Secretly recorded in a psychiatric facility were she doesn't belong.  If you know any pro bono lawyers that want to help get her out from her "prison without bars" please send me a message.

Beverly L. Crawford "Inner Peace"

New York based musician http://fiverr.com/rinski .

https://zeega.com/154852     

"Hobo Gossip Song" by Rinski

Here is a punk Flapper fusion. The sound recording is from an 80s garage band practicing and the poem was written by Mae Reynolds in the 1920s, but done here as a cut-up. The voice talent is http://fiverr.com/reddhorrocks.
That Good Old History Class
By Mae Reynolds 1920s

We’re a pretty good class as classes go---
Unless we want a little rest,
It’s really very seldom though
That we fail to do our best.

There’s some a  wee bit smarter,
And some a wee bit dumb,
But then, we surely can’t worry
Because our brains are all numb.

The class is one grand mixture
Of doctors and lawyers- no doubt,
But only the brilliant L. Singler
As orator has sprung out.

When it comes to reciting good lessons
It’s very, very, hard to say
Which really ranks the highest
Florence or Mable Appleby.

You’ll find them everywhere you go 
The kind who always sit on edge
That laugh and tease and argue, too----
We’ve got them all in our Throughbridge.

 “Now I believe that was the fact,”
Says Thelma as she chews her gum
And gazes into her new compact.

Yes, taken on the whole
Our class is pretty swell.
If anybody copies
We know no one will tell.

We’ve one girl in our class
The “R’s” she cannot sound;
As gentle pretty little lass
As ever could be found.

And we’ve come to conclusion
That sometimes she was frozen
And never was completely thawed
Except down to her nose.

She’ll pardon this solution	
(At least I hope she will.)
For if she should get angry.
My friendship she might kill.


Let’s take our hearts from inside us,
Be candid and truthfully say,
I’m thankful for our friendships everyday.

"History Class" written by Mae Reynolds 1920

Cassette from an estate sale on which was recorded a concert pianist with two kids. I mixed the sound of the father's piano playing at home with the famous Sesame Street song sung by Oscar the Grouch written by Jeff Moss.

"I love trash" cassette performance

Sung by http://fiverr.com/stormereeves
with illustration by Felicia Yee

Upon this double decker bus I sit
Joy in my heart, but a flutter with my hands
As I fumble with my tape recorder

The tour guide informs us
Im in awe of this land
The scottish country side
And a statue of a man
In a kilt;
He stares at me as the people move about him

I gaze up to see the beauty
Of the clouds rolling by
overhead;
I may be old but
I am at peace
In this bonny land
I am happy , to say the very least



"Double Decker Bus" by Stormy Reeves

Diane Wakoski reading the second in a trilogy of light poems accompanied by a jazz trio recorded in Redwood City by Alex Lashkareff in the 70s. 

Diane Wakoski reading "Keys"

Here is Walter Thomson's wife talking about her husband's crab fishing exploits and her cooking the spoils. Also, includes a story about a failed attempt at preserving starfish. The harp music is from a live recording done that same year.

Audioletter: Crabfishing at Fort Mason

Voice-o-graphic record made on the Empire State Building, May 14th 1953 with
overlay of doggies and broken polyphone.
How much is that doggie in the window (arf, arf)
The one with the waggley tail
How much is that doggie in the window (arf, arf)
I do hope that doggie's for sale

1953 "How Much Is The Doggie In The Window" recorded on top of the world

Myrica Jackson is reading from an Indian history of the Buddha.

Lha Bab Duchen

"No Body Love Me" sung by a man and his wife 1960s

In 1866, Laura Foster was murdered. Impoverished Confederate veteran Tom Dula (Dooley), Foster's lover and probable fiancé, was convicted of her murder and hanged May 1, 1868. Foster was stabbed to death with a large knife; the brutality of the attack partly accounted for the widespread publicity the murder and subsequent trial received.

Dula had a lover, prior to his leaving for the war, named Anne Melton, a cousin of Foster. Her comments led to the discovery of Foster's body, but Melton was acquitted in a separate trial based on Dula's word. Dula's enigmatic statement on the gallows that he had not harmed Foster but still deserved his punishment led to press speculation that Melton was the actual killer and that Dula simply covered for her. Melton, who had once expressed jealousy of Dula's purported plans to marry Foster, died insane a few years after the homicide. Thanks to the efforts of newspapers such as The New York Times, and to the fact that former North Carolina governor Zebulon Vance represented Dula pro bono, Dula's murder trial and hanging were given widespread national publicity. A local poet, Thomas C. Land, wrote a popular song about Dula's tragedy after the hanging.

