Top Twenty-Five Classic Rock (70’s Forward) Most Recognizable Intros

In no particular order, feel free to add your choices, I'm sure I've missed loads.

1.Stairway To Heaven – Led Zeppelin
2. Sweet Emotion - Aerosmith
3. Learning To Fly – Pink Floyd
4. Sweet Child O' Mine – Guns 'n' Roses
5. Walk This Way - Aerosmith
6. Satisfaction – Rolling Stones
7. November Rain – Guns 'n' Roses
8. Stranglehold – Ted Nugent
9. Freebird – Lynryd Skynyrd
10. Smoke On The Water – Deep Purple
11.Where The Streets Have No Name – U2

12. You Really Got Me -- The Kinks
13. Walk Of Life – Dire Straits
14. Money For Nothing – Dire Straits
15. Baba O’Riley – The Who

16. Werewolves Of London – Warren Zevon

17. Layla – Derek And The Dominoes
18. Whiter Shade Of Pale – Procol Harum
19. Won’t Get Fooled Again – The Who

20. Walk On The Wild Side – Lou Reed
21. Dream On – Aerosmith
22. Boys Are Back In Town – Thin Lizzy
23. Don’t Come Around Here No More – Tom Petty And The Heartbreakers
24. Born In The USA – Bruce Springsteen

25. Jessica – The Allman Brothers Band

Convergence

Those blue eyes had girls from the muddy

Mississippi shores running for a fishing pole.

Me, I was hooked on a feelin’.

Your eyelashes had me ready to dangle

my innocence over the waves of your waterbed.

Two years later, a White Knight in tight Levis,

you whisked a microdot-laced damsel

away in your faithful ’72 Beetle.

I wanted to be the sunrise in your tequila,

lick those rivulets of water from your abdomen,

and melt plutonium with our passion…

So I left town.

But you can’t outrun an avalanche

or abort cartwheels mid-turn.

Traveling separate directions was fine,

because time after time, the compass needle

spun us around that straight line,

where like the Mississippi and Missouri rivers,

we converged.

Improving Virgo's Home

The weight of hope stooped her shoulders,
Bent her into a pale visionary with
A freshly laundered smile.
She nervously joined the morning hustle,

While keys jingled in her head,
Collided with bass riffs plastered
Against the German windows.
New days, new ways, she repeated,
Maneuvering across objectionable lanes of traffic.
New days, new ways to improve.

The ring of winter traveled down telephone
Poles into houses fighting to keep a feather
Of warmth between the freezing sheets.
New days, new ways, she said.
She didn’t believe.
Lies trump litanies in any game,
And she’d left her conviction at home.

Time Trials

At two hundred miles an hour on bald tires,
Urgency jumped the raw, red light.
Burning down a road bulging with desperation,
I delivered a bastard with wet fingers and wipe-outs.
The caution flag waves, pit crews scramble.
Time is a ruthless competitor, too much torque.
I want to snap the brake cables,
Hammer the accelerator through the floor,
Laugh at those solid white lines of banality
And finish with a blown head gasket.

Press Release - Macmillan Cancer Support - Soul Feathers

Local Poet features alongside Poet Laureate and Bob Dylan

Local poet Jolen Whitworth who lives in Leeds, is being published alongside a host of high profile names for Indigo Dreams Publishing’s anthology in participation with (and in aid of) Macmillan Cancer Support – Soul Feathers.

Poet Laureate Carol Ann Duffy, world superstar Bob Dylan and Renaissance Woman Maya Angelou have joined forces with the likes of Seamus Heaney, Leonard Cohen, Benjamin Zephaniah and classic poets from the past to create a wonderful anthology of 280 pages for just £11.00.

The book has a general theme of hope and the title was formed from the poem by Emily Dickinson that begins “Hope is the thing with feathers / That perches in the soul….” Jolen’s poem is titled From The Silence and was selected from over 1000 submissions.

