Scraps On The Table

The Arkansas hills was where I grew up.

I’d run through the woods with my hound dog pup.

When I’d get back home my momma would say,

“Scraps on the table. That’s all for today.”

Scraps on the table. Beans in the pot.

A little cornbread that’s far from hot.

How happy I was to be there on those days.

Scraps on the table with a love that stays.

Set at the table, but set up real straight.

That’s what mom still says as she puts down my plate.

Milk’s in our glasses. Sorghum’s in a jar.

It’s been too hot for a cooking fire.

Scraps on the table.  Beans in the pot.

A little cornbread that’s far from hot.

How happy I am to be here on this day.

Scraps on the table with love that will stay.

Mom says there weren’t much to build a fire for.

It’s been a long time since she’us at the store.

But I’m happy to be eating fried taters cold

with mom and dad; they’re both getting old.

Scraps on the table.  Beans in the pot.

A little cornbread that’s far from hot.

How happy I am to be here on this day.

Scraps on the table with love that will stay.

How happy I am to be here on this day.

Scraps on the table with love that will stay.

I’ve loved it each time that I’ve been told,

“Scraps on the table, but our love’s far from cold.”

Scraps on the table. Beans in the pot.

A little cornbread that’s far from hot.

How happy I am to be here on this day.

Scraps on the table with love that will stay.

Scraps on the table with a love that will stay.

© 2011 A.L. Shipman, Jr. All Rights Reserved. Watermark template. Powered by Blogger.

Beaches

                        I look out over the ocean as I stand here on this shore

and dream of the beaches I long to see once more.

Beaches. Beautiful beaches.

 You were there calling me to your shore.

I was a shipman tossed about

 on the wild ocean of life.

Then I found beaches

where I longed to stay,

 more than just a day,

with beaches.

 Beautiful beaches.

I may never see you again
nor hear your speech in flight,

but I’ll remember you
while in the pale moon's light.

I will long for your sweet fragrance
 as I walk and set alone,

where we once walked and set,
 then I’ll wonder where you’ve gone.

I’d like to thank you for the inspiration.

Thank you for the song you put in my heart.

Thank you for life when I thought I was dead.

Thank you for the fire that's still warms my soul.

Thank you for the treasures that keep me from the cold.

Beaches. Beautiful beaches.

You where there calling me to your shore.

I was a shipman tossed about

 on the wild ocean of life.

Then I found beaches

where I longed to stay,

more than just a day,

with beaches.

 Beautiful beaches.

With beaches. Beautiful beaches.

© 2011 A.L. Shipman, Jr. All Rights Reserved. Watermark template. Powered by Blogger.

See The Picture On The Wall

See the picture on the wall.

It makes me smile as I recall,

when I used to kiss  those alluring lips.

The way we would walk hand in hand

by the spring in golden sand,

and planed to live our lives in love.

She’d sing, “I love you. I really do-o.

Your eyes, they thrill me through and through.

I will be yours for all of time.

To need you this much must be a crime.

Now that picture on the wall

builds me up then comes the fall.

For you see it’s all that I have left.

I still hear the things she said.

I’ll obey her until I’m dead.

She said, “‘member all the times we had.”

She’d sing,“ I love you. I really do-o.

Your eyes, they thrill me through and through.

I will be yours for all of time.

To need you this much must be a crime.

Well that picture on the wall.

May it never ever fall.

I need to see her everyday.

I will love her to the end.

I shall always be her friend.

She can come back anytime to me.

And sing, “I love you, I really do-o.

Your eyes, they thrill me through and through.

I will be yours for all of time.

To need you this much must be a crime.

For me to need you this much, this long, must be a crime.

See the picture on the wall.

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Using Your Memory

You’re just a memory I’d love to see.

You had the kind of face I’d love to retrace.

And your tenderness makes me long for you still.

Using your memory to write a song.

I’m using your memory to write a song.

One that will make me cry all night long.

Gonna be about a love so strong, but now your gone.

Using your memory to write a song.

You had the kind of eyes that told no lies.

You had the kind of kiss makes me reminisce.

And your fingertips seem to touch me still.

Using your memory to write a song.

I'm using your memory to write a song.

One that will make me cry all night long.

Gonna be about a love so strong, but now your gone.

Using your memory to write a song.

You had the kind of hair that made men stare.

You had the kind of walk that made them talk.