A man named "Grayson," mentioned in the song as pivotal in Dula's downfall, has sometimes been characterized as a romantic rival of Dula's or a vengeful sheriff who captured him and presided over his hanging. Some variant lyrics of the song portray Grayson in that light, and the spoken introduction to the Kingston Trio version did the same. Col. James Grayson was actually a Tennessee politician who had hired Dula on his farm when the young man fled North Carolina under suspicion and was using a false name. Grayson did help North Carolinians capture Dula and was involved in returning him to North Carolina, but otherwise played no role in the case.

Dula was tried in Statesville, because it was believed he could not get a fair trial in Wilkes County. He was given a new trial on appeal but he was again convicted, and hanged on May 1, 1868. His alleged accomplice, Jack Keaton, was set free. On the gallows, Dula reportedly stated, "Gentlemen, do you see this hand? I didn't harm a hair on the girl's head."

Dula's last name was pronounced "Dooley," leading to some confusion in spelling over the years. The pronunciation of a final "a" like "y" is an old feature in Appalachian speech, as in the term "Grand Ole Opry". The confusion was compounded by the fact that Dr. Tom Dooley, an American physician known for international humanitarian work, was at the height of his fame in 1958, when the Kingston Trio version became a major hit.

The doleful ballad was first sung shortly after the execution and is still commonly sung in North Carolina.


"Tom Dooley" 1955  warped recording

Morna read by http://www.fiverr.com/caiterz with music recorded in a living room in Redwood City in the 1960s.

Proud she was in her youth 
And her beauty
She sang
As the birds sing
To ease her breast
Of it’s burden of gladness.
Her full throat pulsed
With the force of her singing
Silent we listened.
I still remember her
Standing alone
On a green hill top
Looking away.
Proud was the lift
Of her fairy chin.
The wind blew
The folds of her gown
Tight about her beautiful body,
I looked up worshiping,
How like a goddess.
Yet, it’s this mere mortal
Who now hears she is dead.
Lovely, oh, she was,
They called her Morna.


"Morna" by Beatrice Mary Foster 1924

 Read by www.fiverr.com/caiterz with music from a 1965 home recording of a gypsy pianist.
I am a vagabond 
My house is the wide wide world.
I couch each night in a spacious room.
The turf for my bed,
The sky for my roof.
I eat the fruit of every land
Each sparkling spring,
Is my chalice,
And the long road
Is a silver carpet for my feet.
I am a native of the world;
Each gypsy is my countryman.
And the fair stars, the far stars,
They are my lights of home.


"Tzigane" by Beatrice Mary Foster 1927

Sixteen Tons - Tennessee Ernie Ford Lyrics
I was born one mornin' when the sun didn't shine
 I picked up my shovel and I walked to the mine
 I loaded sixteen tons of number nine coal
 And the straw boss said "Well, a-bless my soul"

 You load sixteen tons, what do you get
 Another day older and deeper in debt
 Saint Peter don't you call me 'cause I can't go
 I owe my soul to the company store


"SixteenTons"  Raw variation 1963

This is a funny Audioletter from South Africa during a not so funny time of apartheid.

1965 Audioletter: Smuggling Playboys into South Africa

Perhaps written by [Anne Ashton Joborn] 

Clang, clang, goes the blacksmith’s hammer,
Cling clang on the anvil rings
As he snaps the curving horseshoe,
Hear the song the blacksmith sings.

Blow bellows- ring and burn my fire a burning red,
Strike hammer- ring anvil shape the iron while ‘tis red.

Cling, clang; cling  clang; cling clang; cling clang;
Clang-a-lang-a-ling; Clang-a-lang-a-ling; clang ling-lang

Look, look, see the sparks fly upward,
Hark, hark hear the bellows blow
See the mighty brawny blacksmith
Hear his bellows now fast, now slow.

"Blacksmith Song No.2" 1910

Read by studiovoicepro with field recordings by Anne Delaney and Mark Head.

