You say I’ve never sung you songs 
in all this time —- ten years along —- 
which proves, to some degree, 
how much I love you. 
You’ve found the time, you often say, 
to write about and sing and play 
so many other topics; 
is that not true? 

And when I offer in defense
that love is an experience
which falls beyond the edges
of expression,
you laugh and say, such an excuse
is, in its own way, living proof;
that there is no song
is its own confession.

But if my love could be contained
in some trite, overwrought refrain
composed to please the ear,
I would not claim it.
Inside a thousand symphonies,
in whispered wind through ancient trees,
no simply melody would dare
contain it.

So I will write no other song;
and if you think me in the wrong,
or simply without feeling,
I can bear it.
For my love is no simple verse
for greeting cards, or even worse;
What good are words?
They only can declare it.

You say I never sing to you
of how my love is strong and true,
and wish for me to come
and serenade you.
Under your window, in the night,
beneath the moon’s soft glowing light,
you wish a lover’s tune
that I should play you.

But if my love could be so sung,
each drop of life thus from it wrung
in sentimental tones,
how could it move you?
unless you felt the singer’s core,
and knew that there was something more
than simple words,
would it not just pass through you?

My song for you is ten years wide;
I cannot split or subdivide
one hour or two apart
to try and woo you.
I sing it every day and night;
the verses may not be quite right,
but they each speak
about, and of, and to you.

I love you.  Is that plain enough?
I have no masquerade or bluff,
no other way than what I am
to show it.
And ten more years are not enough
to finish it, it is still rough.
I only hope that in your heart
you know it.

19 MAY 2010

I am so sick of poets, in real life and found online;
how they tend to wax poetic, and pretend to be sublime
when describing some quite minuscule and unimportant thing:
the dewdrop on the lily, a mosquito’s lacy wing.

With pretense they have pretensions, and expect to be profound;
particularly when their fancy talk has drawn a crowd around,
and every word that drops like nectar from their honeyed lips
is guaranteed to break a heart, or at least, sink a ship.

But worse are poem lovers: those sad, sycophantic thralls
who quote their favorite bards by name whilst walking through the halls,
and without grace or courtesy, expose the world to verse
that often only merely stinks, but sometimes, is much worse.

Not everyone can hold a tune, or expect that their voice
will earn them any supper, if the listener has a choice.
Likewise, because you cast in rhyme a metaphor or two,
and hang a shingle (or a website), does not make true

that you are either poet, or can recognize the same;
such things are proven over time, and not by just a name
applied by those who dare not prick your bubble of esteem
for fear their own imagined greatness will be robbed of steam.

I am so sick of poets; every single one I’ve met
is either spent and sick and sad, or hasn’t happened yet.
In either case, I have no interest in their point of view
unless it can be spoken in a simple phrase or two

that doesn’t count on me to picture some fantastic scene,
and waste my time imagining I know just what they mean.
Dispense with all that sentiment, and vivid imagery;
a life that needs a poet is a boring life, indeed.

If you would this sad world improve:  a battle cease, a mountain move, or seek to build up or destroy a single thought of fear or joy, there is one place alone to start.  You must teach all your children art.

Imagination is the key. 

By thoughts alone there come to be great mysteries, faith and belief in gods and demons, kings and chiefs; in justice and equality, in separating I and Thee.

So teach the arts, and music, too, in your religion, path or school.  To have adherents worth a damn, they must imagine what "I AM" you would propose designed the world, created life, or wrote the rules. 

Imagination is required.

Without it, none can be inspired to see beyond their own small selves, or care for something else that dwells beyond the sight and smell and touch; and such a life is not worth much.  It does not toil, nor hope nor try, imagining no reason why, nor answer worth the seeking out.

Art teaches balance: faith and doubt; without it, gods are merely rules: like architecture without tools.

Teach art to all your children, then; for they must learn how to pretend if they would use your sacred texts for more than mindless genuflects or rote performance of some rite
that without teeth, has lost its bite.

Imagination is the key.

Without it, all gods cease to be.  Existence becomes drudge and trial, an endless chasm of denial where anything we do not see does not exist and can not be.