Soul Feathers has an official publication date of 1^st February and pre-orders for immediate despatch on or prior to publication date are now being taken. It is being distributed by Central Books and may be ordered by telephoning 0845 458 9910, by going to the publishers’ website at www.indigodreams.co.uk or by giving the title and quoting ISBN 978-1-907401-36-7 at any local bookshop.

Indigo Dreams Publishing Ltd – Ronnie Goodyer

Please feel free to contact the poet directly:

Contact: Jolen Whitworth

Email: salemsgate@mac.com

The Trouble With Paradise

If I could close my heart as dutifully
as I open my legs to the disappointment,
what dark streets might my feet wander?
Would I finally inhabit the world
you, in all your naiveté couldn’t brace?

Instead of this caricature of heaven,
I’d dangle on the edge of a knife blade,
between breath and heartbeat, uncertain
of either following one after another,
more alive in that instant than in all the
soul-numbing decades combined.

I’m not your pet, your princess or priority,
nor am I your flower, your love,
or the answer to years of prayers.

The palest rose still bears thorns.
Yes, even on those delicate stems
pain is delivered by a prick.
And the trouble with paradise is--
someone else designed it.

Seasons Of Windsor

http://news.aol.co.uk/discuss-feed/queen-sought-heating-bills-grant/1292343




Queen E, Queen E, why are you so glum?
Why, when you rule the entire King-dom!
Buckingham’s hall’s getting too draughty?
That just means you’ll have to be crafty.

No need to fret when temperatures fall,
The government’s got grants, give them a call.
No one will think the Windsors are fools,
Needing a hand to warm family jewels.

So, fifteen million isn’t enough?
Thousands are homeless, but you’re living rough.
Countless abodes, those beautiful swans,
Trade them for shares or premium bonds.

Pawn those pearls that hang around your throat,
Raffle off Land’s End or John O’ Groats.
How about a boot sale, sell all your tat;
Maybe a whip-round, pass’us yer hat.

If after this you still can’t get through,
Try the Dole, but be warned there’s a queue.
Give us a ring, you can call collect,
Chances are good we’ll even accept.

Yes, Virginia, Vibrators Do Come With Instructions

Occasionally, I like to add a few things to my ‘toy box’. Not an easy task, given the selection available these days, but generally worth the time spent browsing through countless jelly vibes, rabbit vibrators, strap-on items and so forth. Hell, even the names are entertaining, am I right?

It’s always a bit like Christmas as a kid when your plain brown package arrives. You never know if it’s going to give you as much pleasure as a Barbie’s Dream House did or be like the sweaters Aunt Mary used to knit for you—something you throw in a drawer and forget about.

I’ve been buying personal pleasure items for years, and I’ve had some really wonderful surprises. Of course, I’ve had lots of ‘Aunt Mary’s sweaters’ too, but what I have never had until the other day, was instructions.

I don’t mean ‘unscrew this and put batteries here’ instructions, I mean actual instructions on how to use a vibrator.

For some reason, I found this both hilarious and redundant. It seems to me that if you’re in the market for a vibrator, you’ve got a fairly good idea what you want to do with it.

Surely, the name alone implies what you want it for. Let’s see what the old dictionary has to say… vibrator |ˈvaɪˈbreɪdər|

Noun -- a device that vibrates or causes vibration, in particular

• a device used for massage or sexual stimulation.

Yes, just as I suspected, you use a vibrator for vibration, especially on your naughty bits.

After perusing their instructions, I thought, hmm, those are a bit shit. I think I’ll write my own set of instructions.

I’ve done them in two parts, just to make sure you get the most out of the experience.

1. Get batteries.

2. Insert batteries in vibrator.

3. Turn vibrator on.

4. Place vibrator where you think it feels best. (There’s no right or wrong area here, so get wild and crazy.)

5. Let the vibrator vibrate.

6. Rinse and repeat.

1. The clitoris is generally found about five minutes after your partner has rolled over, snoring, and very pleased with himself for having ‘given it to you good.”