The Dole of Gand
Way back in the dankness of ages gone by
When Bextors ate Mangos and Doltons ate pie.
There lived by the Googoos, a Gand of the type,
Who wallows in Doldrums and pluketh the pipe.
He ruled with yon Wopplers that never layz down,
And wedup a Buckwang-ler that frinkled his crown.
But this Gand was a coward who snooked all he could
And blifted and blafted wherever he stood.
‘Till a pickely young Buckwang called out, “He’s a Ghozley”
Then a Swishswash done swat him direct to the nose.
He Croodled and Boodled- then called to his Juxley:
“Why don’t you swat Swishswash and upturn his toes?”
I am The Dole of Gand and so no can do.


"Dole of Gand" by William Castle Jr. (1910)

A garland of voices gathered like a charm string.

Ear Buttons for an Audible Charm String

My Bonnie lies over the ocean
My Bonnie lies over the sea
My Bonnie lies over the ocean
O, bring back my Bonnie to me, to me.
 
O, bring back, bring back
Bring back my Bonnie to me, to me
Bring back, bring back
O, bring back my Bonnie to me.


Traditional Scottish Folk Song

"My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean" Children's Recording (1960s)

Speak Gently by Laurance McDowell (1937)

Speak gently - It is better far to rule by love than fear.
Speak gently - let no harsh word mar the good we may do here.

Speak gently - to the little child;
It love be sure to gain;
Teach it in accents soft and mild,
It may not long remain.

Speak gently to the young - for they will have enough to bear,
Pass through this life as best they may.
‘Tis full of anxious care.

Speak gently to the aged ones,
Grieve not the care-worn heart whose sands of life are early run,
Let such in peace depart.

Speak gently to erring, know they must have talked in vain,
Perchance unkindness made them so;
Oh, win them back again.

Speak gently, ‘tis a little thing dropped in the heart’s deep well;
The good, the joy, that it may bring, eternity shall tell.


"Speak Gently" Laurance McDowell (1937)

Read by Robert Young with field recordings of San Francisco Wave Organ and Ranjung Yeshe Gomde Hilltop in the afternoon.

Sleepin’ in a Row Boat (In the good old summer time) 

When the lazy days of summer come,
And the heaven turns so blue,
Ther’s just one thing I’am thinking of;
That I really want to do.

Sleepin’ in a row boat,
In the good old summer time;
Tied up to a dock or floatin’,
Rest and rest sublime.
Nuthin’ lef’ to worry ‘bout,
You needn’t have a dime,
Sleepin’ in a tow boat
In the good old summer time.

Drowing, dreaming, sleeping, scheming,
Bobbling up and down,
Oar locks clinking, chinking, thinking,
Sunlight all around.

Listenin’ to the water slappin’,
Sun a’ shinin’ down;
Breeze a blowin’ ‘cross the bow,
Salty smell all’roun’;
Legs and feet spread wide apart;
Everything’ll chime,
When you’re sleepin’ in a row boat,
In the good old summer time.
It seems like nothing matters
When you close your eyes and dream,
And everything seems rosy,
As you lay back there and scheme,
Sleepin’ in a row boat,
Floatin’ all around,
Waves a ‘slappin’, lappin’, tappin’,
Sleepy, creaklin’ sound;
Head a’pillowed on your coat,
Everything just prime;
Sleepin’ in a row boat
In the good old summer time.

I know it would seem to some folks
Like an awful waste of time;
I know ‘there are lots of people that 
Would call the thing a crime;
They couldn’t make themselves “let go,”
And lie down in the dirt
That’s bound to be in the bottom of a boat,
And the boards would be bound to hurt.
There are people that can never rest
Or ease their minds at all;
That have to keep on working, working,
Right on through ‘til fall;
Summer’s just a different kind
Of work like that before,
And mountains or beaches mean the same,
It’s work and work some more;
And just the thought of sleepin’ in a boat,
Would fairly make them sob,
They work just as hard when they’re playing,
As they do when they’re on the job.
But when I’m tired of working,
“Ah jus’ ain’t got no choice.
 
And the lull of the summer and the southland
Creeps into my voice,
And if I can only make it,
I’ll gladly stand the grime,
To be sleepin’ in a row boat
In the good old summer time.