05 MAY 2010

Ain't got no message I'm trying to get through
Got no agenda, and nothing to prove
Just trying to breathe as the moment goes by
Without pretending I need to know why

Ain't got nowhere else I'm trying to go
Got no expectations or ultimate goal
Just trying to live without wondering how
Traveling on at the speed of right now

Yesterday's gone and it's not coming back
No point in scoring it or keeping track
As for tomorrow, nobody can say
Whether you like it it comes anyway

Ain't got no slogan or theme song to sing
Got no idea what life's gonna bring
Just trying to swim without needing the shore
Seems kinda pointless to want any more

Fish gotta swim and a bird's gotta fly
They waste no time on the wondering why
As for tomorrow, like it or not,
Just hope and illusion, that's all that it's got

Ain't got no method or kind of a plan
Got no time to waste figuring who I am
Just trying to live it one day at a time
Don't need any answers, I'm doing just fine.

14 NOV 2009

OK, so I play a lot of weddings.  And invariably, the wedding organizers will request that the band play a number of songs at key points in the evening - the bride and groom's first dance, the bride and her father's dance, the groom and his mother's dance, and so on.

Now, I'm all for dancing at these pivotal moments to songs that are special to the dancers (e.g., a song that the bride and her father love, the bride and groom's "song" or a particular song that perfectly captures the way the bride/father, bride/groom, or groom/mother feel at this special time).  But ...

1.  There are a LOT of really maudlin, overblown, sentimental and let's face it, poorly written and tritely phrased "wedding" songs out there.  Most of them, particularly the country music ones, try to illustrate some special bond (between father and daughter, especially) that really only exists in fairy tales, greeting cards, Disney movies and 1950s TV shows.  Do you REALLY want this moment (which will be captured on film for eternity, and hopefully will be in your hearts and memories even longer) accompanied by a cheesy, forgettable Hallmark song that usually, if you listen to the lyrics carefully, is more about control and stereotypical gender roles than about true love and the commitment it takes to make a relationship (let alone a marriage) work?  How about something timeless?  At least something well written?  Not something you picked off a popular "Wedding Compilation"?  If you're going to pick something (and you have to, because these dances have to occur), if there's not a particular song that is "your" song for this moment, at least pick a great standard - like "What a Wonderful World" or "Can't Help Falling in Love" or "You Are So Beautiful".  These songs may be old and moldy, but at least they're well written, succinctly emotional and not overly sentimental, and most wedding bands can execute them passably.  Don't pick a song like "When a Man Loves a Woman", because it's not really a happy song, it's about a guy's who's miserable.  THINK about the lyrics, because they are speaking FOR YOU at this wonderful time.

2.  Speaking of lyrics, most of these songs are written in first person.  That is, they are from the point of view of the father letting go of his precious darling, the husband holding on the for the first time, the bride saying goodbye to her dear daddy or hello to her true love, etc.  Do you really want these words (and by choosing these songs to represent you at this time, you're saying these words are what you would really like to say) spoken by someone else?  In particular, so many of the father-daughter songs seem really inappropriate when sung by someone in the band who is at best an impartial, uninvolved and probably a little uninspired observer of this momentous occasion.  If you really mean these words, you ought to be singing them yourself.

3.  However, if you can't sing (and since you're dancing, it may be difficult anyway), IF you really love the song, and it really means something to you (both you and your dance partner), why would you want a cover band (who probably first listened to the song on the way to the gig) to blunder through and butcher it for your entertainment?  I know you're paying the band for live music, but isn't the importance and poignant nature of this moment worth the price of the band NOT playing one or two songs, and letting the version that touched your hearts in the first place do the talking?  I for one as a wedding band member would not be offended in the least if asked to pop in the CD or start the MP3 player.

4.  The CD or MP3 player is EXTREMELY important if your song is deep in a particular genre, especially one like country music that probably uses instrumentation, arrangements and studio overdubbing that the live band you've hired cannot possibly duplicate.  If they do better than stumble through it, it will be their own arrangement of the song, not the version that you and your dance partner (and/or wedding party) have come to know and love.  While it may be sweet that they attempted your request (like Americans visiting Paris who attempt to butcher French at a sidewalk bistro), ultimately you need to put your trust in the interpretation that speaks best to you.  It's your call, of course, either way.  But if you're going to trust the band for your soundtrack, do the right thing and give them ample opportunity (at LEAST a week, and a copy of the CD would be extraordinarily helpful) to attempt to learn the song.

Just a few thoughts from a wedding band singer whose repertoire (and vocal range) includes Elvis, Louis Armstrong, Joe Cocker, Tim McGraw, the Righteous Brothers and quite a few others but does not, and will never, include Rascal Flatts.

After the "Song of Amergin"

I have been a fly on the wall of a corporate meeting
I have been a child lost in snow that drifted roof high
I have been a broke-winged bird, flightless through winter
I have been a prisoner in some Gothic dungeon
I have been a supporter of lost, hopeless causes
I have been a wandering fool, aimless and goal-less
I have been a prodigal son for whom died the fatted calves
I have been a homeless man in cities of great wealth.

