Saturday, July 28, 2018

"Without The Music" song lyrics by John Kaniecki

It isn’t every day that I can announce that I just published a book that took over thirty years to write. But that’s what I’ve just done. “Without The Music” is the best of my song lyrics that I have written in my entire life. It includes my first attempt and the last one I wrote before I compiled the book.

What can I say about these five hundred or so lyrics? There is rock, country, gospel, pop, Christian, folk and even one rap song. I have poured my soul into this work. I have chronicled life events, friendships, broken hearts, and my twisted views of life into this collection of song lyrics.


This book is a living testimony, a proud statement of what I am. Whether you are a poetry fan or a musician/composer looking for some material to work with, this book is essential.

Song of My Heart

I’m searching for the right words to say
To make it all okay
Could you lend me your ear in the cool autumn breeze?
It would put my mind at ease

I can’t remember the words that I wrote
So take what you value and leave what you don’t
Let the music do its part
Then you’ll understand the song of my heart

Spent the night haunted by confused memories
Churned by a twisted history
Different players in an identical game 
But the song remains the same

I can’t remember the words that I wrote
So take what you value and leave what you don’t
Let the music do its part
Then you’ll understand the song of my heart

In a deep dark valley with a cool running stream
I see a princess in a dream
I’m feeling the rapture I’m sensing the bliss
I will be free with your passionate kiss

I can’t remember the words that I wrote
So take what you value and leave what you don’t
Let the music do its part
Then you’ll understand the song of my heart

My thoughts turn to the memories of the days that we spent
Living off of the love that we lent
If you take the love I give I’m sure you will see
The truth is you’re just like me (X3)

I can’t remember the words that I wrote
So take what you value and leave what you don’t
Let the music do its part
Then you’ll understand the song of my heart

You know you’re just like me
You’re just like me
Girl you’re just like me




Monday, July 23, 2018

The Children of Never by Christian Warren Freed





The Children of Never
The War Priests of Andrak Saga Book 1
by Christian Warren Freed
Genre: Epic Fantasy

The war priests of Andrak have protected the world from the encroaching darkness for generations. Stewards of the Purifying Flame, the priests stand upon their castle walls each year for 100 days. Along with the best fighters, soldiers, and adventurers from across the lands, they repulse the Omegri invasions.
But their strength wanes and evil spreads.
Lizette awakens to a nightmare, for her daughter has been stolen during the night. When she goes to the Baron to petition aid, she learns that similar incidents are occurring across the duchy. Her daughter was just the beginning. Baron Einos of Fent is left with no choice but to summon the war priests.
Brother Quinlan is a haunted man. Last survivor of Castle Bendris, he now serves Andrak. Despite his flaws, the Lord General recognizes Quinlan as one of the best he has. Sending him to Fent is his best chance for finding the missing children and restoring order. Quinlan begins a quest that will tax his strength and threaten the foundations of his soul.
The Grey Wanderer stalks the lands, and where he goes, bad things follow. The dead rise and the Omegri launch a plan to stop time and overrun the world. The duchy of Fent is just the beginning.








\ 
About the Author
Christian W. Freed was born in Buffalo, N.Y. more years ago than he would like to remember. After spending more than 20 years in the active duty US Army he has turned his talents to writing. Since retiring, he has gone on to publish 17 military fantasy and science fiction novels, as well as his memoirs from his time in Iraq and Afghanistan. His first published book (Hammers in the Wind) has been the #1 free book on Kindle 4 times and he holds a fancy certificate from the L Ron Hubbard Writers of the Future Contest.

Passionate about history, he combines his knowledge of the past with modern military tactics to create an engaging, quasi-realistic world for the readers. He graduated from Campbell University with a degree in history and is pursuing a Masters of Arts degree in Military History from Norwich University. He currently lives outside of Raleigh, N.C. and devotes his time to writing, his family, and their two Bernese Mountain Dogs. If you drive by you might just find him on the porch with a cigar in one hand and a pen in the other.


