On 1st November, Tree Fellahs will be playing at Hope Church in Weymouth. Band will be Mike McDaid (piano accordion), Ben Wain (fiddle), me (guitar) and Teresa Williams (caller). Also in the pipeline is a charity gig on 10th January 2026 in Bridport. More details to follow with poster etc.
My next outing will be on Friday 24th October…….
It is Wednesday 15th October….On Friday of last week, the Tree Fellahs played for a ceilidh at Owermoigne Village Hall. It was a joyous night, because the villagers were just so keen to have a good time. Dancing seemed to fit the bill. Clare expressed concern, because it looks as if she is about to fall off her chair? We even managed a couple of songs.
Saturday 4th October….There is nothing quite like live performance, in front of a listening audience. The challenge is to use original material. I avoid the words singer/songwriter. It conjures up an image of relentless and unhealthy self indulgence. With a bit of effort, life has got so much more to offer. It is never too late. Thank you Kathy Dunn (again) for your kind words, and for the photograph below from Friday 3rd October at Fordingbridge Folk Club.
It is 1st October 2025 and last night, I ended up at the Drax Arms in Bere Regis playing a 45 minute set at the Bere Regis Music Night. This was with Benny Wain, as per photograph and video (courtesy of Kathy Dunn https://wimborne-acoustic.co.uk/). It was very last minute following a cancellation. We were totally unrehearsed, but it seemed to work.
“We are a small concert based folk club and normally meet on the last Tuesday of the Month (but please check our events for changes) at 8pm in The Stable Bar, The Drax Arms, Bere Regis. An opportunity to listen to talented musicians in a relaxed and pleasant atmosphere. Each month we will feature different musicians. More info available at www.bereregisfolk.com Most of our events have FREE entrance”. Quote from Pip Evans (organiser).
Tuesday 30th September 2025…..I struggle with self promotion. I do not find it easy. It occurred to me the other day, that it may be useful to have some business cards printed. I am regularly asked where my songs can be found. The answer has been Vista-print. For the sum of less than £20, one hundred cards will be arriving tomorrow. Why has it taken me so long? Live and learn.
September 2025….I have a couple of projects in the pipeline. One of these will be the recording, which is mentioned below. The other thing, which has been on my mind recently is to sort out stuff to put out on YouTube. When my man cave is in place, I can set up a facility, which should make this stuff easier to manage. If others can do it, then so can I.
August 2025…..I am no judge of a song. For me, it is audience reaction that ultimately determines whether a song is a keeper or not. Only when it becomes a keeper, can I let go. Until that point in time, the lyrics go round and round in my head. It can be relentless. There is no better feeling than when things finally come together. Having said that, the process does not always take a long time, and more often than not, less is more.
Album Builder Tracks
I want to record in the near future. With this in mind, I am building potential album tracks. I have written most of the stuff below over the past few years. I will draw from this material.
Deliverance.....This is a bit of fun. I remember watching the film Deliverance shortly after it came out. It is a bit gruesome. The abiding memory from the film is the tune "duelling banjoes", which became every aspiring banjo players' challenge. If only it weren't. Deliverance They came down from the mountains, with paddle and canoe. Burt Reynolds, he was at the helm, but they didn't all get through. I don't know how many made it, ’though they started out as four, And they saw sides of life, which they had never seen before. Chorus I don't play duelling banjos. It's not a tune I'll try. I’ve heard it once too often. It makes me want to cry. Though I like bluegrass music and the banjo gives me kicks, I'd sooner suffer dysentery, than listen to those licks. They rolled across the rapids. They meet what came their way. The film is fairly average. That’s what the critics say. Whenever it gets a mention, what fills me up with dread, Is that bloody tune on the banjo, which gets stuck inside my head. They waded through the undergrowth, where city men don't go, Way out of the comfort zone, which city people know. Now everybody wants a banjo, and they all want to play that tune, If I don't hear it ever again, it'll probably be too soon. I think it's down to overkill, that won't be left to rest. People play it badly, though they play it with such zest. That is the basic problem, at least, it seems to me. It's best to play just one note well, than attempting thirty-three. Paul J Openshaw Wren.....we had wrens in the back garden in our previous home. They can take you by surprise. They are so small. You think you catch sight of one in the corner of your eye, but you are not really sure.
