Underground lyrical poetry music draws folks from around the world

Bondi Beach, Australia surf (photo by Duncan Rawlinson)

As I thought you might be wondering why folks around the world are listening to and liking our new lyrical poetry music, here's where we're most popular and a sampling of comments from folks about our songs. 

In the past week folks from cities around the US and world and talking about our music on Facebook:

Saint Augustine, FL

London, England, United Kingdom          

Cleveland, OH  

Ypsilanti, MI      

Apple Valley, CA              

Saint Louis, MO

Elazıg, Elazig, Turkey

Cachoeiro de Itapemirim, Espirito Santo, Brazil  

Omagh, Northern Ireland, United Kingdom        

Saint Augustine Beach, FL           

San Francisco, CA            

Tietê, São Paulo, Brazil  

Scottsdale, AZ  

Santa Barbara, CA           

New York, NY   

Berlin, Germany

Malibu, CA         

El Paso, TX          

Elgin, IL

Knoxville, TN

Where is our music most popular?  While our underground poetry music isn't drawing tons of folks, people listen from all over the world.  The following are the top countries of fans of our music on our Facebook page (you're welcome to join them):

United States of America

United Kingdom              

Canada

India     

Australia             

Ireland 

Germany            

Italy      

New Zealand    

France 

Indonesia           

Brazil    

Greece

Russia  

South Africa      

Nigeria 

Thailand              

Philippine

Mexico

Argentina

I also want to share with you some of our many listener comments and reviews of our music:

"I continue to be amazed by your remarkable talent and the beautiful artistry of your lyrics. Such a refreshing musical experience! " - Chrystee McCabe, author, journalist, Manhattan

 "A superb song (Woody Blues) and a great salute to Woody Guthrie!" -
Graham Butterfield, #1 Folk Music Artist, Exeter, UK

"When spoken-word merges with music, hip-hop is just one of the ways it can come out. If the poet doesn't go for the verbal athletics of speaking on the beat, his voice becomes incantatory...Mike Marcellino... a show that spoken-word fans shouldn't miss." - Michael Gill, Cleveland Scene

"The pieces depict different parts of New York City from its jarring traffic to its more calming fountains. His (Mike Marcellino's) words incite a sense of dreams embodied by the city: “Flew into New York/ on wings of Peter Pan./Flew into New York/ on wings of Babylon./ Jupiter in the right now/ not as bright,/ on this clear an' quiet night” (Marcellino, “Flatbush”)." - Niya Panamdanam, The Review Review

"West of the Pecos is a masterpiece, the voice, poetry, rhythm and the music. " - Maz Las, journalist, Algeria

 "(Into the nowhere zone) has killer base lines and a tight rhythm groove. The spoken word is spot on. Good work! You caught the spirit of the wave in this one...! - James Owen Sherpard, blues guitarist

 "Very enlightening and extremely creative! You are a brilliant soul! " - Judy Giles, poet, San Diego, CA

 "I listened to your amazing music-lyrics-words,I love it (Taipei subway), great work" - Farid Bitar, poet, New York City

 "Keep up the beautiful work! You are an inspiration to many " - Agata Zak, actor, New York City

"This (The Walls of Fire) lovely and haunting piece of poetry should be a world wide sensation" - Paul Donohoe, writer's review, Tasmania, Australia

"I really like West Of The Pecos: beautiful. There's a tautness to the language, a compression that works well for me in my ears & heart & head. " - Duane Esposito, English professor, poet, NYC

"Mike, not everyday you get sensory poetry from Flatbush to West of the Pecos, with a little bit of Las Cruces thrown in for good measure. Very cool. " - Gordon Basichis, author, Los Angeles

"It's (Alphabet Coffeehouse) wonderful!...Reminds me very much of the East Village and that day." - Rebecca Turner, New Jersey singer songwriter,

 "Wow Mike, I'm mesmerized by your spoken words/poetry with background music. Your body of work here is just stunning. I bow to you in your channeling of the beat poets. " - Eve Paludian, author,

Lyrical poetry music on fire, Mike Marcellino beaks into Top 100 Folk Artists in US

Our lyrical poetry music rises to #67
on ReverbNation's Folk Chart in the US.  