2. Once you’ve located the clitoris, it becomes overwhelmingly obvious why you and your partner have different definitions of ‘good.’ It’s at this juncture that I recommend having a fresh supply of batteries nearby. Trust me, you don’t want to be looking all over for batteries while embarking on your journey to self-satisfaction.

3. Feel free to experiment, we all know that this is likely to be the only time you have this much enjoyment without having to pretend you want to cuddle afterward.

4. If your partner isn’t a heavy sleeper, a separate bedroom is wonderful.

5. Use the tool for the job. (Sometimes our partners are woefully ill equipped, now is your chance to make up for nature’s lack of consideration.)

6. Have an attractive box to pack your toys in. I find this particularly handy at the airport luggage check-in.

If after this you still aren’t sure what to do with a vibrator, I suggest a nunnery.

It Appears I May Have Been Wrong...Shattering The Stereotypes.

1. Appearances: He looks as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.
What you're thinking: Could you please show me the way to the bad boys?
Reality: What he does with butter is illegal in forty-two of the fifty states.

2. Appearances: He’s polite, attentive and considerate.
What you're thinking: Too sweet.
Reality: He does things to you that make you want to go to confession. (And sing from the rooftops, “Ah, sweet mystery of life, at last I’ve found you.”)

3. Appearances: He looks like one of those guys who spent most of his weekends playing scrabble.
What you're thinking: Brainy but boring.
Reality: You suddenly feel the need for new adjectives to describe how incredible the sex is and could qualify for the space program when he's done sending you into outer space.

4. Appearances: He’s the type of guy you take home to meet the family.
What you're thinking: My family would ditch me and keep him.
Reality: You send the family a postcard from the bedroom saying, “I’m glad you’re not here.”

5. Appearances: He looks wet behind the ears.
What you're thinking: Inexperienced.
Reality: He makes you so wet you’ve had to buy plastic sheets.

6. Appearances: He’s in fair shape.
What you're thinking: I’d break him in half.
Reality: He makes the terminator look like a pantywaist. I mean this man puts the energizer bunny to shame and you start to wonder if demons drive Fords.

7. Appearances: He’ll be perfect in about ten years.
What you're thinking: I envy the woman he’s with in ten years.
Reality: You’d have to pry him loose from my cold, dead hands!

Sleeping Lion or Napping Cat? The honeymoon is over...

Or maybe it never got started. Here’s some sure fire ways to know if you’re with a sleeping lion or just a plain old napping cat.


Most of us have had situations arise in our sex lives that have given us pause, but how can we be sure if there’s reason to worry? I’ve taken the liberty of giving you a few examples and should they resemble anything you’ve heard from your partner, run!



1.You are feeling amorous and whisper to him that you’d love to go back to bed and make love.


To which he replies, “I wish you’d have told me that before I showered. I’m all clean now!” (If this were indicative of his implying that he had really dirty sex in mind, I might have been sympathetic, as it was, he meant that he didn’t want to get ‘sweaty’ after having a shower.)


2.You’re in bed together and while kissing him, you ask if he would like to have his world rocked.


He answers, “You know how sick I get on rides.”


3.Thinking you’ll surprise him; you put on a lovely piece of lingerie and perfume, sliding up next to him you say, “Honey, let’s do something different and fun, what do you say?”


With a straight face, he states, “I’ve just got undressed.” (Cue to take up knitting.)


4.At some point, you forgo even trying to be seductive and just come out with something like “Wanna fuck?”


Whereby you may receive an answer that resembles this: “Go on then, I’ve got a few minutes before football starts.”


5.Trying to shock him into some sort of sexual frenzy, you say “I want you to cum all over my tits!” (That should make any man take notice, don’t you think?) You see his blank stare and ask, “How does that sound?”


He sits looking bewildered before answering, “That sounds rather delightful.” (I thought to myself, No one is THAT English and reached for the chocolate.)


And lastly, you know that the honeymoon is over if you suddenly develop a new appreciation for anatomy, because you’re happy to find urine dribbles on the toilet seat.

At least he’s using his penis for something!

The Wall (Dedicated to the West Memphis Three: Damien Echols, Jason Baldwin and Jesse Misskelley Jr.)