JWW April 25th, 1925





"Sleeping In A Rowboat"  by J.W.W. (1925)

The Roving Gardener Glasgow John Petticrew 1886

Aye Dip your Braid In your ‘ain Hail
Oh, Weel dae I ken, the wee hoose on the mound,
Within it’s anld wa’s I’ve spent many a pound.
Twas’ yin Lucky Millar wha kept the bitim,
And wheezled ye on till your siller was dune.
Thae drank in that hoose till I hadna a sark,
Syne dazed, and half doited gaed back to my wark.
I lang will remember the last time I sat
Within the auld kitchen- I hadna a rap.
For days I had tippled, and ne’er thocht O’ment.
And noo owre’ my brow cam a cauld clammy sweat.
A sm’ bit O’ braid, and a morsel O’ cheese,
Wad not doot that queer kind O’ hunger appease;
But then for to ask it was sot O’ my pooer,
For Lucky was turning baith crabbit and sour.
Sae there I sat helpless, despair wis my lot;
At last in my pouch a bit banmock I got.
I then tried to eat, but it wadna gang doon,
My heid it kept bipping I thocht I wad swoon,
The cauld whisky hunger wis biting me sair,
But here stood a guid pat O’pat O’howl on the flair,
And fondly I thocht if I jist had a dook

Amang the fat kail, then the bree I micht sook.
I plunged in the braid and thocht naebody eyed,
But Lucky had seen me and wildly she cried-
“Ye low drucken scoundrel, gang hame oot O that-
And aye dip your braid in your ain Hail pat.”

I spoke na’a word, but I slowly got up,
And as I gaed oot, said: “Farewell to the cup;
If merciful Heaven, my health once restore,
Sae lang as I leeve I’ll ne’er darken your door.”

Sae I kept to my vow, and ‘frae marnin’ till nicht,
I steadily toiled till I made things a richt,
Wi’ rowth O’fine claes, an’ guid furninture roon,
I met with respect baith in kintrae an ‘toon;
For though that a chied gant to poverty’s brink,
He sune may redeem if he keeps frae the drink.

Ae nicht I wis daundering doon by the street,
When auld Lucky Millar I happed to meet
She suddenly stopp’d as it gied her a stown
To see sic a change in a ne’er-do-well loon;
My certie, said she, but you’re lookin race snod.
I’ve missed you this while, he’e ye been fair abroad?
Ye shairly hae gotten a braw gouden gift,
Or some yin’s departed an gien ye a lift.

Na Lucky, said I , your conjecters are vain,
The advice that ye gi’en me I’ve cheerfully ta’en,
And the way I ha’e got the braw claes an fine hat
Was by dipping my braid in my ain kail pat.

John Petticrew
The Roving Gardener
Glasgow 1886



"The Roving Gardener" by John Petticrew (1886)

Performed by Anne Delaney and Mark Head who encountered "Guilty or Not Guilty" in a dusty marbled ledger with pencil inscribed poetry.

She stood at the bar of justice,	
  A creature wan and wild,	
In form too small for a woman,	
  In feature too old for a child.	
For a look so worn and pathetic	        
  Was stamped on her pale young face,	
It seemed long years of suffering	
  Must have left that silent trace.	
 
“Your name,” said the judge, as he eyed her	
  With kindly look, yet keen,	      
“Is—?” “Mary McGuire, if you please, sir.”	
  “And your age?” “I am turned fifteen.”	
“Well, Mary—” And then from a paper	
  He slowly and gravely read,	
“You are charged here—I am sorry to say it—	       
  With stealing three loaves of bread.	
 
“You look not like an offender,	
  And I hope that you can show	
The charge to be false. Now, tell me,	
  Are you guilty of this, or no?”	       
A passionate burst of weeping	
  Was at first her sole reply;	
But she dried her tears in a moment,	
  And looked in the judge’s eye.	

“I will tell you just how it was, sir;	 
  My father and mother are dead,	
And my little brothers and sisters	
  Were hungry, and asked me for bread.	
At first I earned it for them	
  By working hard all day,	    
But somehow the times were hard, sir,	
  And the work all fell away.	
 
“I could get no more employment;	
  The weather was bitter cold;	
The young ones cried and shivered	      
  Little Johnnie's but four years old.	
So what was I to do, sir?	
  I am guilty, but do not condemn;	
I took—oh, was it stealing?—	
  The bread to give to them.”	    
 