We soared into the Top 100 Folk Artists from somewhere in the 900s.

Thanks to my readers and our listeners for your support.  Help us keep it going.

To celebrate our recent rise, we're offering a free download of "Woody Blues."

Today we added a free download of "Scottish Pipes" as further thanks for making us one of the Top 100 Folk Artists in America on ReverbNation charts.  Pretty cool considering our poetry music is far out of the main stream and there are nearly 3 million music artists on ReverbNation.

Most of our tracks are now available for download and half of our sales on ReverbNation goes to Oxfam America to help end poverty and injustice.  For now we've settled in at #69 on the Folk chart in the US, #106 in the world and #1 in St. Augustine, Florida, our home base.

To listen and download use our music box on my Notebook Writer blog or visit our music site on ReverbNation and join as a fan.  Please invite your friends to listen.

Mike

the constant gardener, a poem by Mike Marcellino

 
 Photo courtesy of Hortus 2 Wordpress blog

the constant gardener
by Mike Marcellino

the constant gardener
rake and hoe
rake and hoe
sowing words
planting plantations
of pink Kalanchoes
leaves of miracles
er
yellow-orange
tropical Lantana
sown on the chest
of a Spanish general
in the tropics
of the Americas.

Fingers finding their way
into black and sandy-brown
earth
the soil that made us;
forget your nails.

Rake and hoe
rake and hoe
sowing words
planting plantations
ideas
roots
giving birth

Beginnings
never ending
hope.





the constant gardener copyright Mike Marcellino 2013

Photo courtesy of Clark's Nursery, Naples, Florida 

Last flight to the gates of heaven, prose poem by Mike Marcellino

Last flight to the gates of heaven

by Mike Marcellino

Part I  The mission

It all became right clear to me

walkin' the dog to the beach

and back

to the gates of heaven

from mission number three.

i found that liberty, you see

can only be

if you respect other people's

rights.  Otherwise you got

nothin' but monopoly and friction.

i'm walking the dog to the beach,

and back

to the gates of heaven

from mission number three -

sometimes under attack

by dogs runnin' free 'cause their masters don't put 'em on a leach,

even if they have one.  Now i'd like to let my dog Button

run as free as he likes, but then, that wouldn't be liberty

and we'd all end up under attack.

Seems you can only have pure freedom when nobody's around.

If you want to live together without fightin' and wars

we have to all share our liberty.

Button, you see, is a young white Poodle

smart and stubborn as can be.  He doesn't much

mind any of the dogs, 'cause he's on a mission with me, you see.

He's a kind of blood hound without the hound.

Secretly enlisted in the K-9 Corps.

i'm tryin' to keep him sniffing for

ways to peace, so our world can still be.

We're walking to the beach

and back

to the gates of heaven

from mission number three

to meet up with all the critters we see,

maybe make a friend or two.

We can all have liberty to a degree,

and together, i truly believe

we can save their world from

man-made destruction,

if we can just be kind to each other,

from here to eternity

and back,

'stead of killin' each other and our planet.

Headed down through rattlesnake turtle dunes,

things kinda turned the other cheek.

Suddenly ahead i see a whole family

complete two boys and two dogs

on their leaches.

"That's the man you like,"

said one boy to the other.

And, low and behold

the man pulling his dogs on their leashes

retreated

letting Button and me

pass through safely;

they were like Moses parting the Red Sea.

We're still walkin' to the beach

and back

to the gates of heaven

from mission number three

when i spy a mighty subtropical

thunderstorm,

a scary black, silver and grey chain covering the western horizon,

wanting badly to spawn tornadoes.

At this point, we're on the point

and i spy a break in the clouds

maybe a path on our road to glory.

Eyeing the growing storm in some increasing disbelieve;

our luck seemed to have run out -

black-grey funnels tryin' their best

to take Button and me off the planet

to Oz.

Then, starting to think some last thoughts

walkin' the dog back from the beach

through the rattlesnake turtle dunes

it dawned on me,

"What a special dog this is;

he's either got some of that PTSD,

or he's much smarter than me."