I have been a harsh word whispered in a darkened alley
I have been a silver slick carp, no good for the fry pan
I have been a glee-man singer for spare change and train fare
I have been a ragged voice crying in the wildness
I have been a drowsy student of life's strange instructors
I have been a trust fund baby given deceptive means
I have been a reed in the wind blown aside by gale force
I have been a poet stoned with drunk and swollen words.

I have been a teacher of some useful knowledge
I have been a night janitor in the halls of justice
I have been a poor cross-maker, Pharisee and martyr
I have been a young soldier, grown old in the battle
I have been a raging fire made from drenched matches
I have been a quick perceptor without a portfolio
I have been a childhood plowman, tiller of the earth
I have been a knowing victim of victimless crime.

I have been a cold white speck in a snowfall blizzard
I have been a big, loud fish in an empty trout pond
I have been a moving current and the dry of drought
I have been a helpful force to some creative light
I have been a drifting cloud on the face of the sun
I have been a changeling spirit of the moonless night
I have been a watcher of winds that shape the noon sky
I have been a friend of the trees that breathe the earth's air.

Who, more than I, can claim to have been loved?
Who, having also being lost, can with more conviction believe themselves found?
Who else, having for so long lived under a curse of their own making,
Has been more blessed?

29 MAR 2000

for Pietro

My blood is thinned from summer's passion;
where I once could stand
the chill of winter's disposition,
now I am unmanned
by this untimely season;
and the harvest I once sought
I find now sells for such a price
it won't be quickly bought.

So I who once was drowning
in the glow of love, find drought;
and you, who I thought my soul's twin,
decide to do without
what I believed was mother's milk,
and manna from above:
my life as sow's ear, turned to silk
with the touch of your love.

For years I sought you out, I thought
to win love, like a prize;
but found a bitter-sweet reward:
just laughter, in your eyes,
where I found nothing but regret
for all those wasted years
I spent in search of some ideal
to best both lust, and fear.

Such fantasies may feed and grow
but offer nothing real;
they hide what you already know
in shadows, and conceal
the simple truth as your time wanes
in frivolous pursuit,
and as you near the harvest
leave just rotted, bitter fruit.

So what is love?  What do I know?
I thought myself immune,
but strangely find September
feels alive and much like June;
and you, who I imagined just
one half of my extreme,
have turned into the one I must
both have and hold, and dream.

27 SEP 2009

What conversation would you like rejoined,
pretending that no years have intervened
and that the cares we once thought so immense
still weigh in at their same old magnitude,
when those long idle hours spent in talk
with no intent except to measure time
with Prufrock’s gilded set of coffee spoons,
pretending some profundity in words
that seemed so easy then, rolled off the clock
like AWOL soldiers beyond duty’s fence?

What alternate reality would seem
the right place, now, to take up where we left,
imagining somehow the world had stopped
at just that precise moment when we two
in some ungainly ballet both were cast,
commanding neither balance or much grace,
and fumbled blindly at each other’s steps?
The music for that dance has long since stopped.
An awkward silence echoes from the stage
that swallows whole all kinds of might-have-beens.

What conversation that we never had
(at least, aloud in words, in the same room)
needs finishing at this point in our lives?
There is more water underneath that bridge
than fills the seven oceans of the world.
No, if we speak again, let’s talk as friends
who simply compare mileage and confess
no secrets, or regret for past mistakes;
what participles dangle in the mist
are sentences we’ve both served long enough. 

17 SEP 2009

Someone told me once we never grow
beyond the point we turn the age eighteen:
what insecurities we carried then
still manifest themselves throughout our lives.

That makes those speeches every June
(you know the ones that say life's just begun)
much more than naive lies, and still the truth:
depends on just how much you would believe.

I wonder if it's like the weakling boy
who overcomes his limited physique
by spending endless hours in the gym
to change the image in the mirror,
but never runs quite fast enough to flee
the sickly shadow he would leave behind.

Could be the "eighteen" theory's full of shit;
What would the world be if we never grew
beyond the high school notions that we held
to be so absolute and crystal clear?

A playground laid out on a global scale,
with territories marked in black and white,
a constant "them" and "us" dividing up
the haves from the have-nots, and so forth.

We must evolve.  I'd like to think we do,
although it often takes ten years or more
to come to terms with who we thought we were
(in contrast with what we had yet to prove).
How many of us reach the other side
with anything but memories left alive?

14 SEP 2009