The Wren In a garden, beside a wall, where in Autumn, apples fall. Where in Winter cold winds blow, where in Spring the bluebells grow, And although my brain I rack, it will not yield that, which I lack. I remember the where, but not the when, I chanced upon a little wren. Beside a pond with frog and newt, there is a twisted chestnut root, Where a hedgehog takes a rest, because that is where he makes a nest. Although it seems so far away, it only feels like yesterday. I remember the where, but not the when, I chanced upon a little wren. Seasons come and seasons go. They pave the way for what we know. That’s not to say, it may have been, a time of not quite in between. Not quite Winter, not quite Spring, there are no bells, they do not ring. I remember the where, but not the when, I chanced upon a little wren. Whilst against my shed I leant, she came in close and then she went, With consternation and with care, because she knew that I was there. I had paused from doing things, to admire her tiny wings. I remember the where, but not the when, I chanced upon a little wren. Seasons come and seasons go. They pave the way for what we know. That’s not to say, it may have been, a time of not quite in between. Not quite Winter, not quite Spring, there are no bells, they do not ring. I remember the where, but not the when, I chanced upon a little wren. Paul J Openshaw
Navajo Richard.....our tour guide explained that this is the PC nickname for a column of rock, which stands on the side of the Grand Canyon. A little further down the canyon, there is a similar column, which goes by the name of "good morning darling". These ideas are what gave birth to this song.
Navajo Richard Navajo Richard wakes up, in the morning, With a gleam and a glint in his eye. He yawns and he stretches and he gathers himself, Whilst the sun rises high in the sky. When the sun rises, it shines on her face. It glistens and glimmers and glows. She nuzzles up close for affection, When the tenderness flows. He nibbles her ear and he whispers sweet nothings. “Good morning darling” he says. This is one of those situations, When even a holy man prays, As he hopes against hope that things happen, And the wind in the wilderness blows, She nuzzles up close for affection, When the tenderness flows. He is a brave and a warrior. He knows how to stalk his prey, But, when he’s with his woman, It doesn’t work that way. It always takes two to tango, And a feeling is something which grows. She nuzzles up close for affection, When the tenderness flows. She loves the way he makes love to her, And the gentleness of his hands. When she looks at him from a distance, She admires the way he stands, And the way he wears his feathers, And the way he strings his bows. She nuzzles up close for affection, When the tenderness flows. Paul J Openshaw Jesus....I started to write this song in the nineteen nineties. It was only when the last line came into my head, that the rest of the lyrics dropped into place. It took a long time for me to come to terms with the stuff which came my way in my formative years. It does not go away. Somehow you need to deal with it. Jesus I used to search but never found that sparkle in your eye. I cannot give a reason, for I do not know why. I’m just not that way inclined. It’s not the way my juices flow. That is why religiously to church I do not go. The more I dig, the more I can’t relate to what I find. I can’t help thinking this is not what Jesus had in mind. I have read the bible. It’s not that I don’t pray, I cannot see the logic in much of what you say. I can’t equate the things you state with what is in my head. If I see you coming, I’ll go somewhere else instead. Is this what he imagined for the things, which he designed? I can’t help thinking this is not what Jesus had in mind. I don’t do happy clappy. I don’t do slow and old, Flowing robes and garments and candlesticks of gold. Is this the way it is? Is there something I can’t see? It may be right for someone, but it is not right for me. When he looks from where he looks, at what he left behind, I can’t help thinking this is not what Jesus had in mind. I’m not trying to pull you down, or even say you’re wrong. I suspect there’s something there and I’ve thought that all along. When your bells ring out to summon those who wish to pray, If I’m lying in my bed, I think that’s where I’ll stay. At the end of the day, when I’m trying to unwind, I can’t help thinking this is not what Jesus had in mind. Paul J Openshaw
Lunatic.....this song started off during lockdown. What an unstable world we seem to currently inhabit, or is it just that, with social media, people are more aware of what is going on?
It Only Takes One Lunatic
You spill across a border with your military might,
You say it isn’t war, but you are spoiling for a fight.
What do you expect, or believe that you might find?
Do you think it will be easy and that nobody will mind?
You are master in the craft, of massacre and maim.
You thrive on mass destruction and manipulating blame.
You disregard the damage done, and the time it takes to mend.
You sell your soul to Satan with the messages you send.
I cannot forget, the line which I was fed.
“It only takes one lunatic”, is what my teacher said.
“It only takes one lunatic”, is what I learned back then,
As history repeats and then repeats itself again.
Where do we go from here? Is there a master plan?