The Dylan's lyrics run though my brain -

"Mama, put my guns in the ground

I can't shoot them anymore.

That long black cloud is comin' down

I feel like I'm knockin' on heaven's door"

Thanks, Bob, for those lines from "Knockin' On Heaven's Door,"

i really like that song

from the "Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid" sound track.

Here's your credit -

Copyright ©1973 by Ram's Horn Music; renewed 2001 by Ram’s Horn Music

Part II  Flashback No. 1

On our final run, Button

and me

i'm back in the wars again

thinkin' Audie Murphy

and To Hell and Back from World War II

now i'm back to tryin' to get back

from Firebase Cleveland.

i had no gun,

hardly ever did 

in the Vietnam War

out in the field, not even a tooth brush

or change for a dollar,

not a bite of food, not a C-Ration can

just notebooks, pens and

thirty-five millimeter cameras

wrapped in plastic,

wading through the rice paddies, sometimes chest deep -

my brothers watching my back.

Part III  Button and me

Trying to keep my cool

there was only one thing to do

right now

if Button and me

are gonna make it through the storm.

Start joggin'

and singin' this old song -

"Up the hill,

down the hill,

Airborne,

Airborne,

Army Rangers.

Up the hill,

down the hill,

Airborne,

Airborne,

All the way."

Over and over. I probably messed up the lines

but it's been a long time

before long a half century.

Then i got to thinkin' we just might

make it through the storm.  I geared back to fast walkin'.

Part IV The night i thought i'd died

These threats in the world

get me flashin' back

to the night i thought i'd died

in the sandy

forested wasteland

on the Cambodian border

at a firebase freshly carved out

Automatic weapons fire

all through the no moon night

shootin' the shit with bare chested GI's

filling bags

for some slim extra protection 

against mortar and rocket attacks.

i'm out there, right there where we're not supposed to be

me, some Army engineers,

artillerymen

and a battery

of big guns,  one five five millimeters

on tracks that looked like tanks.

i got dropped off on the convoy

thanks

to the bird colonel and his helicopter.

from my ride on the bird colonel's helicopter.

Letting me out, barely touching down,

that Alabamian, i guess as close as you can get

to my commanding officer, looked at me

without a word, laughing.  i didn't bother to look back.

He wasn't a bad guy.  He just wanted some good photos and stories

out of me

published so he could be a general.

We rolled on to the border

dust almost blinding.

Then right away in some no man's land

the bulldozers scooped up dirt

by the tons

firing hole for the big traveling guns.

"Boom, boom, boom,

blast, blast, blast"

the guns shook and thundered.

(me shooting pictures, taking notes, without ear plugs, close enough to feel the warmth of the steel)

The artillerymen humpin' all day long

unleashing hell out into the triple canopy jungles

where they enemy was supposed to be -

the NVA (the North Vietnamese Army)

and maybe some VC (Viet Cong) guerrillas i suppose

on their way to hit Saigon, and not the bars.

I don't know how many enemy there were out there somewhere,

hundreds,

maybe as many four or five thousand;

it wasn't any use to think about that.

"Who's out on the perimeter?" i asked the smart-assed lieutenant

who shut me out of his APC.

(armored personnel carriers to you folks back home).

"Mercenaries," he said without a grin.

i thought, "Man, what a fix i got myself in."

With dispatch the lieutenant said,

"Start diggin' your hole,"

he said as he went into his APC

probably to start partying before World War Three.

Our guns were silent, even Alpha's Angels

the whole troop had showered, except the reporter,

from canvas bags filled with cold running water

brought in by slicks, Huey D Model gunships,

(They didn't stick around.)

Nothin' like a cold shower to get some relief from the mind sapping heat.

i had little time.  The sun was going down.

Get the size just right.  i had no time to think

of the rectangular, grave sized bunker

to be topped with corrugated steel for a cover.

Be quick. 

At least someone gave me an entrenching tool

or i'd have been buried alive

before the fireworks began

on the night a thought i'd died.  That's another story.