The town constructed a wall
to block reason from their minds.
They believed themselves righteous,
safe from evil behind bricks of fear
and ignorance, because everyone
inside the wall knew that

Evil is the black t-shirts teenagers wear
and the metal music they listen to.
It’s Stephen King books, Wicca,
and those three juveniles
who didn’t quite measure up
to their one-size-fits-all mentality.
Particularly evil was a young man
who defiantly sought a truth they
all feared might infect them with
the inconvenience of free thought.

Wasn’t the murder of three little boys
an omen? On the big screen,
(Which, of course, is reality),
Damien walked among them,
Satan’s son, or near enough if you
kept your eyes tightly closed.
And the police knew that he butchered
those little boys, so why waste
time on the trivialities of fact or evidence?
After all, they had faith on their side,

faith in shoddy police work and bias,
the mortar and trowel of injustice.
Logic fights to creep through
the countless cracks in the foundation
of a wall, which penned up ‘the freaks’
as effectively as it sheltered a killer
whom they never bothered to find.

Big Skin

Drunk with lust and a need
to quench the thirst
welled up from recesses
of the night’s rhythm,
you didn’t consider
a woman with amoral desires;
too foolish to recognize pity,
you felt it necessary to expunge
the guilt of your sexuality.

I entertained no notion of strings
puppeteering a method to an end.
While there’s benevolence in roving hands,
without your need for delusion
I wasted no time
on empathy, schemes or love.

Then the moment:
our bodies wiped clean
of sweat and avarice;
the mask peeled away
from a little boy in big skin
waiting for an invitation
that would never come.

The Portal

Acquiescent, she sits back
on her heels awaiting
deliverance through
the portal of primal lust.

An embryo matured
at the gift of pain,
she is his agent of change.

swish-strike-sting
swish-strike-sting
swish-strike-sting

He etches angel wings
on the canvas of her flesh;
living art -- his animal
becoming more beautiful
with each lash.

swish-strike-sting
swish-strike-sting
swish-strike-sting

Omnipotent in the pride
of creation, the honor
entrusted,
he transmogrifies her
by nature’s dark kiss.

מ וו ף ף

Yes, madam, I am finished. My star has fallen. I work and I try, yet know that all is but a farce
- Benito Mussolini



Fortune often smiles on the
wicked, as it did on Napoleon,
Hitler and Mussolini for a time:
Megalomaniacs whose charisma
attracts and insanity perverts.

Equally, you mock with each
perfidious breath the sacrifice
of people brutalized by evil.
They gather at your feet,
sensitive and gullible,
who fell into your grasp.
You’ve skewered the hooks
into finer beings than you will ever be;
strung the lines and coerced
the marionettes in an elaborate farce.

Waterloo awaits, the bunker burns,
and when your rescuer comes
not even a gunshot will spare you
the retribution of the noose.

We Have Made The World Small

Stories told to our children
about the days before remotes,
microwaves and computers
are recounted to grandchildren
whose disbelief shadows faces
so incapable of awe or wonder,
they are radiant with pity.

If pity is to be our commodity
let us trade it for hope,
that while we were busy
abbreviating the world,
admiring its sophistication
and becoming isolated,
we recall that life exists
outside of our front door.

We surf the net, play tennis on wii
and overlook humanity
with a blink of each occluded eye.
Rather than uniting mankind,
sharing our music and art,
we have forsaken lyre and drum
to finger a deadlier HAARP.
We are maestros of destructive
instruments more resonant
than indifference.

Caramel Sin

The evening was a whirlwind -
we were all frenzied and taut,
bodies shaking and grinding
with none of those wasted moments
of precious and too little time.
Tomorrow would come, but tonight
my longing for you became a desire
to hold you close and press my lips
to your rich black-diamond skin.
I slipped my tongue into your wet
essence, delving into the dark
depths of your liquid delights.
My pulse quickened as your fluids
rushed over my palate
like a Jamaican waterfall
of melted creamy caramel sin.
I swallowed the first crescendo of
satisfaction and reached for you
again and again and again,
until my need was sated
and I switched to decaf.