When you spill across a border, is it just because you can?
It only takes a moment. It is just a case of when,
But the legacy is loathsome to the minds of thinking men.
I cannot forget, the line which I was fed.
“It only takes one lunatic”, is what my teacher said.
“It only takes one lunatic”, is what I learned back then,
As history repeats and then repeats itself again.
You spill across a border with your military might,
You say it isn’t war, but you are spoiling for a fight.
What do you expect, or believe that you might find?
Do you think it will be easy and that nobody will mind?
Paul J Openshaw (March 2022)
Gates to Hell.....Visiting Calico at the edge of the Mojave desert set me off with this train of thought. That was a few years ago now. I have sung these words out once or twice, but am still not convinced that they have lifted to where they need to be. Having lived in close proximity to a coal mining village (Cardowan) in my formative years, that has given me a lot of food for thought.
The Gates to Hell.
In the dark a miner found,
As he worked below the ground,
If a little bird made a sound,
He'd know that all was well.
If a little bird didn't sing,
And didn't flap its tiny wing,
That would make alarm bells ring,
At the Gates to Hell.
In eighteen hundred and eighty-nine,
They built a town beside a mine,
A church, a school and a railway line,
When silver rang its bell.
Prospectors came from near and far,
To boarding house and brothel and bar,
To work a seam and raise a jar,
With many a tale to tell.
With many a tale to tell.
With many a tale to tell,
In eighteen hundred and eighty-nine,
When silver rang its bell.
When there was no commerce or gain,
And no incentive for sustain,
They tore up the track of the railway train,
When the price of silver fell.
When the price of silver fell.
When the price of silver fell.
They tore up the track of the railway train,
And that's what tolled the knell.
It’s a ghost town now it’s said.
A little bird told me it is dead,
Nothing moves in house or shed.
It's nothing but a shell.
Nothing but a shell.
Nothing but a shell.
It's a ghost town now it's said,
At the Gates to Hell.
Paul J Openshaw (November 2024)
Tarantula....Having walked the Inca trail in Peru, we then spent a few days in the Amazon jungle. On our first evening in the forest, our guide took us for a walk along a heavily wooded track. When asked about the burrows, which lined the track, he poked a bullrush down one of the holes. Out came the mummy tarantula firing on all cylinders and surrounded by her babies. Unfortunately for the male, when he has done his business, she eats him.
Tarantula
She lines the walls with silk in her apartment underground.
She lines the walls with silk and keeps her babies gathered round.
Whatever may be the cost, her hole she will defend,
And she’ll do what must be done, and she does it to the end.
It’s strange to me and you, but that’s what tarantulas do.
That’s what tarantulas do, in deepest darkest Peru.
The father of her children, is nowhere to be seen.
Nobody knows his whereabouts and no-one knows where he has been.
He never was a father, to whom as children they could go,
And a daddy as a daddy was not someone they could know.
It’s strange to me and you, but that’s what tarantulas do.
That’s what tarantulas do, in deepest darkest Peru.
I don’t know how long it takes before a little one speaks.
It may take several days, but then it could take several weeks.
When a toddler asks the “where is daddy”, question of his mum,
She’d have to say “I ate him and I swallowed every crumb”.
It’s strange to me and you, but that’s what tarantulas do.
That’s what tarantulas do, in deepest darkest Peru.
You need your wits to woo. That’s what tarantulas do.
That’s what tarantulas do, in deepest darkest Peru.
Paul J Openshaw
Betsy....In Dorset, it would be very difficult not to take an interest in the story of the Tolpuddle Martyrs. So much has already been written. It was suggested that I write something from the perspective of George Loveless, addressing his wife. I am very happy with the words below.
For Betsy Loveless of Tolpuddle (1835)
My dearest darling Betsy, I work to earn our keep.
I labour 'til the sun goes down. I plough, I sow, I reap.
I plough, I sow, I reap to put a roof above our head,
With children to be clothed, and a family to be fed.
I work to earn our keep, but they have taken me away,
And that is the only reason, I am not with you today.
My dearest darling Betsy, it has never been so tough.
The farmer cuts my wage, as if I do not do enough.
The farmer cuts my wage and there is nothing I can say.
I turn my collar to the cold. I bend my knee to pray.
It has never been so tough, for they have taken me away,
And that is the only reason, I am not with you today.
My dearest darling Betsy, be courageous and be strong.
There will never be another, to whom I do belong.
There will never be another, to whom I will be true.