Part V  Gates of heaven

Then, i got to thinkin' we,

Button and me, that is, just might make it 

walkin' the dog to the beach

and back

to the gates of heaven

from mission number three.

So my story to you,

at least the one from today

does have a happy ending.

Button and me, we did make it home.

Back in the day

toward the end

of the ten thousand day war,

all i know, for sure that is 

58,000 and more,

some of America's finest

young men and women

didn't make it back to the world.

These bands of brothers

i always remember.

They boarded the big airplanes

in body bags and boxes

on their last flight of freedom

to the gates of heaven.

Last flight to the gates of heaven by Mike Marcellino copyright 2012

'Like magic, it would seem,' a poem about 'Blowin' in the Wind' by Mike Marcellino

Poet, songwriter performing artist Mike Marcellino
sports "Hard Travlin'" T-shirt with art by Woody Guthrie
he was given at the Woody tribute
in Cleveland in 1996 

Like magic, it would seem

by mike marcellino

Four and a half days,

that's fast,

faster than the dust bowl days,

even today,

A la Woody Guthrie, but in the 60s,

off the siding

of the interstate highway

to route sixty-six, at times

stranded 'in a wasteland of the free'

to quote Iris DeMent.





On the road to find out

what America's all about -

like Woody's 'This Land Is Land'

sort of thing,

or maybe more like

Masters of War a Bob Dylan sort of thing. Truth is we were

freewheelin' across our fair land

at those very same moments

when Bob was writing an' singin' all that stuff.


On our first big ride, we were

almost saved

somewhere in the darkness of Kansas

by an unnamed family

always silently in fervent prayer.

We did get to eat at the break of day,

not sure where, but somewhere east of oz.

Hands out, even doin' a bit a soft shoe

echoes on the side of the road

like magic, it would seem.


We didn't see any evidence of a war

brewing

far away

in a place half way round

the globe

we were told

where in the dark blue mountains

it don't even snow

like magic, it would seem.


Our last night on the highway to LA

almost became really our last night.

You had to boost yourself up

to get into the cab. Then pitch black

only illuminated by dial for the gas,

we started going off the road,

we were on the edge

of oblivion, but that

kind truck driver woke up

put us straight

into CALI FOR NI A!


Not sure I remember what 

was going on 

in that summer of sixty-four,

two years before

we went off to war, 

except the Beach Boys. Maybe that

all got erased 

where in the dark blue mountains 

it don't even snow

like magic, it would seem.


But I took along all those versus, Bob, 

from 'Blowin' in the Wind' to 'I Shall Be Free'

with 'Corina, Cornia' in between. I knew

just when a song would come up.

"Did you know that people say 

you wrote that first song in 10 minutes?"

"I'd call that really speedin', wouldn't you?"

"Well try to sit down and write something like that. Ah, there's a magic to that," 

he once tired to explain.


But our road trip wasn't over. We took a train

to Nevada, Las Vegas that is,

and after the fare it left us 

with twenty bucks, 

not to spare.

Little wheel spin and spin

in the Desert Inn.

"Black!"

"No, green!"

(A terrible scream)

Echoes on the side of the road

where in the dark blue mountains 

it don't even snow.

Like magic, it would seem.


Like magic it would seem by Mike Marcellino copyright 2012

Mike Marcellino just recorded a new song, "Woody Blues," his song to Woody Guthrie marks the century celebration of the work of the legendary American folk singer from the Great Depression of the 1930 and 1940s.  Guthrie would have been 100 years old on July 14, 2012.  Woody's music and life on the road with the downtrodden has influenced generations of musicians around the world to the present day.  Guthrie was a mentor of Bob Dylan, who visited Woody while he was hospital in New York City.  Guthrie died in 1967 at age 55 from Huntington's Disease.


Dylan explains his magic on 60 Minutes

Bob Dylan in a 60 Minutes interview with Ed Bradley in 2004 admitted he took him about 10 minutes to write Blowing in the Wind.  Dylan said it was a "penetrating magic" in creativity that enabled him to write his early songs.  

