It was the eighth of December.
This is what I remember.
This is what they said:
John Lennon had been shot.
John Lennon was dead.
It could have been George C Scott.
It could have been anyone.
But a psycho with a gun
had snuffed out the sun. Yoko took to her bed. John Lennon was dead.
It was the eighth of December
That is what they said.
This is what I remember:
John Lennon had been shot.
John Lennon was dead.
Mark Balma is currently creating paintings in an early renaissance technique pioneered by Leonardo da Vinci. The oil paintings are composed of many layers of hand-ground paint superimposed upon each other with small brush strokes in a secret essential oil and resin mixture. The result is an exceptional depth and richness of color that complements the soul and character of the painting. Balma also creates works in tempera, watercolor, and fresco. His mastery of drawing is expressed in etchings, stone lithography, and drawings in pencil, ink, and red chalk. His portraiture includes children, adults, family groups, and official portraits for business and government. Considered a metaphysical realist, he paints beyond the reality of the subject toward the spiritual. Born in Wichita, Kansas in 1957, Balma studied in the academy tradition at Atelier Lack in Minneapolis before moving to Italy at age 19 to continue his studies with Maestro Pietro Annigoni in Florence. He has maintained studios in Italy, London, and Minnesota. His works have been exhibited in Europe and America and are held in both private and public collections.
"Faith is taking the first step even when you cannot see the whole staircase"
Martin Luther King Jr.
Images of Assisi
These stone etchings are printed by hand in small editions, signed and numbered by the artist. Each of these images were carefully studied directly in Assisi by Mark Balma, capturing the subtle spirit of the Franciscan message. Complete set of the three stone lithographs $3,000 (only a few sets remaining)
Mark and I first became friends in junior high school (together we started a Rock & Roll band). As Mark developed as an artist, I became interested in poetry and art history. I was lucky to continue my study of art history in Rome, Italy at the age of 19.
If you would like to purchase a set of these lithographs, send me an email at billybluejay@gmail.com and I will be happy to get you in touch directly with Mark Balma.
Thanks, Will James
Assisi Grotto Stone Lithograph 11 x 14 inches
Ascending- St Chiara Stone Lithograph 22 x 30 inches
Merry Christmas, pretty baby. How you doin'? Hope you're doin' fine. Just thought I'd drop you a line. I've been so blue without you, like walking around with just one shoe.
Merry Christmas, pretty baby. How do you do? Hope you're doin' fine. Got my Santa suit on the line. My Super Santa is going to visit you. My Super Santa got a present for you.
Merry Christmas, pretty baby. I've been so blue without you like walking around with a bad case of the flu. Hope you're doing alright, tonight.
Merry Christmas, pretty baby. How you doin'? Hope you're doin' fine. Just thought I'd drop you a line. I've been true just to you. Merry Christmas, pretty baby.
MARCH 2003
Gusts of wind blow across the beach and with just one
final turn, the surf crashes against the shore.
They are crossing over now, breaking through the green waves
and white foam like flying fish glittering in the sun.
Death carries a long knife, there are shadows behind his eyes.
The Pentagon insists that once Iraq is disarmed,
the sanctions will come to an end.
But the dead will not be paroled from their prison cells
and their severed limbs will not grow back.
Death carries a long knife, there are shadows behind his eyes.
HIGH CONDITION (RED)
Air raid sirens sound as clouds of smoke billow over Baghdad;
and so it has begun, so that even now as flowers bloom
in pink, white and violet clusters, F/A 18 Hornets take off
from dark blue strips in the Mediterranean, their engines
emitting vapor trails that drift and then vanish into the desert sky;
and even now as women in white march in Jakarta
and protesters stand outside the Houses of Parliament in London,
a mother discovers the torso of her missing child
and blue on blue fire kills another marine.
A mother had a premonition.
A mother had the chills.
Three drowned boys
in the Robin Hood Hills.
No more games, no more toys
for the boys
from the Robin Hood Hills.
A mother had a premonition.
A mother had the chills.
One had a fractured skull, three drowned boys
in the Robin Hood Hills.
The police targeted a teen.
A false confession
placed him at the scene.
They said he wore black.
They said his life was off track.
They said his art was obscene.
No evidence, no DNA, but a jury
found him guilty
of killing the boys
in the Robin Hood Hills.
