I mention all this because this song says what it needs to say, and there it stops.
Take it Anyway
Those who need to hear won’t hear
those who need to care won’t care
those who swear that dark is day
have no use for what you say
But say it anyway
If you’ve nothing left but tears
driven silent, locked in fear
if you don’t know where to start
can’t find words to speak your heart
Say them anyway
Make the greedy angel show what’s in his fist
and when he says, “You can’t have this”
Take it anyway
If there’s only empty sky
and no answer when you cry
there’s no harbor, there’s no shore
and you can’t reach for nothing more
reach out anyway
Probably the best advice I’ve ever heard on the subject comes from Walt Whitman. Publishers of most editions of Leaves of Grass omit his preface, maybe because, in it, Whitman offers some sensible amendments to the Ten Commandments, which the editors think are good enough. But I do think Whitman offers an excellent candidate for an 11th. “Argue not concerning God.” If we adopted it, the whole world’s economy, of course, would be shot to hell, and a lot of people would have to find something else to do. But it might be worth a try.
I wrote this song in ’84, probably 1984, if I had to guess. But I didn’t get around to making a reasonable recording of it until 2013. Something must have come up in the meanwhile. When I finished the recording, I didn’t ask myself why it took me so long. I know better than to ask that. God might work in mysterious ways, but–no offense, intended–, God’s got nothing on me when it comes to inscrutability.
Deepest Shadows
In the deepest shadows
I’ve known my lord
I’ve known my lord would be there
I’ve known my lord
and I have felt no fear
In the deepest
the deepest shadows
I have no fear
In the deepest
the deepest silence
I’ve heard my lord
I’ve heard my lord whispering there
I’ve heard my lord
and I have felt no fear
In the deepest
in the deepest silence
I have no fear
In the deepest
the deepest mourning
I’ve felt my lord
I’ve felt my lord’s strengthening hand
I’ve felt my lord
and I have felt no fear
In the deepest
in the deepest mourning
I have no fear
In the deep
What We Know
I’ve got your picture around here somewhere
haven’t seen it for a while
I don’t always want to see
the sadness in your smile
You were younger, you were handsome
wavy hair, eyes of grey
you’re turned toward the camera
but your gaze is far away
When did you learn
all we know, we just can’t say?
When did you turn
down that sad and silent way?
What made you go, what makes you stay?
I’ve heard stories about your family
all those ghosts you locked inside
the lost and the lonely hidden forms
you couldn’t hide
How they rode upon your shoulders
how they murmured in your ears
the words you can only know,
the ones you just can’t hear
When did you learn
all we know, we just can’t say?
When did you turn
down that sad and silent way?
What made you go, what makes you stay?
I’ve got your picture, your old wristwatch
all those things we all can keep
and I’ve got your silence
like the heavens
wide and deep
When did I learn
all we know, we just can’t say?
When did I turn
down that sad and silent way?
What made me go, what makes me stay?
I wrote the melody for this song forty years before I could write the lyric. Granted, for a long stretch, I wasn’t writing songs. But it would have taken a while in any event, probably, because the lyric had to be as simple as it turned out.
There’s a famous little story about some well-known writer–some people say it was Twain, some say it was any of about a dozen others–that goes like this: The writer completed a long, long letter to a relative, with the p.s., “I’d have written you a shorter letter, but I didn’t have the time.” Apocryphal or not, the story emphasizes how much work it takes to write concisely. Hemingway supposedly said that he’d do his initial draft, then scratch out every-other word. Hyperbole, of course, but instructive. I had a simple solution to teaching this concept to my students. I said, “I’m just like you; I just want to go out and play. I promise to knock your grade down if your papers keep me inside any longer than necessary.” You gotta relate to kids, and you can’t do that unless you admit you’re still one, or at least, that you haven’t forgotten what it’s like.
I’m happy to report that the new “plain language” movement is getting some attention. Al Gore is big on it. He thinks–and I do, too–, that it’d be a good idea for us to know what we’re signing. Things like that. I wish us luck. I own a volume titled, Plain Words: a Guide to the Use of English, by Sir Ernest Gowers. Apparently, Sir Ernest was charged with explaining to public officials how not to be blowhards. He did a darn good job of it, and he followed his own advice; the book is all of ninety-four pages. His Majesty’s Stationery Office published and sold it, for 3 shillings 6 pence. In 1948.