Author Links
Goodreads:  https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/8137590.Christian_Warren_Freed





Excerpt 1:
Dawn was breaking, the first thin tendrils of pale light stretched across the darkened skies. Roosters crowed. Farmers rose and readied for the long day. Had any been in the fields, they might have caught a glimpse of an old man, crooked and dressed in faded grey robes, stalking down the dirt road leading to the cemetery. He carried a small lantern that swung with every step. The Grey Wanderer some named him. Others simply chose a more apt name: The Soul Stealer.
Whistling as he went, the Grey Wanderer sniffed the air for the scent of those freshly dead. Some whispered he was once a king of men. Others suggested he had been a sorcerer of great power who’d made a deal with fell powers. Most didn’t care; they avoided all mention of him. Wherever the Grey Wanderer went, bad things followed.
He paused at the cemetery gates and raised his lantern high. A wash of light fell over the tombstones, showing him what he’d come to find. Fresh earth cast over the recently deceased. His smile was thin and insidious. The Grey Wanderer began to whistle. It was a ghastly sound, unfit for mortal ears. A cry to the ones in the deep beyond whose very existence threatened the sanity of the masses.
Once he finished his task, the Grey Wanderer lowered his lantern and continued walking. He avoided passing through the sleepy village, choosing instead to disappear back into the mists of time and space. His work here was finished.
The ground shook at his passing. Fresh dirt slipped from the top of the mound. The tombstone, carelessly erected, toppled and broke. Hands, withered and clawed, punched free from their eternal tomb. They reached and dug, frantic to free their body. Rock and dirt cascaded away from the naked body as the once dead man pulled his head and arms from the ground.
Shoulder length hair the color of midnight had fallen over his face. Bits of wood and dirt fell away from his flesh. The once dead man held up his hands and blinked the grime away from his eyes. His flesh was riddled with damage where the worms and underground rodents had already begun their feasts. Bone glinted from numerous places in the fading dark. He stared at what he had become and cast his head back, uttering a primal scream.
Frantic, the once dead man shoved armfuls of dirt away, desperate to be free of his prison. His chest was covered in hair matted to his flesh. A red and black snake dropped from beneath his armpit. The once dead man worked furiously before being rewarded. He crawled and climbed free and collapsed beside the pieces of his tombstone. Memory lost, the once dead man peered to make out the name engraved upon the stone. Brogon Lord.
He had once been a man named Brogon Lord. That name, and the life associated with it, no longer held meaning, for he had died. This mockery of reanimated flesh was a far cry from the warmth of life. The panic subsided, and the once dead man began to think. Images born of random thoughts filled his mind. He watched events play out, an entire age born and died in a heartbeat. The once dead man knew what must be done. Who he once was no longer mattered. He once again had purpose. 
Far off on the dying night, he heard whistling.

Excerpt 2:
Baron Einos awoke to unfamiliar sensations. Cold, almost unbearable, filled his bedchambers. Winter was a memory and spring well underway. This southern duchy was well south of the northern ice flows and far enough east of the Barbacus River to avoid the heavy winds. A thick blanket and small fire in the hearth were more than sufficient for keeping Einos warm throughout the shortening nights.
The Baron wiped the crud from the corners of his eyes, yawned, and sat up. His bearskin blanket fell away, exposing his naked chest. Young for one of the ruling class, Einos was broad across the shoulders and slabbed with muscle. His sand colored hair draped across his shoulders. Bright green eyes scanned the chamber.
His wife, still sleeping, shifted beside him and exhaled deeply. Einos resisted the urge to rouse her, at least until he was satisfied nothing was amiss. Not finding anything of concern in the immediate area, he slipped from the bed and donned a thick robe that fell to the floor. The fire had gone out, leaving the chamber in darkness. Frowning, Einos reached for the short sword he kept beside the bed. Fent was a relatively peaceful duchy, but one does not rise to power without creating enemies capable of extreme violence.
He took a step, then a strange noise froze him in midstride. Einos gripped his sword tighter. “Who goes?”
The sound of sobbing returned. Einos frowned, certain he’d heard a child. There were numerous children in the keep, though none his own. Aneth, his wife of nearly a decade, was heavy with child and due by the end of spring. He suspected the draft coming through the cracks in the walls provided the strange sounds, but one could never be too cautious.
Einos fumbled for a match and lit the candle nearest his bed. Soft light turned his bedchamber into a shadowed realm. Einos remained still, listening against the dark. His efforts were rewarded by uncontrollable sobbing coming from the far corner. Sword in one hand, candle the other, the Baron of Fent took a step closer to the sound.
His exposed toes kicked the chamber pot, spilling old piss over his foot. Einos snarled a curse and kept going as the sobbing intensified. A wall of light crept across the stone floor until it reached the huddled figure of a young child. Einos cocked his head as he tried to get a clear view of the face. Knees drawn with arms wrapped around them, the child, a girl by the length of her hair, had her face buried.
“Child, why are you here? Who let you in?” he asked, his normally rough voice softened so as not to frighten her further.
The sobbing increased as the girl lowered a fist and began pounding on the floor.
Einos, concerned, set the candle on the nearest table and crouched. “There is no need for that. You are safe here. Tell me your name, child.”
Curls fell over her shoulders as the young girl lifted her head and turned to face him. Einos tripped and fell backwards as he gazed upon what remained of her face. Both eyes were gone. Dried blood streaked down her cheeks.
She reached a hand for him and cried, “Why did I have to die?”
The girl screamed. The candle flickered, then went out, leaving the lord of Fent alone in the darkness. Einos scrambled back and managed to light the candle after several tries. When he cast the light into the corner, he found only stone. The girl, if she had ever been, was gone.