He wanted to sleep.
He wanted to go.
But he was in too deep
there on death row.
After eighteen years, he was freed.
After eighteen years, the West Memphis three
are finally free.
A mother had a premonition.
A mother had the chills.
Three drowned boys
in the Robin Hood Hills.
The
flashbulbs are so much brighter here. After all, this is the land
of laugh tracks,
big
screen TVs and Cadillacs, where games shows are broadcast
twenty-four hours a day and everyone is a winner. The thousand
pound man and the five hundred pound mom, can Doctor Phil save
them?
Her bodyguard said her eyes were fixed and dilated. The
coroner ruled that a combination of pills and chloral hydrate
killed her. Rumor has it that Andy Warhol has already
commissioned her portrait. But Einstein wants nothing to do with
it.
We open ourselves up to darkness but not to love. Our
heads are getting bigger everyday while our legs are shrinking
from disuse. Did OJ commit armed robbery in Las Vegas? Do
flying saucers really exist? Can America be saved? Stay tuned.
Like a magician, he's up to his old tricks.
Another show, another fix.
His heart's in a box
bound by a thousand and one locks.
His world is whirling and about to tilt.
The knives are in all the way to the hilt.
He'd let them go but he doesn't know how.
If looks could kill, he'd be a ghost by now...
From the shadows, he calls out your name.
Just one shot and you're back in the game.
Your heart's in a box
bound by a thousand and one locks.
Your world is whirling and about to tilt.
The knives are in all the way to the hilt.
You'd let them go but you don't know how.
If looks could kill, you'd be a ghost by now...
She hovered around me for hours in the rain talking about heaven and God and apparitions and signs; and after that, she took off her wet, black stockings in the bathroom of a café and then reappeared without them as if no one would ever notice.
Bob Dylan's brother, David Zimmerman, taught the children in my
neighborhood how to sing! He was the music teacher at Sunny Hollow
Elementary in New Hope, Minnesota. It is well known now that David
Zimmerman contributed to the re-recording of Blood on the Tracks in Minneapolis (Christmas of 74).
Bob
apparently spent some time with his brother at the grade school. After
David Zimmerman worked with Bob on the album he decided to leave
teaching. With Bob in tow, Mr Zimmerman visited all his students, all of
the classes. During a question & answer session, my brother Rob
(age 7) asked this unknown visitor if he knew of the poet Billy L (my
middle name is James). Bob said no but that he would have to check this
"poet" out. I did not know about this conversation until later (my
brother, after all, was 7 & really had no idea how famous Bob
was; I was 17). When I heard the story a few weeks later, I was
thrilled.
At 19, I studied for a semester in Rome, Italy on the University of Dallas campus. There was a copy of Blood on the Tracks where I stayed. I listened to that album every day, over & over again. What an education: The Confessions of Saint Augustine, The Sistine Chapel, Agamemnon's tomb in Greece, the Louvre in Paris (Leonardo, Botticelli, Giotto), Sophocles & Bob Dylan.
Happy birthday Bob!
For Bob Dylan
He sang a tune or two in a one man band
then hopped a train to a distant and nameless land.
And in a boxcar he heard someone say,
'You can't take back what you never gave away'.
There are rumors of war; there are holes in the sky.
The dead line the roads but no one hears them cry.
The living are throwing stones into an empty well.
Their houses are bare; they have nothing left to sell.
I hum along to a song that I know and understand
as I trudge toward that distant and nameless land.
And in the darkness I hear someone say,
'You can't take back what you never gave away'.
Wrapped in a shroud, his eyes blotted out, he can no longer read from the book of war. His mouth opens to an ocean of darkness but makes no sound. His hands are empty. They hold no stars. The heavens have been effaced. There is no way to chart a course. There is no moon to push in the tides, no wind to carry him home.
He wasn't like the other boys; he played with ICBMs instead of tinker toys. But no one made too much of a fuss. No, no one made too much of a fuss. After all, he was one of us. After all, he was one of us.
When he peddled an unwinnable war amongst the Joint Chiefs and the Marine Corps, no one made too much of a fuss. No, no one made too much of a fuss. After all, he was one of us. After all, he was one of us.
When some were heard to say that he took the head shot that killed JFK, no one made too much of a fuss. No, no one made too much of a fuss. After all, he was one of us. After all, he was one of us.
