Frank at the Pecan Cafe`

(on tour in Blanco Texas)

He was standing at the mike

old guitar, long grey hair

bushy side-whiskers

down to his chin

6 foot 4, ten gallon hat

boots, vest, jeans and neck-string.

he was singing a song about a cowboy's life

(about his own granddaddy)

about disappearing rail-road ties

long-horn ranches, Mississipi river

gamblers and cajun queens.

more than a little awestruck

he was the first 'real' cowboy I'd ever seen.

Frank has a drawl

as long and wide as the Texas skyline

in fact he didn't talk

he stretched and twanged

and played his voice like a slow guitar

his eyes gleamed as he spoke to me

the way he looked

I felt like chicken dripping with honey.

it was organized I was stay the night

at his ranch in the hills 'The Triple Goddess'

he said

'I'm a gonna take you

a long ways down the road

'bout two miles or so

then, we're gonna take

a little turn to the left

where the road

gets mighty narrow

(a rocky little trail)

you'll drive with me

in my pick-up truck'.

I was shivering in my shoes

could see the newspaper headlines

'Australian poet disappears

in the Wimberly Hills of Austin Texas

seach parties fail to find any trace...'

I hadn't heard then

of his partner Jane

it was so late

and I was so pleased

so very pleased

to meet Frank's lady.

Pamela Sidney 1994 (approx)

Frank & Jane

Frank read to Jane out loud a long story

the complete book “The Mists of Avalon”

it took him 2 years to read

such is the love and respect

he holds for her

their eyes share deep love into each other

they are very much in love

they live in a small homestead

called “The Triple Goddess”

built on the side of a rocky hill

just outside Blanco Texas

I was their guest for just one night

and will never forget their hospitality

a steaming bowl of black-eyed pea soup

old southern recipe

a large mug of sleepy-time tea

peppermint and Chamomile

organic herbs from their garden patch

we talked into the night

but there were not enough hours

new friends old travellers

we learn we've been reading the same books

the ancient wisdom

of the Earth Mother Goddess

the talk went on

not enough time for all there was to say

Frank's a country singer

tours the country with his guitar

Jane an adventurer

backpacked across Australia

sailed the Pacific in a yacht

a photographer

she showed me her high colour photos

taken at a pow-wow - American Indians -

exquisitely costumed dancing

her photos hang

on display in Austin's gallery

night sets in deep and hard

sadly it's time to sleep

although desperately tired

I slept not a wink that night

the magic of the people the place

had overtaken me

in the distance thunder rumbled

sheet-lightening whitened the cave-black sky

not enough time for all there was to say

next day the enchanted rock awaited

later a television appearance and poetry

but I will never forget

my very first meeting with Frank

and later, his lady Jane

Pamela Sidney 1994

At Austin Airport

In the black Austin sky

the Scorpio moon hangs low

pale and full above the harsh

neon airport lights

Austin is friendly outgoing

local art hangs unpretentious

in frames lining the corridor

all the way to the baggage claim

she's rising now a magical kite

high helium filled balloon

no strings free to swoop and glide

among the galaxies

I wait for Herman

the pretty young woman beside me

walks off saying "that's cool"

she'd glimpsed the hippy beaded hair-wrap

Wendy of Cleveland worked for me

the night before

the night is clammy

sticky, sensuous, simmering hot

and that moon in Scorpio full

bloated, mysterious waits

the aircraft takes off with the roar

of a hundred thunders

heading straight for the moon I swear

red light flashing

aah yes off to starboard

swerving curving sharply

no one would dare

cross her path tonight

Pamela Sidney 25.4.94

The Oz Ooets Tour of America 1994

(written at at Milo's Cafe Columbus Ohio)