There will never be a moment when I do not think of you.
Be courageous and be strong. They have taken me away,
And that is the only reason, I am not with you today.
Paul J Openshaw (March 2023)
Convalescent Blues.....whilst trawling the net, I happened upon a website, which talked about post traumatic stress. As I read the words, I could truly identify with the symptoms, although over the course of my life, and after a bit of research, I do not think that my stress was ever due to PTSD. It was more related to being a square peg in a round hole. It did give me ammunition to be able to express the words below. The convalescent blues was used to describe the uniform, which was worn by hospitalised soldiers.
Convalescent Blues
You trained to be a soldier, so you think in black and white.
You do what you are told, and you are told what’s wrong and right.
Of time spent convalescing, there was nothing ever said.
No suggestion of a stigma, or of problems in your head.
When you signed up for your country, and they taught you how to kill,
No-one ever mentioned that these things can make you ill.
It is not on the agenda. It is one of the taboos,
When instead of wearing green, you wear the convalescent blues.
When you came back to your homeland, your head was in a mess
You had no broken bones but you had post-traumatic stress.
That’s the words they use when it’s spoken of today.
The only thing you know, is that it will not go away.
When you signed up for your country, and they taught you how to kill,
No-one ever mentioned that these things can make you ill.
It is not something you’d want. It is not something you’d choose,
When instead of wearing green, you wear the convalescent blues.
Your wife says that she really doesn’t know you anymore.
She says that you have changed from how you used to be before.
As she tries to get her head around this post-traumatic stuff,
She says she does her best, but her best is just not good enough.
When you signed up for your country, and they taught you how to kill,
No-one ever mentioned that these things can make you ill.
You know that you’ve got everything to lose,
When instead of wearing green, you wear the convalescent blues.
Paul J Openshaw
Roger....ideas for Roger came during lockdown. We hatched an egg underneath our broody hen. That egg became "lucky Jim", although I had to change his name for the purposes of the song
Roger
The farmer keeps his chickens in a feather boarded shed.
Some of them are Sussex White and some Rhode Island Red.
Some of them are speckled, flecked with shades of blue and grey.
They scratch around the farmyard, to pass the time away.
To keep them warm in Winter, with feathers they are blessed.
The cockerel’s name is Roger, because that’s what he does best.
He’s always been a handful since the day that he was born.
There is nothing he likes better than a belly full of corn,
A belly full of corn and a twinkle in his eye,
When the grass is hung with dew, and the sun is in the sky.
You can tell he’s done long service, by the medals on his chest.
The cockerel’s name is Roger, because that’s what he does best.
In the dusky twilight, and just so he’s aware,
The farmer counts his chickens to make sure they’re all there.
To keep them safe from danger, he shuts them all away,
And then he takes his boots off at the end of a working day.
At the end of a working day, as the sun sets in the West.
The cockerel’s name is Roger, because that’s what he does best.
At the crack of dawn, the farmer rolls out of his bed.
He likes an egg for breakfast with a slice of toasted bread.
He likes an egg for breakfast before he milks his cow,
And before he starts his tractor when he has a field to plough.
There is nothing more to tell. I think you know the rest.
The cockerel’s name is Roger, because that’s what he does best.
Paul J Openshaw (July 2022)
Folkie.....This song took a while to write. I was never really sure what I was trying to say. It has become a good opener. I sing it unaccompanied. Folkies are such a funny lot.
Folkie
I think of myself as a folkie, but I do not have the urge.
I do not have the urge for a lengthy lament or a dirge.
A lengthy lament or a dirge, is not my cup of tea.
It is not my cup of tea. It does not appeal to me.
It does not appeal to me. It can put me in a difficult spot,
But I think of myself as a folkie, because nobody tells me I’m not.
I think of myself as a folkie, but I do not have the zest.
I do not have the zest. With two left feet I am blessed.
With two left feet I am blessed, so when somebody asks me to dance.
When somebody asks me to dance, I do not stand a chance.
I do not stand a chance. Everything goes to pot,
But I think of myself as a folkie, because nobody tells me I’m not.
I think of myself as a folkie, but I do not have the skill.
I do not have the skill to twitter or to trill.
To twitter or to trill is not the way I bat,
And I don’t stick my finger in my ear, or anywhere else come to that.
It’s not the way I bat and it’s not the way I trot,
But I think of myself as a folkie, because nobody tells me I’m not.
I think of myself as a folkie, but I do not have the feel.