Every man in the court-room—	
  Graybeard and thoughtless youth—	
Knew, as he looked upon her,	
  That the prisoner spake the truth.	
Out from their pockets came kerchiefs,	     
  Out from their eyes sprang tears,	
And out from the old faded wallets	
  Treasures hoarded for years.	

The judge’s face was a study,	
  The strangest you ever saw,	      
As he cleared his throat and murmured	
  Something about the law.	
For one so learned in such matters,	
  So wise in dealing with men,	
He seemed on a simple question	        
  Sorely puzzled just then.	
 
But no one blamed him, or wondered,	
  When at last these words they heard,	
“The sentence of this young prisoner	
  Is for the present deferred.”	        
And no one blamed him, or wondered,	
  When he went to her and smiled,	
And tenderly led from the court-room,	
  Himself, the “guilty” child.

"Guilty or Not Guilty" Anonymous (c. 1904)

Lost magnetic tape recordings from the mid to late sixties digitized and remixed. A celebration of the San Francisco Poetry Renaissance. Also contains a rare recording of a man talking about "The Place"  which was a bohemian bar  in San Francisco run by two recent Black Mountain graduates taken from another lost reel. Illustration is by Leon Pessin from the 1950s.

Whalen/Welsh/Snyder: On Poetry (c. 1960)

Lost magnetic recording of polka. Tape fragment with unknown group. 
Approx. 1968

Original composition by Walter Jagiello (1930-2006)

"Johnny Knocking Polka" (c. 1968)

The amazing voice talent is from Joli, a kind and loving Hungarian, with some experience with Gypsey's from her time living in Europe. Music is from various lost recordings including Russian gypsy violin and some crooning from the early 60s.

The Gypsey’s Warning

Trust him not O gentle lady,
Though his voice be low and sweet:
Heed him not whom kneels before thee,
Gently pleading at thy feet.
Now life is in it’s morning
Cloud not thy happy lot,
Listen to the gypsey’s warning,
Gentle lady trust him not.

Lady once there lived a maiden
Young and pure, and bright, and fair.
But he wooed he moved and won her,
Filled her gentle heart with care.
Then he heeded not her weeping,
Nor cared he her life to save,
Soon she perished, now she’s sleeping
In that cold and silent grave.

Lady turn not from me coldly,
I have told you, but the truth;
From a term of withering sorrow,
Lady I would shield thy youth.
I would shield thee from all danger.
Shield thee from the tempers snare
Lady shun that dark eyed stranger
I have warned you now beware
Lady shun that dark eyed stranger
I have warned you now beware

Keep your gold I do not want it
Lady I have prayed for this
For the hour that I might foil him
Rob him of expected bliss
Ah I see thy looks of wonder
At my looks, so fierce and wild
Lady in that church yard yonder
Lies this gypsy’s only child.

Emile Haeberle 
Dubuque Iowa, Friday, February 28th, 1868.

"The Gypsey's Warning"  by Emile Haeberle  (1868)

A 1971 magnetic recording of Ernie Allen reading one of his poems with his philosophy emerging in the conversation.

"Raising the Standard" by Ernie Mkalimoto Allen (1971)

Instrumental music: "Circles of Hair" (c) 2017 Anne Delaney. 

Instrumental music by Anne Delaney. Sibelius 7 program with whistling, whip, contrabass balalaika, and mezzo-soprano. Sound effects by Mark Head and Anne Delaney.

Voices:  Mark Head, Anne Delaney, Estela Gallegos, and Richard Hammerud. 

* * * *

Evening Westford October the 25th 1855

Will Eliza please except this from her friend Josephine,
[Circlular ring-sized lock of  mahogany hair about 3 ¼ inches in diameter tied with a blue ribbon]

This lock of hair you’ve seen me wear
I now present it to your care
For you to keep to remember me
Though  far from you I still maybe

May your path be strewn with flowers
While here on earth you tread
There may we meet in your bright bowers
Where tears are never shed.
-----
Pink envelope with a bell shaped flap with a handpainted sticker of a basket of fruit with peach, pear, and two types of grape above which is lettered in all caps the word CHOOSE. It is addressed to Mrs. Eliza Seathrop of Westford.
------
2.
A lock of chocolate brown with a tinge of auburn is  interwoven as 12 ringlets on a half circle and fastened to the page with a yellow silk ribbon. The following verse is written in blue ink.