And your perfect form makes us dream of you still.

Using your memory to write a song.

I’m using your memory to write a song.

One that will make me cry all night long.

Gonna be about a love so strong, but now your gone.

Using your memory to write a song.

Using your memory to write a song.

As your soft sweet voice seems to call to me still.

Using your memory to write a song.

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There is more to Happiness

There is more to happiness than just a smile.
There is more to laughter than just a sound.
There is more to love than just a feeling.
There is more to the world than just being round.

Look for more than what you first see, hear, feel and believe.
There is always more.

There is more to the ocean than just water and salt.
There is more to the earth than just dirt and sand.
There is more to the mountains than just rock.
There is more to the air than we will ever understand.

Look for more than what you first taste, touch, caress and conceive.
There is always more.

There is more to school than just being there.
There is more to a job than just the pay.
There is more to helping than saying, "I will."
There is more to a vacation than just getting away.

Look for more than a place, reward, a promise or going.
There is always more.

There is more to worship than sitting in a pew.
There is more to hoping than nothing to do.
There is more to following than not turning away.
There is more to beliving than just saying, "Me too."

Look for more than just sitting,waiting, going along and blending in.
There is always more.


















Look for more and you may find Happiness is being content that you have always done all you could to find  the beauty in what has come your way as you looked for more to love.






A. L. Shipman Jr.
6-21-2011

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Buffalo River Blues

My baby don’t like the blues so she gives them to me.

My baby don’t like the blues so she gives them to me.

I go down to Buffalo River, sing away my misery.

She won’t fix me grits and fried taters too.

No, she won’t fix me grits and fried taters too.

She says, “If that’s what you want then I ant the one for you.”

My baby don’t like the blues so she gives them to me.

My baby don’t like the blues so she gives them to me.

I go down to Buffalo River sing away my misery.

I bought her a Chrysler and a Cadillac.

I bought her a Chrysler and a Cadillac.

But she wanted a Lincoln just to sit out in the back.

My baby don’t like the blues so she gives them to me.

My baby don’t like the blues so she gives them to me.

I go down to Buffalo River sing away my misery.

Baby I sure like your long silky hair.

I said, “Baby I sure like your long silky hair.”

She came home next day. Had it all cut off of there.

My baby don’t like the blues so she gives them to me.

My baby don’t like the blues so she gives them to me.

I go down to Buffalo River sing away my misery.

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Her Daddy Liked Chryslers

Her daddy liked Chryslers, that’s all he would buy.

Drove an old Dodge truck, bought new in 55.

Her momma drove a New Yorker. Blue with a black vinyl top.

When my gal turned sixteen, she asked for her very own car.

But he said no to a Mustang. No to a hot Cougar cat.

“No way”, to a Thunderbird, or a blue Corvette.

So she asked for a Barracuda.

Got a fabulous Fury instead.

She got a Plymouth. 1966.

Had a three eighteen.

Automatic column shift.

It was a light tan, four-door, ferryboat, he said keep it slick.

The highway was our ocean; dirt roads were our rough seas.

The old hometown streets were whatever we pleased.

She knew how to drive that Plymouth. Got the wind in its sails.

Always took this shipman, to my favorite shores.

She drove a Plymouth. 1966.

Had a three eighteen,

Automatic column shift.

It was a light tan, four-door ferryboat. I helped keep it slack.

A new guy came to town in a big yellow Cadillac.

I didn’t even own a car, how could I compete with that.

But I put up a mighty good fight; her daddy was on my side.

Her momma said, “Don’t quit”. Her little brother, he threw a fit.

?   (INSTRUMENTAL.) ?

They ran off and got married, way out in Oklahoma.

I don’t know if she ever looked back.

But one good thing about it, Her daddy never, let her take that Car.

I bought her Plymouth. That old 1966.

It’s got a 318, automatic column shift.

It’s a light tan, four-door, ferryboat, I Still keep it Slick.

Still cruisin’ in her Plymouth.  That sweet smellin’ Plymouth.

Fabulous fury, ferryboat,

It’s a car I’ll never sale.

I named it Barbara Gail,

Always gives me sweet dreams, never does fail,

Still cruising in her Plymouth, That sweet smelling Plymouth.

Fabulous fury, ferryboat, still love her Plymouth,

That old 1966-6-6.  66!

Yea.

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