
Is it okay that we choose this day,
this day of all days to remember you?
This day when we gather up the smiles,
the wonderous, the obvious, the sublime
and rhyme our thanks, pay respect,
pray that our voices reflect this
love for someone who loved this
place, these people, those words
this other world where we played
and cried, philosophised
because of you, today, and every
other day, we toast this,
your birthday,
our day.
Certainly this would make the maestro smile…given his art…his heart…his style…it is altogether fitting that we gather here to honor him on his day.
You know we could, you know it. xxxxxxxxx
gingatao.com said…
Perfect. His prayer is the one true measure of a man, F.G. A truth old codgers like us have to face daily.
F.
I summoned you up for a purpose my dear friend…here…we are having a party for you. And from one old codger to another…there’s some spirits in that punch too!
Beneath the grey fedora materializes the ghost of Paul S., smiling behind his whiskers and winking at the room as he sits at the piano….ah, THERE is the birthday boy…I see him clear as day…
I regret that did not embed as I wished it to…but please click the link. It’s Paul.
Wakes to the new day and wipes the chocolate dust from his eyes. Wanders back to the Squires Birthday room and finds a smile on his face and a sudden thump thump thumping. It is not a hangover thump thump thumping or a Kangaroo thump thump thumping. Hope you had a lovely day Paul.
Maybe that thump thump thumping is some bass note perfume, Brad. We haven’t cut the cake yet… there’s time. Always time.
well you know what HE always said about time…
So…my birthday is the 19th as well…of next month…at which time I will be one-half century old…but I am celebrating today with you my dear friend and all your friends. I love you my brother…I do not say “loved” “for how can any man say I died yesterday”…a quote by John Donne…indeed the author of Death Be Not Proud was never more appropriately quoted. I am here today for you as you were with me so many days and times…a constant source of inspiration and friendship.
thish izsh show bee you tee full, bartender, another round fr evryone, shome cawfee and cake fr me pleash
I must have passed out – and awake to these wonderful words – haven’t missed the cake, where’s that hair of the dog. What a celebration for the birthday boy
Happy Birthday, Paul. As ever, thank you for your brilliance, your wit, your inspiration, and for being one-of-a-kind you. I will never forget you.
It’s 8 minutes until midnight and the time machine in the corner is flickering…or is it just the flames from the candles on the cake? Oh, WHAT A CAKE!!! It’s HUGE and beautiful! Gee, and I thought I was just joking about there being a girl inside…there may be a troup of girls in there!
happy birthday, Paul, from America
Whoopee…happy birthday to you…
Haaaaaaaaaapppppppppyyyyyyyyyyy Biiiiiirrrrrthday McPaulus – hip, hip, hooorayyyyyyyy!!!!!! Hic!
i miss you squires… no one sits so beautifully in the corner of the room at SpeedPoets,
With your absence “out there” in the blog-o-sphere I have lost most of my desire to update my blog. I now realize how much I wrote on my blog because I knew you were reading- I could feel you laughing. Something happened when you died- the blog seems to have died as well, or at least has been put on hold. I have less desire to post my writings “out there” because now you are “in here” (said pointing at my heart). I miss you very very very much Paul.
I know what you mean, she whispered. I feel like I’ve been socked in the stomach. I can’t get my breath back, my voice back, my words back. She coughs into her cocktail napkin, looks around nervously. He’s watching us, isn’t he?
My sentiments exactly. I’ve lost a lot of inspiration to write. My apologies to everyone in the room. I wanted to come celebrate Pauls birthday with his friends, but found it too hard yet. I will celebrate his life…I will. Just need some more time….and a shot of scotch.
yes, tina… the time has come and gone… tho still that empty spot exists… i came by to say yes, i remember squires too… a true poet spirit who blessed us all… and continues to… i come to celebrate his life… and yes, a shot of smooth scotch does sound delischhhh….
Well it was a fabulous party I must say. We drank right up that bottle of 2003 Glaymond Zinfandel from Barossa that I opened to celebrate McPaulus and #zinfandel day…not a lick of it left to blog about tomorrow! Ah well, what’s left to say?
sneaking into the room, tossing daisies into the air, sniffing at the empty bottles and grinning at the piles of passed out bodies.
yeah – you always knew how to throw a party GingaPaul.
now come dance with me and let’s roll down a few more hills, letting the leaves and grass and daisies tangle in our hair. Happy birthday my friend.
much love
Kota
thank you for the invite… i really wanted to come to celebrate, but still found it too hard… my heart just wasn’t in it… death is so permanent but the spirit so strong… so i’ve come a few days late meeting a lot of shadow squires people and not hardly a stranger among us… you can find me sittin at the bar, sipping whiskey and singing along out of key out of touch with my feet barely on the floor… come sit next to me and tell me another pirate story or tell me that story about the piano on fire… anyone will do… there are so many left overs to choose… ms pie
I am beyond excuses; I got sidetracked without you bugging me to write…’Cause as it was said you were an inspiration. And you still are…after all a poem is no more than the space between your intention and my interpretation, flown on the wing of the albatross crossing the oceans
seas of color.