The painting showing the arrival of JFK at Parkland hospital, Pietà, was done by Mark Balma (an old & dear friend).
I saw your photo on facebook the other day. I had to take a look what can I say? By now, I thought we would be flying in cars with nothing left to do but follow the stars. Yes I thought of you the other day. If I saw you what would I say? By now, I thought we would be flying in cars with nothing left to do but play our guitars. I sent you a instant message the other day. No response. I guess you were away. Funny by now, I thought we would be flying in cars with nothing left to do but follow the stars. Funny, I thought we would be flying in cars but our maps are out of date and we've lost the stars...
Like a magician, he's up to his old tricks, another show, another fix. His heart's in a box bound by a thousand and one locks. His world is whirling and about to tilt. The knives are in all the way to the hilt. He'd let them go but he doesn't know how. If looks could kill, he'd be a ghost by now...
From the shadows, he calls out your name. Just one shot and you're back in the game. Your heart's in a box bound by a thousand and one locks. Your world is whirling and about to tilt. The knives are in all the way to the hilt. You'd let them go but you don't know how. If looks could kill, you'd be a ghost by now...
He sang a tune or two in a one man band then hopped a train to a distant and nameless land. He sang a tune or two in a one man band then hopped a train to a distant and nameless land. And in a boxcar he heard someone say, 'You can't take back what you never gave away'.
There are rumors of war; there are holes in the sky. The dead line the roads but no one hears them cry. There are rumors of war; there are holes in the sky. The dead line the roads but no one hears them cry. The living are throwing stones into an empty well. Their houses are bare; they have nothing left to sell. The living are throwing stones into an empty well. Their houses are bare; they have nothing left to sell.
I hum along to a song that I know and understand as I trudge toward that distant and nameless land. I hum along to a song that I know and understand as I trudge toward that distant and nameless land. And in the darkness I hear someone say, 'You can't take back what you never gave away'. And in the darkness I hear someone say, 'You can't take back what you never gave away'.
After watching a movie about a woman in a sanitarium obsessed with white orchids and death, I think about the girl at the pool and all that she said. She spoke about her father lost in the mountains of Wyoming, wandering beneath white peaks of heavenly snow; and she spoke of her two sisters, and her mother and all of her love.
He stood out in the rain.
He took a drink to kill the pain
and there he would hide
from all the hurt inside
He stood out in the rain.
Took a drink to kill the pain.
There he would float
on his imaginary boat
where he could hide
from all the hurt inside.
There's a hole in his heart.
Been there from the very start.
No one would claim
that he's winning any kind of game.
Could have been my grandfather
on my mother's side.
Could have been my grandfather
on my father's side.
I don't stand out in the rain.
I don't drink to kill the pain.
I no longer float
on that imaginary boat.
I no longer hide
from the hurt inside.
Now that I have all of you
to help me make it through.
I no longer hide
from all the hurt inside.
Now that I have all of you
to help me make it through.
A mother had a premonition. A mother had the chills. Three drowned boys in the Robin Hood Hills. No more games, no more toys for the boys from the Robin Hood Hills. A mother had a premonition. A mother had the chills. One had a fractured skull, three drowned boys in the Robin Hood Hills. The police targeted a teen. A false confession placed him at the scene. They said he wore black. They said his life was off track. They said his art was obscene. No evidence, no DNA, but a jury found him guilty of killing the boys in the Robin Hood Hills. He wishes he could sleep. He wishes he could go. But he's in too deep there on Death Row. A mother had a premonition. A mother had the chills. Three drowned boys in the Robin Hood Hills. No more games, no more toys for the boys from the Robin Hood Hills.
*Here is the new lyric to this song:
A mother had a premonition. A mother had the chills.
Three drowned boys
in the Robin Hood Hills.
No more games, no more toys
for the boys
from the Robin Hood Hills.
A mother had a premonition.
A mother had the chills.
One had a fractured skull, three drowned boys
in the Robin Hood Hills.
The police targeted a teen.
A false confession
placed him at the scene.
They said he wore black.
They said his life was off track.
They said his art was obscene.
No evidence, no DNA, but a jury
found him guilty
of killing the boys
in the Robin Hood Hills.
He wanted to sleep.
He wanted to go.
But he was in too deep
there on death row.
