Memypoliticsmyworld: Matandang Musikero

Friday, August 15, 2014

Matandang Musikero - Gary Granada

Di pa uso noon ang hi-tech
At wala pang alternative music
Ngunit ang kanyang mga awit ay totoo
Sa mga kantang sinulat
Ay marami ang namulat
Kahit na ang karamiha'y di nagbago

Buhay pa rin ang musika
Sa kanyang gitara
Kahit na si Koyang Jess tumatanda na
Buhay pa rin ang pag-ibig
Sa sariling himig
Kailan lang siya'y nag-umpisa

Noo'y hinding hindi pupuwede
Musikerong hindi pogi
Ngunit naglakasloob siyang maiba
Sa taglay niyang katapangan
Ang iba ay nabuhayan
Kung kaya kami ngayo'y marami na

Buhay pa rin ang musika
Sa kanyang gitara
Kahit na si Heber ay tumatanda na
Buhay pa rin ang pag-ibig
Sa sariling himig
Kailan lang siya'y nag-umpisa

Ilang beses nang napasabak
Ilang beses nang napahamak
Sa lasing, pulis at budget na aruy
Ilang puwesto na ang nasubukan
Ilang rally na ang naranasan
Ilang konsyerto na ang di natuloy

Tuloy pa rin ang musika
Sa kanyang gitara
Kahit na si Pol Galang nasa Europe na
Tuloy pa rin ang pag-ibig
Sa sariling himig
Kailan lang siya'y nag-umpisa

Ilang lyrics na ang nalimutan
Ilang sablay na sa tugtugan
Ilang kwerdas na kaya ang napatid
Mangyayari rin kaya sa akin
Ganun din kaya ang sasabihin
Ng mga nakababatang kapatid

Buhay pa rin ang musika
Sa kanyang gitara
Kahit na si Granada'y matanda na
Buhay pa rin ang pag-ibig
Sa sariling himig
Kailan lang siya'y nag-umpisa

Kailan lang siya'y nag-umpisa
Kailan lang siya'y nag-umpisa
Bakit ba mukha siyang bata pa

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Life

I like to think that life is warm as summer breeze,
that one can feel its tight embrace but one may need to seize
the hour and the day to make it all worthwhile,
live it to the fullest in any way or style.

I like the buzzing sound of bees as they fly to every flower,
but cannot see the pollens at their feet that they spread like shower,
but can smell the sweet fragrance that they carry as they glide
and can taste the delicious honey that they all provide.

I like the sound of waves as they go racing to the beach,
to look at the pearly white suds that form on top of each.
One may think that it's the end of them there on the sand,
but it's just another start of the job they have at hand.

I like to imagine lions as they awaken with a roar.
to think of them as they roam freely on the forest floor;
It’s a wonder how they do it, how they spring from their mounds.
And wrestle with their preys as large and weigh a thousand pounds.

I like to see an eagle gently soaring to the sky,
to hear the sharp sound from its beak that seems like a cry;
It's almost unbelievable for an eagle to catch its prey
when it comes a hundred feet over the trees, above the clay.

I like to hear the reading of poetry and story,
whether in a street or in a theater as long as they're not gory.
Be it rhyme or novelette, or who may be the leader,
there will always be differences for the writer and the reader.

Some say that life is like a box of chocolate that you can't predict
what would be the outcome of the life of a derelict,
but I say no it isn't so, life is more than what it may seem,
just take a look at the moonlight and the early morning sunbeam.

I like to look at a tree everyday and wonder why leaves are green,
to think of the wind that swings the branches, visible but unseen;
I say that life is a beautiful song about an equally beautiful place,
with all the wonderful meanings and feelings for whatever kind or race.

Leonardo Kirk I. Galanza
24 December 2001

All Along the Watchtower

"There must be some way out of here," said the joker to the thief,"
There's too much confusion, I can't get no relief.
Businessmen, they drink my wine, plowmen dig my earth,
None of them along the line know what any of it is worth."

"No reason to get excited," the thief, he kindly spoke,
"There are many here among us who feel that life is but a joke.
But you and I, we've been through that, and this is not our fate,
So let us not talk falsely now, the hour is getting late.

"All along the watchtower, princes kept the view
While all the women came and went, barefoot servants, too.

Outside in the distance a wildcat did growl,
Two riders were approaching, the wind began to howl.
- Bob Dylan
(John Wesley Harding album, 1967)

Universal Soldier

He's five foot-two, and he's six feet-four,
He fights with missiles and with spears.
He's all of thirty-one, and he's only seventeen,
He's been a soldier for a thousand years.

He'a a Catholic, a Hindu, an Atheist, a Jain,
A Buddhist and a Baptist and a Jew.
And he knows he shouldn't kill,
And he knows he always will,
Kill you for me my friend and me for you.

And he's fighting for Canada,
He's fighting for France,
He's fighting for the USA,
And he's fighting for the Russians,
And he's fighting for Japan,
And he thinks we'll put an end to war this way.

And he's fighting for Democracy,
He's fighting for the Reds,
He says it's for the peace of all.
He's the one who must decide,
Who's to live and who's to die,
And he never sees the writing on the wall.

But without him,
How would Hitler have condemned him at Labau?
Without him Caesar would have stood alone,
He's the one who gives his body
As a weapon of the war,
And without him all this killing can't go on.

He's the Universal Soldier and he really is to blame,
His orders come from far away no more,
They come from here and there and you and me,
And brothers can't you see,
This is not the way we put an end to war.
-Donovan

On Freedom

You shall be free indeed when your days are not without a care nor your nights without a want and a grief,
But rather when these things girdle your life and yet you rise above them naked and unbound...
And if it is a despot you would dethrone, see first that his throne erected within you is destroyed.
For how can a tyrant rule the free and the proud, but for a tyranny in their own freedom and a shame in their own pride?
And if it is a care you would cast off, that care has been chosen by you rather than imposed upon you.
And if it is a fear you would dispel, the seat of that fear is in your heart and not in the hand of the feared.
-Omar Khalil Gibran (1883-1931)
The Prophet

Patterns

The night sets softly
With the hush of falling leaves,
Casting shivering shadows
On the houses through the trees,
And the light from a street lamp
Paints a pattern on my wall,
Like the pieces of a puzzle
Or a child's uneven scrawl.

Up a narrow flight of stairs
In a narrow little room,
As I lie upon my bed
In the early evening gloom.
Impaled on my wall
My eyes can dimly see
The pattern of my life
And the puzzle that is me.

From the moment of my birth
To the instant of my death,
There are patterns I must follow
Just as I must breathe each breath.
Like a rat in a maze
The path before me lies,
And the pattern never alters
Until the rat dies.

And the pattern still remains
On the wall where darkness fell,
And it's fitting that it should,
For in darkness I must dwell.
Like the color of my skin,
Or the day that I grow old,
My life is made of patterns
That can scarcely be controlled.
- Simon and Garfunkel

Invictus

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

- William Ernest Henley

Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
- Robert Frost (1874-1963)

Memypoliticsmyworld

Friday, August 15, 2014

Matandang Musikero - Gary Granada

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