I do not have the feel for a slip jig or a reel.
A slip jig or a reel, is not the reason why, I’m here.
The reason why I’m here is that I like drinking beer.
I like drinking beer. I like drinking beer a lot,
But I think of myself as a folkie, because nobody tells me I’m not.
Paul J Openshaw (2020)
Apartheid......Having started to write this song a long time ago, I had thought that the words were lost, however I stumbled on them again a couple of years ago. I had read somewhere that the process of colonialism went along these lines. It sort of sings to the tune of "Stand Up for Jesus". That would seem to be appropriate, and what a tune! These things are all part of our history, whether we like it or not.
Apartheid I bring to you the bible, said the white man to the black. I can see from the way you live, it’s one thing that you lack. You don’t need your folklore or your wisdom from past ages. Trust in God, believe in me and read your bible’s pages. I bring to you the rifle. You know it makes good sense. Said the white man to the black man, you can use it for defence. If you walk out in the jungle, before your country gets much older, You can kill all your wild animals, with a rifle at your shoulder. I bring to you these chains of mine. They are something you should feel. Run them through your fingers. They are made of finest steel. If you wear these chains of mine, and live here by my side. We will both be better men, so wear your chains with pride. I bring to you the jailhouse said the white man to the black. Said the white man to the black man, it will take up any slack. When we find that there are those who will not toe the line, We’ll shut them in a small dark room and make them pay a fine. I bring to you taxation. I think it’s only fair. The burden of bureaucracy is something we can share. This is our country’s future we build and its foundations, which we lay. To make our country’s future work, somebody has to pay. I don’t want your bible, said the black man to the white. I can see from the way you live that somethings just aren’t right. I don’t want your rifle, that is one thing you can keep. If guns come to this country, you could kill me in my sleep. Don’t take away my freedom. Don’t lock in me in a cell. I don’t want your servile chains and I don’t want your hell. This is my country’s future I build and its foundations, which I lay. To make my country’s future work, with my lifeblood I will pay. Paul J Openshaw Dr Livingstone....We visited South Africa a few years ago to end up at Victoria Falls. The ideas for the song came thick and fast as we bounced along in our safari vehicle. The tune followed a bit later on.
Dr Livingstone Dr Livingstone, I presume. How are you today? I’ve been sent here by my editor, who thinks you’ve lost your way. He wants to know your whereabouts, but he doesn’t know what to do, That’s why I set off on safari, in the hope of finding you. Dr Livingstone, I presume. All this time where have you been? The world will want to know, as will her majesty, the Queen. She wants to build an empire, so her assets can accrue, That’s why I set off on safari in the hope of finding you. Dr Livingstone, I presume. Can this conceivably be true? I have a few ideas and I’m sure you have some too. I am Henry Morton Stanley, but you can call me Stan. If we put our heads together we can come up with a plan. Dr Livingstone, I presume. It is all becoming clear. I can see a grand hotel, and a game park over here, And a campsite and a café and some ethnic shopping malls. That place, “the smoke that thunders”, we can call Victoria Falls. Dr Livingstone, I presume. You are set to play a role, Whatever else may happen in this god forsaken hole. The world will want to come here for a week or maybe two, And they’ll set off on safari, in the hope of finding you. Dr Livingstone, I presume…. Paul J Openshaw Chancellor of Exchequer (says his prayers)......I thought that I could rewrite "there's a hole in my bucket". To give it a more political slant, it could become "there's a hole in my budget". I did not realise that Flanders and Swann had already covered this aspect. My words went off on a different tangent. This was at the time of George Osbourne and David Cameron. What would they know about austerity, other than dishing it out?
