Drinking beer in the
garden with new friends, it was
a really good day
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Friday, July 22, 2011
Emily Dipped My Hand In The Sea Tonight
Want to swim out past the breakers, out to where the bottom is just a distant memory. Out to where the people who live there don't believe in dry land anymore. They float all day long on scraps of canvas and memories of days when the sun burned through the salt spray and made jagged rainbows floating over the cool grey rocks.
And at night they light their camp fires, the logs burning in the hulls of model ships they built from seaweed and starlight, and they kiss so warm and soft and deep, while the sun slips under the waves with a guilty smile on her bee-stung orange lips.
And I know you'll be waiting for me, when the stars come out and the water turns black....and we'll laugh like two blessed idiots when my hand surfaces wet and shiny and your fingers twine round me like the blessings of a very understanding saint.
And at night they light their camp fires, the logs burning in the hulls of model ships they built from seaweed and starlight, and they kiss so warm and soft and deep, while the sun slips under the waves with a guilty smile on her bee-stung orange lips.
And I know you'll be waiting for me, when the stars come out and the water turns black....and we'll laugh like two blessed idiots when my hand surfaces wet and shiny and your fingers twine round me like the blessings of a very understanding saint.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
November In The Garden
The snow started falling a little bit past noon, now it's four o'clock and the sun is falling behind the cold dry hills. I push my fingers into the sand between the flinty boulders, rub the chilly tan grit between my palms, and look up at the Northern Lights.
There are Christmas Cactus growing here, and dry pale stalks of hungry flowers fated to die in the cold, just because they'd been born too late. There are green worlds waiting for the sun, but it can't possibly come in time.
At night the prayer flags get stiff and brittle, when the November rain freezes and the north wind blows. Thanksgiving can't come soon enough.
There are Christmas Cactus growing here, and dry pale stalks of hungry flowers fated to die in the cold, just because they'd been born too late. There are green worlds waiting for the sun, but it can't possibly come in time.
At night the prayer flags get stiff and brittle, when the November rain freezes and the north wind blows. Thanksgiving can't come soon enough.
Saturday, July 16, 2011
As The Miller Told His Tale
Winter night in 1967, the streetlamps reflecting cold and blue off the snow drifts on Norwood Avenue, but here in this warm basement the party is going strong. The room is dimly lit with red light bulbs, and candles in red glasses, and if you sit near one of the windows y0u can savor the difference between inside and outside.
I'm playing the drums, my friend Joe T. is on the keyboards, two guys we just met tonight are on guitar and bass. The crowd is liking us. We're taking turns doing lead vocals, a few minutes ago I ripped up "Maggie's Farm." But now we're playing slow and soft, and there's a couple in front of the bandstand, barely swaying, arms around each other, feet not moving. They're so lost in each others' eyes that they almost don't notice when we take our break and the party host puts a stack of 45's on the turntable.
We're all around 18 years old, it's just the beginning of our lives. I take a beer out of the zinc tub full of ice and light a cigarette, sit down on the corner of the stage. I take a deep drag and thank God for the life She's giving me.
Then someone casts a shadow over me and I look up, into Ann Marie's cool blue eyes, into the gentle taste of her soft pink lips on mine. I stand up and twirl her around me, my hand feeling the sweat in the small of her back as we circle round each other.
The record plays on, as we twirl each other in the hot darkness, red candles, blue snowlight, cigarette smoke rising like incense....Ann Marie pressed against me in blue denim mini and white t shirt, my best friend's girl...."Her face at first just ghostly, turned a whiter shade of pale."
And now it's forty four years later again, and I can't hold on to those memories, and I almost don't even care....yeah, right.
I'm playing the drums, my friend Joe T. is on the keyboards, two guys we just met tonight are on guitar and bass. The crowd is liking us. We're taking turns doing lead vocals, a few minutes ago I ripped up "Maggie's Farm." But now we're playing slow and soft, and there's a couple in front of the bandstand, barely swaying, arms around each other, feet not moving. They're so lost in each others' eyes that they almost don't notice when we take our break and the party host puts a stack of 45's on the turntable.
We're all around 18 years old, it's just the beginning of our lives. I take a beer out of the zinc tub full of ice and light a cigarette, sit down on the corner of the stage. I take a deep drag and thank God for the life She's giving me.
Then someone casts a shadow over me and I look up, into Ann Marie's cool blue eyes, into the gentle taste of her soft pink lips on mine. I stand up and twirl her around me, my hand feeling the sweat in the small of her back as we circle round each other.
The record plays on, as we twirl each other in the hot darkness, red candles, blue snowlight, cigarette smoke rising like incense....Ann Marie pressed against me in blue denim mini and white t shirt, my best friend's girl...."Her face at first just ghostly, turned a whiter shade of pale."
And now it's forty four years later again, and I can't hold on to those memories, and I almost don't even care....yeah, right.
Monday, July 4, 2011
Central Park Reservoir, Fourth Of July 2011
The cold fresh waves are lapping over cobblestones,
the water's rising, the stones are sparkling.
The hearts are floating, or else they're sinking to the bottom,
to sleep among the rocks that never see the sun.
the water's rising, the stones are sparkling.
The hearts are floating, or else they're sinking to the bottom,
to sleep among the rocks that never see the sun.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
The Night Before Independence Day
My mouth is full of sand and salt,
My eyes are full of light.
My soul is looking out to see
Who wins the war tonight.
We ride both on the side of flesh,
And on the side of love,
Our pockets full of love notes,
Our secrets tightly wove.
My eyes are full of light.
My soul is looking out to see
Who wins the war tonight.
We ride both on the side of flesh,
And on the side of love,
Our pockets full of love notes,
Our secrets tightly wove.
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