I always come late to the party, but I figure that way I don’t miss any of the action. This is beautiful,
I miss you, Paul. I miss how much you knew about writing, how much you knew about music and all the things you saw and felt about life. I won’t forget you. Ever. Hope you had a great birthday sitting on your cloud playing Thelonius Monk on your harp. XXX
Paul, Dad, Fedora….I am late to the party, and I have missed it…I have done you a disservice, I haven’t wrote in so very long..I just couldn’t. I tried, but it hurt. Writing for me, has never hurt…but every time I picked up the pen, I thought of your words, your clever, crafty ways…I know you don’t want my tears, but they’re here, and they’re shimmering…
I promise I won’t let the burden of the hurt weigh me down anymore.
(((((YOU)))))
Hey, some joker tried to reset my password at WordPress…and I don’t know why…is that you ghost of Paul S.? I see the twinkle in your eye! Anyway, it brought me here so I just followed and came along…might as well sit and enjoy a beer…a cup of coffee and a song.
‘Motor Way’
I would take
one second, spent with you;
if that was all
you
could give
I would read
every book
in the universe, to find
just one word,
from your lips
(you have my breath
let me have yours)
But perhaps…
…I could rewrite,
the night sky’s dreams
so the tiny mirrors
(inbetween us)
never die
(you have my death
let me have yours)
SarahA
Happy Birthday, you!
i have a joke, ahem(cough)(sorry), about death. well not a joke really, an idiocy perhaps. like you see an old friend somewhere and you say hi! how are you? hows the family? Say, is your cousin zeke still dead?”
and the friend says, “oh yeah still. he’s been that way for a long time now”
i forewarned, dont look at me that way, har! (sip)
what did you say?
well, the point is, paul may pop in, and he isnt still dead. you know it, i know it, we all know it.
to put it plainly, his works are working still, and as time passes, the
shimmering words and the glimmering jewels and the musical tones will outlive us all
Here’s to Paul on (i think it’s his) 48th birthday? Cheers! we still love you dearly my friend….
Happy Birthday Paul……
La Cuckaracha La Cuckaracha…where’s the party and the girls? La Cuckaracha La Cuckaracha…I will give them all a whirl…I’ve got rum and Coca Cola…I’ve got little tiny feet…So let’s play some a rock and rolla…get them moving to the beat! Aiiiieeeeee!!!
over here, F
we’re dancing
Wake up you frizzled frazzled bedecked bedazzled old ghost of a gallant man…tonight we are knights dressed in armor befitting Galahad…we shall toast the stars with fiery flames and burn the meteors down! We shall lasso the moon and drag it screaming breaking yellow pieces on the ground! HA! Maestro! Play another tune and turn up your piano loud! Let’s twirl your stool and break the rules and bring some life into this crowd! We shall dance the flaminco with Narnie and tap around my Mexican hat with clikkety clakkety shoes and shake the world like a wooden roller coaster until we skake the blues! Fire up that time machine and burn the engines red as yankee firetrucks. Whoop and hollar and for a dollar I’ll play the guitar…chime in if I get stuck. “Drinking and dreaming knowing damn well I can’t go…I’ll never see Texas L.A. or old Mexico but here at this table I’m able to leave it behind and drink till I’m dreaming a thousand miles out of my mind…”
So this party has two rooms – wow, spinny!
there’s a few over here
http://theorchidroom.wordpress.com/2011/11/06/segue/
hello fg, Sarah, Tina and F.
’tis lovely to see you.
I’m on my way to the bar -
can I get you a drink?
Gabrielle and Tipota have talked me into getting up
for a dance but I’ll be needing
a double to loosen up.
I’ve got a really cool 7 letter word too
if you’d like to see it!
here’s headbanger comin up bird, we dont have to dance, just jump up and down
Bwhahahahaha – pass me the rum! Hi ho hi ho
that’s not a headbanger! this is a…
oh scratch that
it rocks. let’s dance.
show me the word when we get back from the dance floor
does anyone else hear that voice whispering listen? or is it the cognac? perhaps it’s time for a beer. anyone else want a Stella?
and does some one have a poem-thingy to share? I’m all ears.
i can hear it. i’ll have a stella, to cool off a little, all this dancing, woohoo, good to see you again gwen, clinck!
For Paul
Ideas whirring like wheels turning
never chilled into inactivity
his words were the gift
he shared with generous heart
and talented soul.
Much missed
I get really pissed
when I realize he’s not just missing
but really gone.
Not missing in action
but stilled.
No new projects to follow along behind
hoping for crumbs of creativity
to fall nearby.
There is nothing to celebrate
in another year without him
except
the fact
he was once
here.
On the page
bravely
daring us to follow suit
to mix intellect and art
anywhere near the way he could,
seemingly, without effort.
Paul’s Orchid Lonely Hearts Room
where he is loved and missed
always.
((((((((((((mimi)))))))))))) this is very beautiful and would have raised that smile in Paul that we knew so well.
Death is nothing at all
Death is nothing at all
I have only slipped away into the next room
I am I and you are you
Whatever we were to each other
That we are still
Call me by my old familiar name
Speak to me in the easy way you always used
Put no difference into your tone
Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow
Laugh as we always laughed
At the little jokes we always enjoyed together
Play, smile, think of me, pray for me
Let my name be ever the household word that it always was
Let it be spoken without effort
Without the ghost of a shadow in it
Life means all that it ever meant
It is the same as it ever was
There is absolute unbroken continuity
What is death but a negligible accident?
Why should I be out of mind
Because I am out of sight?
I am waiting for you for an interval
Somewhere very near
Just around the corner
All is well.
Nothing is past; nothing is lost
One brief moment and all will be as it was before
How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again!
Canon Henry Scott-Holland, 1847-1918, Canon of St Paul’s Cathedral