The Chancellor of the Exchequer (says his prayers) I couldn’t get to sleep last night. I was checking my sums to make sure they were right, But you know that, because you were there with me. It’s just not something, which people can see. You must have known about the flaw, When I stood outside my Downing Street door, And I posed for the camera, with my red box held high, In my Saville Row suit and my royal blue tie. I know you keep a watch on things, So, I hope that you can pull some strings. I live at number eleven, but then, I have an eye for number ten. I know from you I cannot hide. You know there’s nothing I haven’t tried. I’ve always done the best I can, To work within your bigger plan. As to the Chamber, I make my way, I haven’t a clue what I’m going to say, And I don’t know how I’m going to get through, I find myself talking to you. I know you keep a watch on things, So, I hope that you can pull some strings. I live at number eleven, but then, I have an eye for number ten. As I try to do your will, Even though it seems so uphill, Please forgive a trespass or two, In all I think and say and do. At the end of the day, after climbing the stairs, I kneel by my bed to say my prayers, And reach out to you with heart and soul, For kingdom, power, glory and goal. I know you keep a watch on things, So, I hope that you can pull some strings. I live at number eleven, but then, I have an eye for number ten. I have an eye for number ten, Forever and ever and ever amen. Paul J Openshaw (2025) Queen of Hearts......It was 1995. I was working 12 hour night shifts in a mill. During the day, I switched on TV to watch the funeral of Diana, whilst doing my ironing. I remember it well. Something about the situation welled up inside me, and I wrote a draft of the following words. It has taken a lot of work to get them to where they are now, but I think they echo how I feel. Who would want royal privilege?
Queen of Hearts
She was thrust into the limelight,
More than she could have known.
I watched her from a distance,
As she melted hearts of stone.
When one doesn’t do emotion,
And one needs to get a grip,
Maintaining one’s decorum,
With one’s stiffest upper lip.
She was pushed into a corner.
She was hounded by the press.
Her eye was ever open,
To the cause of helplessness.
She defied the house of Windsor,
To make her life her own.
Casting caution to the wind,
She stood her ground alone.
She broke away from protocol,
She learned how to survive,
Whilst the mother in her smiled,
At the hopes she kept alive,
As she battled with her feelings,
And she strove to play a role,
And a nation bowed in silence,
As the pressure took its toll.
Paul J Openshaw 2025
China....During the late nineteen sixties, hardly a day went by when Chi-Chi did not get a mention in UK news. She was a female giant panda in London Zoo. In order to breed from her, they introduced her (unsuccessfully) to An-An. It does make you wonder about keeping any animal behind bars.
China
(For Chi-Chi and An-An)
In a land of silk and satin, ribbons of rice and tea,
Roll over the horizon to the great south China Sea.
Where suns rise in the east across a rich and fertile plain,
And the foothills of the mountains feel the drizzle of the rain.
This is his domain. It is the place of his abode.
In a forest of bamboo, beyond the old silk road.
From the cradle to the grave, it is where he comes alive.
In the name of his salvation, it is where he will survive.
His children are well travelled to places far and wide.
They are his crowning glory. They are his joy and pride.
They are his shining moment and his defining role.
They are his life eternal, and they are his winning goal.
In a land of silk and satin, ribbons of rice and tea,
Roll over the horizon to the great south China Sea.
Where suns rise in the east across a rich and fertile plain,
And the foothills of the mountains feel the drizzle of the rain.
Paul J Openshaw 2023
Empty Chair....I started this song around 1975, after reading the life story of Vincent Van Gogh. I revisited the lyrics, to have another go fairly recently.
Empty Chair Your candle burns. My thoughts go with you. I think of the chair, where you used to sit: The windows you opened; the books that you read; The pictures you painted with words that you said. Chorus Your candle burns. Smoke fills my mind. Smoke fills my mind, as I try to think clear. I try to think clear, of the times in my life. Of the times in my life, when you gave me your ear. Your candle burns. Life seems so empty. To think it is finished, when I dreamed, I could find, In this house, which we lived, the friends, which I sought, But I could not follow the roads of your thought. Your candle burns. I stand so uncertain. It doesn’t seem right, to pull down our curtain. I see my reflection and yearn to be free, From the hole in my heart, where you used to be. Paul J Openshaw (1975) The Floor Singer.....We have all been there.
The Floor Singer He googled the words, to cut and to paste. He located the tune to rip and to burn. It took him a while to learn all the verses, Then he sat in the circle awaiting his turn. This was his moment to rise and to shine. He took a deep breath to make a good start. When he opened his mouth, he could not remember, The words he had thought to be etched on his heart. Chorus It does not do much for your ego, When your head is all over the place. You begin with the best of intentions, But you end up with egg on your face. If he could remember the opening line, Or even perhaps just one single word. That cannot happen and that will not be, In the foggiest of moments when everything's blurred. It's almost as though he’s been smitten, Unable to function, and gripped by a curse. There isn’t a person, who does not feel for him, But that only seems to make matters worse. When a brain goes into bungalow mode, There is no cognition. There is no recall. The curtains are drawn and the shutters come down, As the light goes out when you hit a brick wall. So you retake your seat in the circle, Then the words seem to come flooding back to you then, But all you can do, is patiently sit, And wait until your turn comes round once again. Paul J Openshaw (September 2018) Wounded Knee.....I read the book, "Bury my Heart at Wounded Knee", during lockdown. It took me a while, but I persevered because it was something which I wanted to understand. In the end I found it best to start with the last chapter and work backwards from there.