We've had our hands shaken

been complimented

treated with awe

announced as the troupe

with the cult following

we've had a sense

of being the first

making some sort of

poetry history

we've been handsomely fed

sheltered in the comfortable chaos

of modest 3 children family homes

in the retirement villa of a financial advisor

we've slept soundly on the floor

of a Texan cowboy country singer's ranch

been given black-eye pea soup and sleepy time tea

we slept in the spare bedrooms

of a millionaire's beach house at Port Aransas

overnight in a quaint cottage by a sacred well

in an A frame house in the Wimberly Hills Blanco Texas

these kind warm people

have welcomed and fed us

in their different ways

from barren fridges

over-flowing larders

in exclusive restaurants

unlimited charge cards

by candlelight amid mediaeval decore`

in an artist's warehouse

the banquet cooked

by a talented earth-mother

twin of Mama Cass

we stayed some days

at a house in the Ozark mountains

where we feasted on turkey

tender and succulant, smoked

for 7 hours followed by a dessert

so honey-drippin' sweet

our patates will never be the same again

we've been shown the local sights

beautiful suburban homes

universities

the quiet tree-lined Ohio streets

forests surrounding still lakes

we've been taken to gaudy bars

Karaoki bars

Elvis memorabilia bars

60s memorabilia bars

we've walked streets

strewn with the debris of poverty

felt the fear a person feels

when surrounded

by the angry, substance addicted and alienated

bitter at their life, raging high on cocaine

we've sailed along a gentle river

canoed between banks of sad weeping willows

we've climbed upon and given ourselves to

an enchanted rock, the sacred deep core

of the mother earth

we've watched the glib awesome Dallas skyline

grow into view, it's clusters of concrete towers

arrogantly announcing yet another proud city

I've seen the million lights of a city

spread like a canopy beneath me

twinkling sparkling precious jewels

sprinkled randomly over lush black velvet

we've been taken to bathe

in the waters of a sacred well

ancient feminine source

water spirit power

we've drunk champagne

from the bottle at midnight

while floating swirling

in a heated outdoor jacuse`

laughed and joked

and squealed with delight

at this existence

so unlike a poet's life

we have driven into the long hours

arrived deprived of everything

but a desire to read our poetry

we have seen an ideal weekend

turn into domestic high / low drama

the drunken sea-captain

the millionaire drug dealer

his cocaine addicted wife

who flattened both men

with ferocious crack-driven fists

we sat around a camp-fire in Wimberly Texas

listened to America's finest

country musicians play and sing

we heard folk-music's roots

echos of Woody Guthrie

in a man called Ramblin' Jack Elliott

listened to him jam and sing with friends

he told us how he nursed Woody

for the last 2 years of his life

Ramblin' Jack invited us to his concert

then shared his stage and his audience

for us to read our poetry

we know how it feels

to do 22 readings in 31 days

I know now the big city airports

all over America

feel more at home on a plane

than a bus

© Pamela Sidney 25.4.94

At Waterloo Brewery

( a rap for Garland )

I call him a preacher poet

no religion just Kerouac jazz

declaiming beat rap poetry

waistcoat sharp, lithe young body

tailored business suit and tie

when he opens his mouth we admire

there's a little bit of Hendrix inside him

he's so cool just can't stop watchin'

so young to be so sure of himself

'cock of the walk' a dancer, he knows

just how his body goes

he's anarchy walking in conservative clothes

a gentleman perennial with 90's soul

he jumps on tables elegantly

stomps shouts n' rages just for stage

then whispers imperceptibly

just like those gone before

he knows he's 'on the road'

got somethin' inside that never goes

this poet's got a mission, he's movin'

got the travellin', jivin' words of truth

yeah, he's got, poetry

Pamela Sidney (approx) 1994

Downtown Cinncinnati

Across the Rhine

no one comes here

except poor artists and mad poets

Main St flutters debri all about

blacks of all ages sit on the sidewalk

their children stare with bold old eyes

attitude not learned

yet but give them time

the few whites who live here

tread cool tread carefully

Kerouac still 'lives' here

still spoken of with reverence

Ginsberg is spiritual 'king of beat'

Cohen treads water behind him

slightly submerged waiting to surface

the 'spirit of Kerouac'

makes this journey possible

the welcomes touching

hellos and goodbyes too fast

just a taste

as we go through and past.

Orchard Streets' white blossoms

soft balm to Main Streets

swirling vortex'd crack joints

we leave Cinncinnati I snap photos

from the safety of a car window

Main Street too volatile too tight

feel like a voyuer

like a journalist

watching an urban war

I could die in the action

but do not risk

keeping my camera rolling

early spring's white blossom

fall over me like confetti

in mid morning Orchard Street

where yuppies re-decorate

and poor artists dwindle

to the fringes yet again

fuel stations

telephones

the lifelines

between cities

a soft bed the need

supermarket shelves

provide the food

the Columbus skyline

mushrooms into blue

through the car's front window

big city Columbus

empirical thrust

buildings nestle together

like a concrete forest

© Pamela Sidney April 1994