In the Underworld a Song

He was just a man

But was he?

Sitting there in the subway

His long golden hair

Danced in the artificial wind

Of the Cement Jungle’s underworld

Where on each side of our island of stone

Subway cars rolled by in violent force

Stealing people from one place

And inspiring them to another

Then the man presumably homeless

With clean features and normal look

Parted a smile that ripped my soul

And to this day I have never forgot

The crazy jags of those crooked teeth

And Cheshire cat eyes

Now looking on me

In me

And those long bony fingers of his

Strumming the guitar he once had on his back

As he took a seat in the dead center

Of this underworld where my friends and I waited

The rushing command of people everywhere

And yet it was only he and I

And the song he began to strum

What terror in such perfect ordinariness

Was it his condition, his smile, his unnatural eyes?

Or was it something more I sensed

Some hint of a past full of violence

His fingers danced upon the strings

And out came the song I remember never hearing his voice sing

“Hotel California”

His lips moved but the sounds of the city stole his words

And though I have forgotten much of that trip to New York

I have never forgotten the presumably homeless man

With golden hair and unsettling eyes

In the underworld of that city

And the song he chose to play

Begging for a buck

Begging for attention

And how he got one but not the other

He stays in my imagination still

Was he a man?

Or a monster in human flesh

I am grateful to have not found out

I Want Love

I want love like a foreign country

Where I wonder the streets in happy lost abandon

And pass not through in a hurry but soak up the culture

Where I sample the many delights

And taste the greatness of what otherwise might be common

I want love like a summer night

Filled with shooting stars to wish upon

And the soft private songs of isolation

Where being on our own road is a good thing

And the promise of laughter is always nearby

I want love like a snowy day in winter

Where the only option is to cuddle up

And has the peaceful feeling of sitting by a fireplace

Where sharing a blanket too small pulls us closer

And like the presents under the tree always a happy surprise

I want love like home

Where I can drive the roads blindfolded

And summon the sounds most comforting at a moment’s notice

Where I know I can be held in good times and bad

And can carry with me no matter where life may take me

A Rambler with Roots

 (In memory of my Cousin Brian, Rest in Peace)

In all my memories of you
I cannot remember many where you weren’t on Lock 8 Road
Or in the sticks of that home country you grew up in
The river must surely now be your blood
The rolling hills your bones
The greenery of the trees in the summer and spring your soul
In that place you called home your spirit now freely roams
In all my memories of you
There is that memory deepest of all
You were a rambler with roots
A quiet conundrum
You are alive and will live always as all of the family will
In memories, in thoughts, in the spirit of those that mourn
Upon the wind that sings a sad song in the winter
Rolling across the hilltops of lock eight road Creaking the trees and rustling what leaves there are
We will always know your presence
And hear your voice
So many memories keep your ghost
Of jokes we both shared about dad on his grumpy days
And of stupid things you shouldn’t have done
Like burning gas cans you carried to the creek
You have traded a presence of body
For a presence of spirit
In the legacy of our home and family
You will be carried on and remembered