The Song

Just walking through a grocery store
And then he heard the song;
Somehow, it brought back everything
He’d buried for so long

They were so very young, and she
So beautiful and sweet;
The first time that he kissed her
He could hear his own heart beat

Why did he throw it all away?
How has his life been spent?
He loved her then, he loves her now –
He still recalls her scent —

But then, back in the grocery aisle
Her “kiss me,” fades away
And sixpence none the richer, he
Goes on
His day


(“The Song” – 1-7-2015)

The Seasons We Might Call Our Lives

Reverberant anachronism
Strains of Tin Pan Alley lyricism
Played as through a 1940’s radio
(Twixt flashes on the fascist overthrow)
Before you were alive or even thought
Another world, a distant era caught
Between the seasons we might call our lives
While one young set of eyes somehow connives
To make it to a world of ice and snow
For whom old music conjures up no
Long ago

A Different Kind of Gratitude

We sang, for we were born to sing:
The five of us, at home;
For harmony was quite the thing,
And music, polychrome

In wintertime, the carols flew,
The images, as well:
Each story, be they stretched, or true,
Delivered on the tell

Yet fierce the moments sometimes, though –
Like winter wind that’s blowing —
We grew the way we had to grow,
Then went where we were going

But music stayed: a dancing fire
Lighting up the cold,
In melodies of innocence
And echoes for the old

And though the veil comes down for some
And soon will claim the rest,
I’m grateful that I had the chance,
And that I can attest

To music and to harmony,
To love that lingers late,
And all that makes us who we are:
Our legacy
And fate