Black River
Been rolling just to empty to the sea
Black River and me
Been tearing at our banks to set us free
Black River and me
I’ve seen the kind of heartache
just won’t let you be
No running gonna shake those memories
Black River and me
Been rushing for no reason I can see
Black River and me
Been searching for some simple sympathy
Black River and me
I’ve cried the kind of teardrops
nobody can see
That same black water runs through you and me
Black River and me
For Dorothy Nigrine and Larry Graves. Rest in peace.
What We May
If a man could sing his sorrows clean away,
you’d know just where you’d find me every day.
There’s some that I can claim are mine, all mine;
and some I picked up from some friends down the line,
and some that come from no place I can say.
I can’t read the morning papers but I cry.
There’s tears on every page between the lies.
The poor, poor people in the black of night,
the thieves who bank upon our lack of light,
and the hungry little children wondering why.
My father, he had so few words to say,
saved his pennies til the day he passed away.
The furrows in his brow, his hands so rough,
they told us even holding love is hard enough,
and we must make of silence what we may.
If a man could sing his sorrows into space,
I wouldn’t ask to borrow your sweet grace.
I’d spread my own around like golden dust.
I’d sow the very ground with seeds of trust,
and see my sorrows safely in their place.
If a man could sing his sorrows clean away.
The thing about living in California is that, not only can I not find anyone who’s as mad as I am, I can’t find anyone else who’s mad. Maybe I should start wearing yoga pants. People in yoga pants don’t look happy, but they don’t look mad.
I was mad when I wrote this song, a long time ago. I forget about what, and reading over the lyrics doesn’t jog my memory. These are paintsplash lyrics. They’re not supposed to “mean”; they’re supposed to yell.
Let it Thunder
I held the knife of night against the bloody sky
I knew the shadows all by name
I threw a fist of glass into the drunken fight
let it thunder, let it rain
Hauled an angel down pinned him to the ground
called the shadows all by name
I said if you won’t help we don’t want you around
let it thunder, let it rain
Let it thunder, let it thunder
let it rain the rest of our days
If your anger’s like our anger
go on, wash the mountains away
I taught the laughing flames to weep in bitter shame
called the shadows by their names
made the judges keep the biggest share of blame
let it thunder, let it rain
Let it thunder, let it thunder
let it rain the rest of our days
If your anger’s like our anger
go on, wash the mountains away
I held the knife of night against the bloody sky
I knew the shadows all by name
I threw a fist of glass into the drunken fight
let it thunder, let it rain
This song is about the human condition, which many people think isn’t as good as it could be. That’s what all the complaining is about. I spoke with a teenager recently who had to read The Catcher in the Rye. He complained that Holden Caulfield complained too much.
Everblue
Just like every kid you’ve ever seen
all the world to me was evergreen
smiling for the camera, brand new shoes
up against a background everblue
Flying through my dreams and busting free
mightier than all the chains on me
nothing in the world I couldn’t do
even on a background everblue
Singing in the saddle riding high
single silhouette against the sky
dreaming I was free, somehow I knew
shadows on the sand are everblue
Out along the dusty road at night
coming from or heading for a fight
postcards from a city ever new
postcards with a background everblue
Just like everyone I’ve ever seen
try to hold to something evergreen
I go on though I know what’s ever true
I’m up against a background everblue
Smile for the camera, shine your shoes
you’re up against a background everblue
But a lot of people who should know better think there’s something to it; they know they should know better, but they’re brave enough to admit they’ve got open minds. I like that in a person–an open mind.
Besides, I once gazed into some mighty beautiful eyes and told the young lady who owned them–we’d just met–, “I think we knew each other in a previous life. We were dogs.” She didn’t blink, “Otters,” she said without hesitation, and with certainty.
Just the Other Day
Got no business playing
with a deuce-high hand
and a gambler’s eyes
Got no business praying
such a tiny soul
such a cold black sky
What makes me think I’ll know the road
out across the blowing sands?
Never been there, that I know
Still, I will go back again
Got no business thinking
there’s a river running
sweet and cold
Got a million reasons
just to hold the cards
are mine to hold
What tells me crystal waters flow
somewhere in a prism land?
Never been there, that I know
Still, I will go back again
Got no way of naming
recollections of a lighted way
Friends have said the same thing
we were talking just the other day
Everyone sings a different song
we all hear the same refrain
What makes us stay away so long
longing to go back again?
I might have put this song in another category as well as here, but I can’t remember. If you come across it elsewhere, humor it.
Agnosticism is widely misunderstood. Most folk think it means “I dunno.” It does, but it goes a step further. Agnostics maintain that not only do we not know, we cannot know nuthin bout nuthin. So they’re certain of their uncertainty; it ain’t much, but it’s something.