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Sunday, July 15, 2018

"Hey Diane" song lyrics by John Kaniecki

When inspiration hits there is no denying the muse. If anybody wants to put a melody to this song leave a comment to get in touch with me. 

Hey Diane

Once the world was a wonderful place
Full of love full of joy full of grace
Nothing good lasts forever so it seems
It was hello nightmares goodbye dreams

Hey Diane I know you can
Hang on for another day
Hey Diane I know you can
Have the hope to pray
Hey Diane I know you can
Find that narrow way

Well darkness is a dangerous foe
And friends they seem to come and go
But somehow we learn how to get by
We find the strength to give another try

Hey Diane I know you can
Hang on for another day
Hey Diane I know you can
Have the hope to pray
Hey Diane I know you can
Find that narrow way

Somewhere I hear the sweet sound of angelic choirs
In a land so grand that none have any desires
By faith we walk this world though blind
Hold on to the love ones who treated you kind

One day you will awake to the light
And life will be an endless delight
Hold on Diane with all of your might
Tomorrow is going to be bright

Hey Diane I know you can
Hang on for another day
Hey Diane I know you can
Have the hope to pray
Hey Diane I know you can
Find that narrow way 



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"Whitey's On The Moon" by John Kaniecki

Here are some words inspired by Gil Scott Heron. It is from my fantastic poetry book called “Polishing The Fragments.” Take a look.

Whitey’s On The Moon

They are rapping in the ghetto which is now called the hood
Them white folks all say that it’s immoral and no good
But their sons go gangsta at least not while at school
And they’ll wander downtown just to be treated cruel
By some Crip hanging out on the corner trying to cope
Whitey will come on down and buy himself some overpriced dope
Jamming on the C.D. to something that is outer space
Cause they still believe in the ‘great white race’
Never mind in the mirror it is clearer who is the disgrace
But there is an element, a moment that they strive to grasp
They are petting the little puppy but it’s a rat with teeth like an asp
Well they blame every fault in their society on the poor
But they are glad to have them go and fight Wall Street’s war
They wave the flag, boast and brag, but not so secretly deplore
When the warrior returns, he quickly learns, the fire burns
As coked up traders score with whores to celebrate rising numbers
Meanwhile in grandest style God in His heaven silently slumbers?
Maybe He’s seeing how sadistic our overlords can really get
They crucified the Son of God that I will never forget
So when they tell me that He’s coming real, real soon
I sit back and relax and remember, Whitey’s On The Moon
I am stealing a line from Gil Scott of course
Cause according to Al he is the rapper’s number one source
I see Whitey talking indignantly about how the system is rigged
Slavery was a long time ago, don’t you dig?
As if Jim Crow was some kind of pleasurable poetic piece
As if the traps of racism fell and the hell offered some release
But the Piper was piping as Emit Till’s mother was weeping to his tune
But forget the regret cause Whitey’s on the Moon
Hell no, scream the poor white trash cause they can’t collect decent cash
The elite with venom sweet point to the man with the darker skin
He is the fault; blame them for everything evil that is your sin
So not too bright, they fail to see the light that the rich divides
Behind various ambiguous walls, the master he hides
Politicians are but a face to the disgrace but lack the real power
You’ll find out who is Satan’s mind when we come to the revealing hour
Remember in the anti December the solstice comes in the month of June
But have no fear, there is no atmosphere, just ask, Whitey’s On The Moon
Can’t pay the rent, and I’m too stubborn to truly repent
So here let me end calling out to my friends, you know who you are
I ain’t on the Moon, rather I am hanging in a bar on Jupitar 