May this lock given by me
An emblem of our friendship be
As oft as these lines you peruse
Say will you think of me
And bring to mind
Those blissful hours
When life’s bright path
Seemed strewn with flowers……..

Miss Jane Niles to Miss Ruth Underhill
February 21st  1848
-----
The Paper was folded into four sections the top of which contain the lock of hair and the bottom flap. Held two paper cut outs, a woven heart with ridged humps and a glove adored with overlapping hearts of red and blue.

[Strands of Hair with Lines of Love] by Josephine (1855 and 1848)

This is a marvelous lost poem written by artist Garner Francis in 1949 and is performed by Dane Reid (www.DaneReidMedia.com). 

An artist I am
We artist,  we paint.
The things we see around us
That no man else has the eyes to see,
But artist just like us.

We paint the hills and mountains,
The trees and grass that grow,
The little birds that fly so high,
The crystal water that runs below.

The broad green plains,
With their swaying trees
And little children that play beneath
The aspect of such scenery,
That only an artist, like us can see

The rugged rocks and mountains stand,
But not all men have see
Their beauty towering stern and grand,
Mysterious and serene

For men will walk between these rocks,
And climb the mountain’s peak
Yet all the existing beauty there,
That only we artists seek.

Written by Garner Francis 1949
In Merryweather
Palm beach.

"An Artist I Am" Garner Francis (1949)

Usenor performance of imaginary Bach Cantata written before three years of age or earlier. Performed October 11, 1968 and recorded by Varda Ullman from reel to reels from her estate. Varda Ullman is on the faculties of both Cerritos College and Conservatory and produces nationally for National Public Radio and  is the producer, writer, and voice of the UCLA News Service.

[Bach Juvenilia] fragment performed by Usenor (1968)

“Jungle Jimmy” read by Oliver O’Connor Barrett from an old 78rpm Acetate Record from the mid fifties. Six of his original musical compositions are interwoven with his reading of the text. 
This is the ballad about old Jim
His mother quiet disappeared from him
For he was never still a minute
If there was trouble, he was in it.
Scarce a day old he drummed his heels 
And wriggling like a pair of eels. 
He fell smack upon his little head
“Alas,” she cried, “I think he is dead.”
“He is dead” she cried but up he sat.
 “I am going to be an acrobat
 when I am grown up.” He said. Said he.
“That is quiet the jolliest thing to be.”
From that day on he never stopped,
But whirled and skipped and hopped.
And bumped and banged and tripped and tranggled.
Like a peel of bells embrangled. 
“Why can’t he be a studious bare” his mother cried.
“He drives me mad, he never seems to use his head
Except for standing on” she said.
“And if there is one thing that is worse than crime,
It is his dreadful craze to climb.”
Useless were her complaints her boy 
seemed wound up like a clock work toy.
When he was one year old, he climbed upon a window blind
They found him grinning up and down like any circus clown.
When he was two, or not much older. 
Sitting high on Papas shoulder 
Suddenly he gave a cheer
 and sprung upon the chandelier.
Now in the park when he was three 
he used to swing from tree to tree.
So Tarzan like that they nicknamed him 
“Jungle Jim”, or “Jungle Jimmy.”
Though any playground   jungle was much to tame a thing for him,
But as for round-abouts, or swings,
 he thought them very childish things.
When he was four, or there about,
He climbed out on a gutter spout
A special spout I should relate
Out spouting from the Empire State.
When people shrieked to see him there
Our Jimmy calmly combed his hair
Thinking foolish how they fussed 
Just because a fellow’s hair was mussed.
His picture in the new next day 
Made Jimmy’s mother faint away.
And then his father stiff with rage 
Threatened to keep him in a cage.
The boy at last was five years old
A stirring tale must now be told.
One night a fearful fire broke out 
Jim woke his parents with a shout
The stairs are gone, “Come follow me”
And out the window clamored he
They followed and in record time 
young Jimmy showed them how to climb.
“Watch me it is easy, watch my feet, 
It is just like walking down the street.”
They watched and though their hearts were quacking
Took each toe hold he was taking  
Climbed up the wall and then the tile
Which seemed to stretch for miles and miles,
But soon, thanks to Jim’s acrobatics 
Safely had reached their neighbors attics.
“The boys a hero!” the people cried,
His parents nearly burst with pride.
But Jimmy said, “There is nothing to it,
Any acrobat could do it!”