Nobody Can Say
Nobody can say
when the bell will end the fight
who will land the roundhouse right
where the buried treasure lay
or how to walk a starless night
Nobody can say
if the charts are drawn with care
if you say you’ll take the dare
if the house is good to pay
if the odds are even fair
Nobody can say
Nobody can say
if they mispronounce your name
did they call you just the same
on that heaven-promised day
must you go back all that way?
Nobody can say, not a soul can say
Everyone goes tapping with a long white cane
sounds just like the pattering
the pattering of rain
But nobody can say
if the one-eyed jack will fall
if you hold off on your call
should you fold, or should you play
should you stay or should you draw?
Nobody can say, not a soul can say
Everyone goes tapping with a long white cane
sounds just like the pattering
the pattering of rain
But nobody can say
what the gypsie understands
when you give her your good hand
will she send you on your way
through another stretch of sand?
Nobody can say, not a soul can say
Just Like That
Took my turn at the wheel
dreamed we’d beat the night
with the dashboard light
Trying hard to feel
we were going somewhere
like we didn’t care
like it didn’t hurt to dare
Heard about the sun
out in Californ
where the stars are born
Heard the bright lights shine
where they grow the wine
where the skies are always kind
But the rain falls just like that
if you’re flush or you’re busted flat
Rich man pays his dues
poor man pays his way in blues
and the rain falls just like that
Desert preacher came in loud
on the radio
his was the only show
Said we’d turn around
once we saw the coast
and we learned the cost
of one more sea to cross
Because the rain falls just like that
if you’re flush or you’re busted flat
Rich man pays his dues
poor man pays his way in blues
and the rain falls just like that
A “derecho” is a rare storm system that gives you all the fine features of a hurricane, but without the common courtesy of a fair warning. One came our way recently. I was out of town when it hit, but back in time to see the destruction and get the details from our neighbors. John and Marsha gave me such a vivid account that I had little trouble writing this song from their description. Hint: Copyright what you say to a songwriter before he does.
A Proper Wonder
Storm came on last Friday
without warning
and you’d have thought
there’d be no end of thunder
you’d have thought the trees
were teaching
how to bend your knees
and how to see the sky
with proper wonder
Made us all believe
the gods are children
lashing out in jagged lines
of anger
hollering to raise the tides
and crack the mountainsides
chiding us to see
with proper wonder
Left us all in pieces
left no rainbow
not this time
and maybe never after
even left the doubtful
feeling certain evermore
we’d better see the sky
with proper wonder
Storm came on last Friday
with no warning
and you’d have thought
we owed somebody something
you’d have thought
the shaking was a warning
we must pay
a sign that showed the way
to proper wonder
I once heard a yogi guru guy say that determining how far you are from enlightenment is easy. “Make a list of everything you call ‘mine,'” he said. He then spread his arms wide and said, “If your list is this long, that’s how far you are.” Then he demonstrated the short list. This was many years ago, but I think all he had on was a loincloth. I’ll just bet it wasn’t the deluxe model.
Nonetheless, this is a serious song, and it requires little explanation other than a definition: a Barlow knife is a style of pocketknife.
Like a Stone
Got a Barlow knife in my britches
I don’t need none of your riches
I don’t need nothing more
Got a back made out of leather
ain’t no two men put together
But I’ll show them to the floor
Don’t you think that I am poor
Tried to make me beg for wages
tried to lock me in your cages
tried to make me out a slave
Starved me and they beat me
never could defeat me
ain’t afraid of any grave
I give them back just what they gave
You can try to charge me for my chains
try to make me cut my own whipping cane
I show you every chain has two ends
if one’s on my leg
the other’s on your hands
Look down, you got a chain on your hands
Set their dogs upon me
I never forced them to outrun me
stood my ground and let them come
When they seen me standing staring
hands on hips, eyes a-glaring
I struck them devils dumb
I struck them devils dumb
I don’t need no dirty dollars
in the mountains and the hollers
I can make myself a home
Got a Barlow knife in my britches
that’s all I need for riches
ain’t afraid to be alone
I got an anger like a stone
You can try to charge me for my chains
try to make me cut my own whipping cane
I show you every chain has two ends
if one’s on my leg
the other’s on your hands
Look down, you got a chain upon your hands
I’m crazy about paradoxes, and it’s a good thing. The universe seems to be fashioned from them exclusively. This song presents the poor man’s paradox, an oxymoron, which none of the people I’ve played it for seemed to catch or appreciate. In fact, no one but me seems to like this song. My friends are probably right, but I’m mule headed, and proud of it.