Here's an excerpt of Ed Bradley's interview with Bob Dylan -

BD: Well try to sit down and write something like that. Ah, there's a magic to that. And it's not a sigfried and roy (reference to a magician and lion tamer performing duo) kind of magic . It's a penetrating kind of magic. I did it at one time.


EB: You don't think you could do it today?

BD: uh huh...

EB: Does this disappoint you?

BD: You can't do something for ever. (shakes his head slightly) I did it once and I can do other things now. I can't do that. (he looks down)

So, you guess about that.  Here's a video of the song and the lyrics.  Introduced by Jack Nicholson, Bob Dylan sings Blowin' in the Wind with Ron Wood and Keith Richards of the Rolling Stones at Live Aid in 1985.  The song is #14 n Rolling Stone's 500 Greatest Songs of All Time.  Dylan is 71.

Blowin' In the Wind

by Bob Dylan

How many roads must a man walk down

Before you call him a man?

Yes, ’n’ how many seas must a white dove sail

Before she sleeps in the sand?

Yes, ’n’ how many times must the cannonballs fly

Before they’re forever banned?

The answer, my friend, is blowin’ in the wind

The answer is blowin’ in the wind

How many years can a mountain exist

Before it’s washed to the sea?

Yes, ’n’ how many years can some people exist

Before they’re allowed to be free?

Yes, ’n’ how many times can a man turn his head

Pretending he just doesn’t see?

The answer, my friend, is blowin’ in the wind

The answer is blowin’ in the wind

How many times must a man look up

Before he can see the sky?

Yes, ’n’ how many ears must one man have

Before he can hear people cry?

Yes, ’n’ how many deaths will it take till he knows

That too many people have died?

The answer, my friend, is blowin’ in the wind

The answer is blowin’ in the wind

Copyright © 1962 by Warner Bros. Inc.; renewed 1990 by Special Rider Music

Here's a link to Bob Dylan's website for more stuff - 

Bob Dylan's website

'Woody Blues' : Mike Marcellino's 'talk' with Woody Guthrie, an American folk music legend

This Hard Travlin' poster of the art of legendary American folk singer of the Great Depression was published by the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 1996

Hard travelin': 'Woody Blues' story

The evolving interest in the Oklahoma cowboy Woody Guthrie first led Mike Marcellino to write a poem about Woody in view of how things are today, called "St. Augustine, Woody Blues."  Now the poem has turned into Woody Blues, a lyrical poetry song recording with Mike doing the lyrics and vocal and Tomas Texino doing the music and on electric guitar and synthesizer.  

Mike says his interest in the life and folk music of Guthrie, popular troubadour across America during the Great Depression of the 1930s, started long ago in the early 1960s when he fist started listening to the likes of Bob Dylan, who admired and was influenced by Guthrie.  Guthrie's songs that interest Mike are about the downtrodden and the working families.  His continuing interest got a boost on a wild road trip in the summer of 1964, from North Carolina to California, winding up in New York City.  (The subject of Mike's short memoir, a limited edition, New York Revisited, published in Cleveland in 2008 or so in advance of Mike's poetry music performing tours in New York City, the last one in the fall of 2010.)  

"My favorite Woody Guthrie songs are Pretty Boy Floyd and Hard Travlin'," Mike says.  "But then, I still listening."  Mike's poetry music covers the waterfront, and he invites you to listen to "Woody Blues" his 11th in a series of recordings that began in the fall of 2009.  He released 6-song limited tour CD "Notebook Writer" in 2010.  A new, full album is in the works along with a series of performances in the United States and Europe.  

Add, Deportee (Plane Wreck at Los Gatos) to that list of my favorite Woody Guthrie songs: list gonna grow and grow:  add California Stars and Ingrid Bergman (I like those two by Wilco and Bily Bragg on Mermaind Avenue, a two-CD set of Woody's songs) it's gonna grow and grow...

"I'll never lose my interest in Woody Guthrie, for me, he was the first real voice I heard, along with Dylan.  They're both great American writers,"  Mike added.  Woody would have turned 100 on July 14, 2012 if he were alive.

