My collaboration began when I was attending writing classes at Union College in Schenectady, New York in the early 1980’s. To keep living expenses down I rented an apartment in Niskayuna, New York from my musician friend. We would often sit on the porch evenings and he would play music and I would write poetry. (Although I learned to endure the late evening renditions of Peter Gabriel's, Red Rain to all hours. ) It was only natural that we began collaborating together, not only did we collaborate on songs, but we have been fortunate enough to finish a book of short stories and a novel. Our short story The Lure of the Mountain King was awarded an honorable mention in the 57th Writer’s Digest Contest in the General Fiction Category. We have over the years drifted apart but I have lately dusted off our early collaborations and began submitting the work. Hope you enjoy the completed Ballad. (Check Out My Stories and The Lure Of The Mountain King Novel.)
Albert Bianchine
The Ballad Of Tom Dillon
A blinding blizzard beckons me
in to Steamboat Springs.
I arrive on the last greyhound from Vail.
My pockets full of snowflakes
a lonesome geyser’s Steamboat whistle wails
always hiding, never tears to a cowboy’s eye.
Lord don’t let me be forsaken
the Baron’s have already taken
America by rail.
My darling I grow weary
often lost without a home
but you know I’ll keep on searchin
these mountain trails alone.
I wander through green valleys
across the prairies
past the village’s
farms and fields
out beyond the concrete illusions
where the Rocky Mountains pierce
the aqua skies.
I find solace in the seclusion
of another winter’s season
another mountain to ski
as long as he will lay
fresh powder down for me.
While you seek your fortune
or search the world for fame
be careful what you wish for
because when darkness falls upon you
you’ll be wailing out his name.
Ski through barren aspens
see the forests through the pines
sitting on my golden perch
am I crying out in vain?
Sometimes you awake to find
you get what you need
other times you take what you can get
it is from the children
they take everything.
Now I found that I possess this light
from these mountains that I bring.
My gift is in my words
and for the children
I’ll let them ring.
Go and tell everyone,
silence is a snowflake falling
until they hear me calling
to all the children I will sing.
Never take the last of anything.
These days I’m a city
pretty girl painted
street wizard inside my poems.
My freedom
most men will never know
never having been wary
of wooden box stables
fabled to contain rainbows.
Someday, when their hair turns grey
their youth will have faded away
with the colors that lost their shine.
The all American Gazebo Band
plays behind the new red white and corporate blue
flag that flies against the changing hues.
Another rock opera story
of old glory, and a town without its name.
Somewhere in time, the poet’s rhyme
makes a cosmic connection.
Then the Seer Sayers arrive on Stages
and History endures the ages.
As a simple man who dreams
beyond the Apple Tree Lane
he sees a sunrise within her eyes.
Then the hobo dude
plays Howard Hughes
attempting to fill Dylan’s shoes
to find out why they came.
But in disgrace, he falls from grace
to understand success
is not what they claim.
Listen Children
to a Thorn Bird shrilly singing
this truth you’ve heard
from a poet and his strings.
The name of Steamboat Springs is thought to have originated around the early 1800s when French trappers thought they heard the chugging sound of a steamboat’s steam engine. The sound turned out to be a natural mineral spring, to be named the Steamboat Spring.
In 1909, the railroad arrived, which sparked a boom for the commercial industry in Steamboat Springs. Ranching was the primary industry of the valley and the cattle ranchers turned the new railroad depot into one of the largest cattle shipping centers of the West. Consequently, the construction of the railroad silenced the Steamboat Spring’s chugging noise forever.
City of Steamboat Springs Website
Trading Trinkets, Tall Tales, Telling Lies
Downtown any town’s Main street
this town, down
passed a shellacked shiny brass handled
carved crescent moon wooden door of
“The Ancient Mariner”
across the street from an old fashioned Bijou
sequenced white bulb Marquee
Flashing, “Fiddler on the Roof.”
Butted by a brand new brown concrete, steel, Lake Placid Hilton
descending down two flights
of green canopied wooden stairs.
“The Artist’s Café”
lapped white waves of Mirror Lake
reflecting the lights of “The Cottage”
and the excitement of the 1980 Winter Olympics
across from the Lake Placid Club
its walls filled with the owner’s original art
bustling buxom waitresses.
Comrade Ivan leaping to his feet
touching my pins from Solitude and Brighton
would I care to trade for his shiny Soviet bears
slapping him on the back saying,
“certainly mine were worth a bit more, perhaps
one, possibly two martini’s.”
Telling tales till they became martooni’s
The bustling waitress asking,
“Was I, could I be, an Olympic Athlete?”
Me smiling devilishly saying,
“Why, yes,
would she,
care to come to my room.
to view my gold medals from Europe.
I had once
so long ago it seems
enjoyed the cool aroma
tasted the nectar sweet
of personal destiny achieved
These Words!
So at last I come to understand
after all these travels
all these achievements
that most men only dream…
I’ve been wasting the years
trying to go back
rolling the bitter ugly taste
over and over
my tired palette
“Reliving is not Life”
I am… To tell this tale
… to pound one nail
… to Winter My Revenge.
