Posts Tagged ‘memory’

Billy (Now That You’re Gone)

April 13, 2011

Who’s an ageless man with never a worry

He’s a joke, he’s a joke

A glide in the stride and money for the ferry

He’s a joke, he’s a joke

 

And we’d always meet his back with a slap

That’s the same back that never heard the laughs

Oh, Billy, we drink to your song

But who’ll pay the bill now that you’re gone?

 

With a wink to the young and a word to the old

He’s a joke, he’s a joke

If it wasn’t for his daddy, he’d never been buried

He’s a joke, he’s a joke

 

And we’d always meet his back with a slap

That’s the same back that never heard the laughs

Oh, Billy, we drink to your song

But who’ll pay the bill now that you’re gone?

 

We raised a glass to your illness

And fell silent on the love that you gave

So many now drink to your honor

They’re the same folks who piss on your grave

 

He’s finally at rest from a hole in the chest

Now he’s gone, he is gone

A toast to the man both caring and careless

Now he’s gone, he is gone

 

And we’d always meet his back with a slap

That’s the same back that never heard the laughs

Oh, Billy, we drink to your song

But who’ll pay the bill now that you’re gone?

 

Hang Yourself On Me

January 25, 2011

Trip along and wonder as you should

Stumble forth amongst the leaves and wood

Feel the frost sit beneath your eyes

Speed your pace before the failing light

 

Hear me now

If you’re going to hang on, hang yourself on me

For now

I will be as strong as you need me to be

 

I was there when you first lost your head

With a girl within your Grandpa’s shed

Fire sparked and leapt within your veins

Horrified, she buried you in shame

 

Hear me now

If you’re going to hang on, hang yourself on me

For now

I will be as strong as you need me to be

 

My time with you began at six weeks old

Wrapped in cloth and left out in the cold

On hospital stairs it all began

Set my foot apace, to you I ran

 

Hear me now

If you’re going to hang on, hang yourself on me

For now

I will be as strong as you need me to be

 

 

Memory Lame

June 21, 2010

Every now and then I will have a little musing that lends itself to rhythm and rhyme. Sort of a Shel Silverstein-esque bit of verse, or perhaps something Bilbo would chant to young Frodo – happy in what he deems to be a clever way to teach a simple life lesson. I find these pieces to be too direct and simple at times to lend themselves to music and certainly more so to call them poetry. Nonetheless, I find them entertaining and mildly thought-provoking. Here’s an example. This one woke me up yesterday morning and spilled out onto the page before I could even get out of bed.

Walking down Memory Lane

Flashlight in my hand

Paths here of murky pitch

A stained and broken land

Sometimes like a nightmare

Sometimes soft and sad

In every other window

A good time I once had

Friends along the benches

Cats between my feet

Sex on the front porch

Bands upon the street

Think I saw my Grandpa

In his big old Cadillac

Saw one too many ladies

Begging to come back

Smoking cigarettes

Stolen packs of Kools

That’s me off in the bushes

Skipping out on school

Lane grows a little lighter

The longer that I walk

The hardest parts to talk about

Are the first houses on the block

And if you find your way

This place gets pretty nice

The folks are really friendly

The houses full of life

It’s funny how we do that

Keep the bad up in the front

You forget what sits behind

When it’s cluttered up with junk

And now I’m at the end

A sign points for one way

This is the city limit

That brings me to today

I think when I return

I’ll come in through the back

And sit awhile within the light

Before heading toward the black

I know they’ll always be there

Brooding, doing time

I’ll do my best to free them

From the ghetto of my mind

The Fog

May 6, 2010

It always seems to start with the same recycled thoughts, the incanted images of vaguely haunting inexplicabilities. And why to keep these thoughts? They’ve been moved from one apartment to the next. Countless cities, friendships, hours, years, have dragged these memories and their poorly lit theories around, like a letter pressed amongst books or old receipts.  And these things hold a childlike thread of explanation, attached to a spontaneous piece of art to add a depth that may or may not be there. The first of these images is dead people in the walls. An ever-thickening smell further compounding the horror of something trapped, seemingly inextricably, in the structure. Mortality and mystery, I guess, history and reconciliation. Living with what we cannot change and the struggle with the idea that it is all just a conjured metaphor.

From time to time, we find ourselves in a mist. A seemingly opaline blanket on the cold, dark stretches of route 89 somewhere between Burlington and Montpellier. It is 2:46 in the morning and you are trying to convince yourself that the whiskey you drank (hours ago) is gone and you are alert and capable. You know that you must be sharp, but you also know that you are not. There are deer and other lives at stake – more so your sleeping friends than an approaching car. Yet, you enter the fog and it is scary, but you cannot ignore its siren like quality. Despite the potential of impending doom, you are pulled along and down into a further trance. Most often people feel these somnambulistic times lasting for a week or so. This short duration in no way diminishes the reality, or even super-reality, of the fog, but in many cases the fog can last years.

The real mystery of the deep fog is that one has a nearly impossible chance of finding exactly when they entered the fog. For in most cases, the sinewy, damps strands work exactly as one imagine it should – gently kissing the tips of the toes, tenderly winding its exaggerated, milky fingers along the feet, slowly massaging ankles and calves as the tide and pull begin to rise.  By the time the engorging stream is densely packed around ones knees, years may have passed. As we start to become aware of the dangers of the thick fog, we flick on the brights (knowing full well it will be magnified by the water droplets). We try illuminating the matter to test its potency and perhaps for a smidge of perverse amusement, and such attempts to gain power over the ether prove only to reflect its greatness – its perfection as a fluid parasite that dopes us up and takes us hostage.

It may very well be the searching for the exit from the fog that keeps us there. The direction, you know, is correct, but all else is up to chance. Fog clears, but we are in a different place when that happens. Same car, same road, same type of trees, but it is later. There is so much mystery in the fog. All the infinite possibilities of what exists within that are not part of this particular moment. You don’t see these things, but they are there, and without tiring yourself with all the imaginable theories, you must concede that you will never know and life continues to move forward.

Forward has the heavy title bestowed upon it of implicit progress. However, the forward motion of time is its own deity – free from good, evil, the tangible and the extraordinary. It just is and we must accept it. It is at this point that I surmise that we never accept it, and those of us prone to the foggy limbo wage the biggest battle – the largest futile war known to man.

"Time is a river without banks" by Marc Chagall