"Jungle Jimmy"  by Oliver O'Connor Barrett (c.1955)

Janet Riehl reads another poem by C.A.H. in her delightfully melodious voice. She is playing and humming "Valley of the Moon" with the violin (pitch lowered)  and backwards humming (pitch raised). Check out her audiobook "Sightlines" on her website http://www.riehlife.com/ it is a four CD set of poetry, music, and stories that are refreshingly natural and homespun into pure gold. Here is the text for the lost poem by C.A.H.
As Darkness Falls
My heart is very sad tonight
My mind is ill at ease
As round the corner of the house
The wind now sobs and grieves

Tis not because Fate’s been unkind
To strew along my way
The obstacles that trouble life,
And make a gloomy day.

Tis not because the sky is dark
And Dusk is creeping down
To wrap once more in it’s embrace
Each little country town.

For Dusk is like the salve that soothes,
The gnawing, aching, pain,
And darkest skies may often bring
The quiet peaceful rain.

It may be that I’m sad tonight
Because I feel that I
Have often lacked the cheery word
That stops a little sigh.

Have often said the unkind thing
That hurts the heart of men,
And never stooped to help the one
Whose soul is sick within.

So just a night like this, though sad
Is very sweet to me.
It reminds me of  the reason
Why truth will set you free.


Lost Poem from 1931 "As Darkness Falls" by C.A.H

From a reel to reel recording of Terry Borton from "Educational Activities, Inc" mixed with an original improvisation home recording that sounds influenced by the New York School of Music.

"Two Old Crows" Vachel Lindsay read by Terry Bolton, 1966.

Lost home recording released like a flock of doves from magnetic confinement mixed with birds to match the warbling tape and feedback.

"Whispering Hope" found recording [c.1960]

Multiplication of Smiles

Do you know the new smile table?
It’s not very hard to learn
And you don’t need pen or pencil,
Only smile when it’s your turn.

There are gems of priceless value,
There are imitations too;
So, a smile has fullest meaning 
If the one who smiles is true,

Just beyond the mist and rain clouds
Shines the sun in splendor bright,
So, beneath our cares and worries,
Smiles are hidden out of sight.

When you’re weary and discouraged
And the day seems hard to you,
Like a gleam of golden sunshine,
Let the hidden smile break through.

Mary E. Miller

Poem found in a notebook but published in
The Circleville Daily Union-Herald
June 29th, 1926
Recorded January 30, 2021

Wearing face masks and speaking through a gramophone horn, Mark Head and recite Miller's stanzas. Text inspired, the improvisational ambient music accompaniment is played by Anne Delaney on a November 29, 1858 square piano. Photo is triptych of a frame with glass as Anne and Mark smile behind.

"Multiplication of Smiles" (wearing facial masks) Mary E. Miller, 1926.

Lost reel of James Baldwin reading from his essay "The uses of the Blues" mixed with experimental music and excerpts of Leadbelly, Bessie Smith, and Billie Holiday.

James Baldwin reads "The Uses of the Blues"

"As we rode out to Fennario, as we rode out to Fennario, Our captain fell in love with a lady like a dove and he called her by the name of Pretty Peggy-O"

"Peggy O" (c.1970) Lost Reel

Two Merry Little Crickets

Despise no simple thing of Life,
Not e’en a Roadside flower!
Though floods in torrents oft’ may flow,
There’s a blessing in every shower;
Two merry little crickets,
Once mated in my room;
And every night were singing
E’en through the midnight gloom.
Ah! There was something in their music!
That had a certain spell;
And held me with a power,
To share that music swell.
Gladly my heart did greet them,
For my soul was bowed with grief;
And their simple song were bringing,
To my brain a sweet relief:
Indeed, I found a pleasure,
That is hard for me to tell;
And I really think I miss them,
For I learnt to love them well.
Those chirping little creatures,
Did ope’ my heart and eyes,
To many a precious blessing!
That comes from the Great! All Wise.

J.A. Naar
Kingston, Jamaica, 5th of September, 1917

Illustration by Anne Delaney.

"Two Merry Little Crickets" J.A. Naar (c.19170

EARPHEMERA PODCAST: performative artifacts with emblematic soundscapes. Supporting the podcast one wheelchair trip at a time.

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