Limits

The cold arrives, and with it, memories
of another crisp November day,
when we took turns warming icy-fingers,
sage-scented smoke settling over us,
it was only natural for you to wonder
why those shadows filled my eyes.
You joked, said we should be reckless,
and strip down to our secrets.
I thought it was quite risqué.
Then you asked to taste my tears,
but you were on a salt-free diet,
so not to desecrate your body,
that divine temple of chastity.
I unbuttoned my cotton blouse
so that you could see my breasts;
when you asked to touch my heart
I told a dirty joke, and laughed
to cover my surprise at your interest
in something so scarred, so hollow.

As you tried to see inside my skin
I let you touch my private parts.
With an amazing familiarity, or instinct,
your nimble fingers roved over me.
I gasped, as they pulled back the hood
from my budding, rose-tinted charade,
anxious to expose my truth.
While you rubbed, expectations
burgeoned, musky and sweet,
until your finger slipped even deeper.
Suddenly you were inside that space
I never allow anyone to touch.
You boldly probed that intimate nook
where she lives, the forever-fragile
child in her squeaky rocking chair, still
fearful of her Mother leaving her alone.


We never loved like that again:
Every girl has her limits.

Coruscant {For Barbie}

When the morning breaks wide-open and lonely
you fail to notice that dew still glistens
upon the proud limbs of summer’s verdant grass.
The miles separating you from
warm scents and busy sounds seem endless,
too vast for your heart to span.
Words dance across your eyes,
they tease your Sahara-laced lips.
Tears of silvery spheres spill over
into a pool of memorable pleasures
licked from arched fingertips.
And then, out of the mists, on crystallined-wings
of thankfulness, a coruscant day arrives.

Gegenschein

There’s no room for light
at the fringe of these swollen shadows.
The penumbral outpost is already crowded,
overstuffed with fears and damnable regrets;
dark things that belong in black corners,
well-hidden and out of reach.
I have it tightly packed with sorrow,
doubt, and paralyzing insecurities;
pressed between other things too bitter to face
on the tangerine sun-splashed morning,
like loneliness.

My Sky

There is a movement of spirit
when the sky becomes an ocean;
its depths infused with inky hues,
laden with a weight of color
spanning the spectrum of blues.
The air is charged and surges
through all that lies within its path,
currents alternately flow and ebb
in heavens, dark and vast.
Seams split; night’s arms open wide
for lashes from its mysterious master,
to whose will it readily complied.

There is a settling of peace,
sediment from the storm,
where reflection is forever altered
from what had been its norm.
In awareness of minute details,
your diminutive status within
seeps through the memory of man;
An understanding,
pre-dating the oldest Celtic clan.
There is a need to be connected
within a desire to let go;
to surrender to the forces
that balance beyond control.

Without Redemption

There are depths to you I cannot plumb,
Walls within I cannot breach.
My feelings are a vast ocean;
You contain in a thimble.
They're randomly poured out to shower you;
These baptismal waters of purification.
You're born again into the light of my love,
Cleansed of the sins in the past.
Each time you empty the thimble,
I try to tread the breaking waves. They
Erode the frail castles I lovingly built.
I am left without a method of redemption.

The Rain

The rain
reminded me of
your kisses,
liquid and beating down
in the rush of
a thunder-clapped drum solo,
or heated; a flash - and gone
before I could catch my breath.


They rushed over the banks of my mouth,
eroding the sandstone of my heart,
until…I was desert again,
aching for a single drop.

The rain
still reminds me of
your kisses.

I wish it would rain.

Eviscerated

I was a
Fragile receptacle,
Created to
Hold your abundant venom.
This cruel poison,
Methodically
Killing every frugal drop
Of kindness or love.
You skillfully
Administered enough
Antidote to sustain life,
And prolong agony;
Continually breaking down
Previous immunities.
As the last painful
Dose of destruction
Ceased to entertain
You, I was
Eviscerated.