Last Stand (at Wounded Knee) My stock in trade and tribe is Sioux. I do what I am schooled to do. I raise my children from the floor. I keep the wolf back from the door. I stand for what I know is right. There is no man I will not fight. For who I am, remember me. They buried my heart at Wounded Knee. Why does the white man need to lie? He never looks me in the eye. He bends the truth, his word is deft, Before he takes my land by theft. I stand for what I know is right. There is no man I will not fight. For who I am, remember me. They buried my heart at Wounded Knee. No vital spark to start a dance, No ghost or threshold of a chance, No shelter from the driven snow, No antelope. No buffalo. As the sun sets in the western sky, Beneath the sound of battle cry, When the US cavalry starts its cull, I pledge allegiance to Sitting Bull. I stand for what I know is right. There is no man I will not fight. For who I am, remember me. They buried my heart at Wounded Knee. Paul J Openshaw (2021) Nova Scotia.... There is a version of this song on Half Open Doorways. The version below is how I would sing it nowadays. I was taught Scottish history at primary school. These days I find myself intrigued by all of this stuff.
Nova Scotia Your homes and your holdings were cleared by decree. I cannot imagine how these things could be. Cheviot sheep came to people the hills, With Northumberland farmers and shepherding skills. Your factors drove tenants from houses and land. Your church gave its blessings to those in command. Your ministers watched as their parish homes burned. The cries and the anguish went unheeded and spurned. Nova Scotia. Nova Scotia. Some families moved off to faraway places, To build up homesteads in wide open spaces, With freedom to choose to live as they would, And work for the future as best as they could. Nova Scotia. Nova Scotia. Sometimes it seems there’s a chip on your shoulder. Your feelings are bitter while embers still smoulder. Will you ever again trust a man from the south, Or believe in the words from a sassenach mouth. Nova Scotia. Nova Scotia. Fort William, Fort Augustus and General Wade, Red coated soldiers with musket and blade. What hope was there then for a man of low birth, With a handful of seeds and an acre of earth? Nova Scotia. Nova Scotia. Paul J Openshaw The Day the Calendar Comes Alive...every time Christmas comes around, I think I should have a song for this occasion. Last year, (2024) I homed in on these words, the bulk of which, I had written a few years ago. I even managed to sing it out on a couple of occasions, albeit falteringly. It could be my 2025 Christmas single....
The Day the Calendar Comes Alive
Not waiting for the dawn to crack,
When heads have hardly hit the sack,
The kids are first, all with a burst,
They tumble down the stairs.
Listen to the peals of laughter,
Ringing out from floor to rafter,
Looking for the presents,
Which they know are surely theirs.
Chorus
Holly bough and mistletoe,
The Christmas tree, the fall of snow,
The magic and the mystery survive,
The day the calendar comes alive.
Once the day is set in motion,
Stay in bed’s, a wasted notion.
Look to see if Santa’s been,
And nothing matters more.
Forget the clock, forget the hour,
The church bell ringing in the tower,
Tells the world the time
Has only just gone half past four.
Who needs sleep? That’s not the way,
To make the most of Christmas day.
Forget the flagging spirit,
It is only once a year.
The fickle feast of festive fun,
Will very soon be gone and done;
To see a new day dawning,
In the season of good cheer.
Paul J Openshaw 2025
Gift of Life....Can anything ever be that bad?
Gift of Life
Why are you so down tonight?
In my opinion, it's not right,
To dwell on things you might have known.
They'll pare you right back to the bone.
Leave you lying in a rut,
And fester like a wound or cut.
Dry your eyes, now don't be sad.
This gift of life can never be so bad.
We're so small in this universe.
Many others fare much worse.
People die in far off lands,
Where life can make extreme demands.
Homeless seek a meal and bed.
Some have problems in the head.
Dry your eyes, now don't be sad.
This gift of life can never be so bad.
Yet I know emotions can,
Upheave the spirit of a man.
This is no wisdom of the mind.
The more you seek, the more you find,
A medium in which to grow,
With time to reap and a time to sow.
Dry your eyes now, don't be sad.
This gift of life can never be so bad.