Thursday, July 12, 2018

"Down On The Avenue" song by John Kaniecki and Ashish Kejriwal

This song lyric is heavily influenced by my experiences on Chancellor Avenue in Newark, New Jersey. It is but a snapshot of a multi-diverse culture. Also, I address some uncomfortable lies and truths, but I wonder if you can discern which is which. Of course, as always, I throw in my opinion. My very good friend Ashish Kejriwal was kind enough to put a musical interpretation to it. If you’d like to use this song lyric or see my extensive collection of copyrighted stuff let me know.


Down On The Avenue

It’s black and blue down on the avenue
The brothers are into free enterprise
And everything I say is absolutely true
Except in the parts where I speak lies

We’re all equal over here
See slavery disappear
Old money lost control
White men invented rock and roll
You ain’t got a clue
Till you’ve been down on the avenue

You can’t win with that imported sin
So get on your knees and be born again
The worst gang is dressed up in blue
And the F.B.I. haven’t got a clue
Nobody tells the company what to do
We’re all happy down on the avenue

We’re all equal over here
See slavery disappear
Old money lost control
White men invented rock and roll
You ain’t got a clue
Till you’ve been down on the avenue

I am still angry over Wounded Knee
I am still fighting to become free
And it’s sad that I know your history
When to some it is just a mystery

We’re all equal over here
See slavery disappear
Old money lost control
White men invented rock and roll
You ain’t got a clue
Till you’ve been down on the avenue

Government people are pawns of money
And this song isn’t meant to be funny
And they laugh all the way to the banks
And they don’t even give them any thanks

We’re all equal over here
See slavery disappear
Old money lost control
White men invented rock and roll
You ain’t got a clue
Till you’ve been down on the avenue



Please check out these fantastic books of poetry. They are poetry for the average person to enjoy, easy to understand and easy to thrill and delight.

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"The Miner's Lullaby" Lyrics by John Kaniecki

Looking over my lyrics I came across this gem. Hope you enjoy it.

The Miner's Lullaby

Digging for gold in Mother's deep womb
All is sold for another to take and consume
All I am left with is my broken hands
And weary, weary eyes nobody understands

I am a worker a miner that is my trade
Misery and trouble are the wages paid
I would rather fly in heaven's blue sky
But it is hell below until the day I die
So I sing the miner's lullaby

Banished from the light of the day
It is a hell of a fight to earn my pay
But I have hopes for my children dear
So I toil and labor brave in my fear

I am a worker a miner that is my trade
Misery and trouble are the wages paid
I would rather fly in heaven's blue sky
But it is hell below until the day I die
So I sing the miner's lullaby

In a moment the tunnel turns to grave
Trapped a mile below never to save
It is always in the back of our mind
The mines are bitter the mines unkind

I am a worker a miner that is my trade
Misery and trouble are the wages paid
I would rather fly in heaven's blue sky
But it is hell below until the day I die
So I sing the miner's lullaby

May my son live to a gentler life
May he marry and have a pleasant wife
May he never step his foot a mile below
May his daddy's ways he never know

I am a worker a miner that is my trade
Misery and trouble are the wages paid
I would rather fly in heaven's blue sky
But it is hell below until the day I die
So I sing the miner's lullaby

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