Mike says you can help preserve Woody's legacy and archives by supporting the Woody Guthrie Foundation, a non-profit organization.  In fact Mike discovered the Hard Travlin poster of the art by Woody Guthrie can be purchased at the Woody Guthrie website by clicking this link.  And, Mike just may have to get one himself cause his "Hard Travlin" T-shirt's coming apart.  Mike picked up the T-shirt in Cleveland in 1996 at the time of the 10-day celebration of Guthrie's music put on by the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Museum and Case Western Reserve University.  

The Woody Guthrie Store

And, finally, here's a link to the main Woody Guthrie website.  In 1988 Guthrie was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.  Woody was the first artist celebrated in the rock hall's annual master series in 1996, an event Mike didn't miss.

WoodyGuthrie.org

You can listen to Mike's new song "Woody Blues" on the music player at the top.  Here, also, is a link to our music site on ReverbNation.  Listening is free; share our music and like us on our Facebook music page.

Woody Blues

by Mike Marcellino


First it was my army backpack.
Then
my old yellow T-shirt
with The Lillies on
gone.

The day after
Friday the Thirteenth
they took
my real leather beach shoes
right on your birthday.
One an' all.
One an' all.
Got the Saint Augustine,
Woody Blues.

So, this becomes
your birthday song
from the sand beaches
of the Great Recession
to dust bowls
of the Great Depression.
One an' all.
One an' all.
Got the Saint Augustine,
Woody Blues.

"As I went walking I saw a sign there
And on the sign it said 'No Trespassing.'
But on the other side it didn't say nothing,
That side was made for you and me."

So Woody, tell me,
Is this still our land -
"From California to the New York island;
From the red wood forest to the Gulf Stream waters?"
Or is it just a den of greed and thieves?
Did you have to nail stuff down,
back then
on the box car roads to California?
Or, just watch out
gettin' beat up bound for glory?
One an' all.
One an' all.
Got the Saint Augustine,
Woody Blues.

Now, another century
Jammin'
on Roosevelt Island.
Makin' up some songs
on the streets of Cleveland.
Trekking cross country
thumb out all the way.
Nothin' to lose anymore,
except everything
when the trucker fell asleep.
One an' all.
One an' all.
Got the Saint Augustine,
Woody Blues.
"Nobody living can ever stop me,
As I go walking that freedom highway;
Nobody living can ever make me turn back
This land was made for you and me."

Thanks for the borrowed lines, Woody.
They're mighty fine.
One an' all.
One an' all.
Got the Saint Augustine,
Woody Blues.

St. Augustine, Woody Blues and Woody Blues recording lyrics by Mike Marcellino, copyright 2012

So long, been good ta know ya - here's This Land is Your Land by Woody Guthrie in a rare Depression era video

The White Bird, a poem by Mike Marcellino

St. Augustine Beach, Florida 

The White Bird

By Mike Marcellino

Take time with the natural. 

Slow down. 

Don’t miss the beauty,

the small wonders.

Watch and

follow the white bird

on the shore

standing on spindle legs,

like crooked tar twigs.

She paces the wet sand

in a state of consecrated grace,

too lightweight

to leave prints.

 

Fearless, she hops tiny waves,

fluttering her wings,

in no particular hurry.

On occasion 

peck, peck, peck

into sand and shallow surf,

spearing what she captures

inside her

long

razor black beak.

Something unseen–

gulp, gulp, gulp,

digesting sea creatures,

sometimes hidden

in clumps of seaweed.

Recall.  Civilizations,

nations

but

dribble castles: 

Here now,

back in the sea,

tomorrow. 

The white bird

knows not to fall

for what man made.

Not tripping,

she takes notes,

in passing:

an upside down

rubber

flip flop;

plastic of every detail

imagined -

caps, toys and containers;

a single leather soul;

thrown up paper -

a manufactured jelly fish,

of the faintest blue

performing a tide pool ballet

on the beach. 

“And,

“Pray you,” chirps the white bird silently.

“Don’t mix the gods up with your very nature.” 

In her tracks she left behind two shells

worn ocean smooth,

one white, the other black.

The White Bird by Mike Marcellino, copyright 2012

On the beach.  

Photos by Mike Marcellino Copyright 2012