Welcome!

This is where all of the self-created content is stored for the creators of Steed Productions, James and Molly Rose Steed.  In addition to the audio and visual content we create, we utilize this web page to store and access tools that we utilize to create content as well as run our business and lives; including:

  • Self-designed musical training tools
  • Recipes
  • Sheet Music for our music as well as part of our Public Domain Projects
  • Code examples for WordPress, PHP, JS and CSS
  • Excel formulas and tips

At the heart of this site, however, is the content we create.

Noodle Owl Poetry August 8 2019

Innocent

Do you recall a time when you were young?

A time of innocence a time that’s lost?

A memory of songs joyously sung?

You never had to think about the cost

Of time forgotten time that you left hung

To dry upon the moments that you lost.

Remember well, for there is still a chance

To find a way to sing, to fly, to dance.

The Tell-Tale Heart Full Text

True! –nervous –very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses –not destroyed –not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily –how calmly I can tell you the whole story.

It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Continue reading The Tell-Tale Heart Full Text

A Ballad: The Lake of the Dismal Swamp Poem Text

They made her a grave, too cold and damp

For a soul so warm and true;

And she’s gone to the Lake of the Dismal Swamp,

Where, all night long, by a fire-fly lamp,

She paddles her white canoe.

 

And her fire-fly lamp I soon shall see,

And her paddle I soon shall hear;

Long and loving our life shall be,

And I’ll hide the maid in a cypress tree,

When the footstep of death is near.

 

Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds—

His path was rugged and sore,

Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds,

Through many a fen where the serpent feeds,

And man never trod before.

 

And when on the earth he sunk to sleep,

If slumber his eyelids knew,

He lay where the deadly vine doth weep

Its venomous tear and nightly steep

The flesh with blistering dew!

 

And near him the she-wolf stirr’d the brake,

And the copper-snake breath’d in his ear,

Till he starting cried, from his dream awake,

“Oh! when shall I see the dusky Lake,

And the white canoe of my dear?”

 

He saw the Lake, and a meteor bright

Quick over its surface play’d—

“Welcome,” he said, “my dear one’s light!”

And the dim shore echoed for many a night

The name of the death-cold maid.

 

Till he hThoollow’d a boat of the birchen bark,

Which carried him off from shore;

Far, far he follow’d the meteor spark,

The wind was high and the clouds were dark,

And the boat return’d no more.

 

But oft, from the Indian hunter’s camp,

This lover and maid so true

Are seen at the hour of midnight damp

To cross the Lake by a fire-fly lamp,

And paddle their white canoe!