Letting Go
Headed westward through the desert
all the way from Baltimore
young and desperate, can’t remember
just what for
Saw a twister in the distance
watched the tumbleweed roll by
felt so small, all that sand,
all that sky
I’ve kissed lips as warm as whiskey
I’ve drunk eyes as deep as wine
I’ve let loving arms just
twist me up in vines
Known the pleasure of your laughter
touched the satin of the night
ran away from all this treasure
can’t say why
But I’ll never know why I move on
wherever I go, I’m already gone
nothing to keep, nothing to show
all I keep is letting go
I keep letting go.
Asked the heavens about this hunger
asked what I was looking for
waited ages for an answer,
something sure
Took their silence for a token
I heard only emptiness
all I know is what’s unspoken
maybe this:
I’ll never know why I move on
wherever I go, I’ll never be gone
nothing’s to keep, nothing’s to show
all you keep is letting go
you keep letting go.
You keep letting go.
When I finished writing this song, I called a friend and read her the lyrics. She said she understood them perfectly. She was able to explain them to me. I accepted her interpretation because I had been certain there wasn’t any. Sometimes, I just don’t know what gets into me, and I’m glad when other people do.
Fickle After All
Pretty things in the store window
a pretty face down the hall
pretty things, like the wind,
must blow fickle after all
And He loves me in my weakness
and He loves me in my faults
and He loves me as I turn away
from love at such a cost
Pretty night with a young woman
pretty time on the bed
pretty soon, you forget something
somebody once said
And He loves me in my weakness
and He loves me in my faults
and He loves me as I turn away
from love at such a cost
Pretty child, one of God’s chosen
called to the mansion one sweet day
snuck around in the hall
stealing candy off the tray
And He loves me in my weakness
and He loves me in my faults
and He loves me as I turn away
from love at such a cost
Pretty things in the store window
a pretty face down the hall
pretty things, like the wind,
must blow fickle after all
Usually, I advise people never to take my advice. I never do, unless it’s bad advice. In this case, it’s good, and I wish I could follow it.
Go Easy
How about going easy on yourself?
Forgive like you’re forgiving someone else;
you’re gonna fly,
you’ll be an angel by and by;
so go on, but go easy on yourself.
You’re looking for your halo
and you’re looking for your wings;
you’re stumbling around and mumbling
Where’d I leave them things?
You didn’t want to hurt no one
but everybody knows,
you step aside to let Paul by,
you step on Peter’s toes.
So how about going easy on yourself?
Forgive like you’re forgiving someone else;
you’re gonna fly,
you’ll be an angel by and by;
so go on, but go easy on yourself.
The devil’s in the details,
but the devil’s everywhere;
he’s nipping at your coattails
and he’s messing up your hair.
He fooled you once,
he fooled you twice,
and he’ll fool you again.
I know you know your enemy,
but have you met your friend?
So how about going easy on yourself?
Forgive like you’re forgiving someone else;
you’re gonna fly,
you’ll be an angel by and by;
so go on, but go easy on yourself.
I wrote this one rainy day to avoid writing another, better song. I was getting nowhere on the other song, so the exalted motive of spite was part of my strategy. You can’t tell that from this song, though. It’s pretty good natured. I forget what the other song was, but it did cooperate eventually. Probably felt properly chided. Like I’d sent it to its room.
I Believe We’ve Met
Rain’s bound to let up
but it’s going to take its time
there’s nothing you can do
to hurry it along
so look over your shoulder
see what you can find
there’s something hiding
like a diamond in a dark mine
The old man’s going to get you
but he hasn’t got you yet
when he comes to call
he won’t knock upon your door
He’ll let himself right in
just like your oldest friend
look him in the eye
smile and tell him
‘I believe we’ve met’
That guy in the mirror
with the sadness in his eyes
look a little harder
and you’ll see the laughter lines
reach right in
grab his cane
and poke him in the ribs
tell him you recall it all
and it’s just all too much to cry
Rain’s bound to let up
but it’s going to take its time
there’s nothing you can do
to hurry it along
So look over your shoulder
there’s stories you can tell
they’re in there shining
just like pennies
in a dark well
I’m pretty sure this says what I wanted it to say.
Into the Night
We had to raise our eyes and stare into the sky
we had to wonder why
We saw a million stars, a million suns in flight
we never saw the light
Our children died before they ever knew their names
our dreams were broke in half
We cursed ourselves for we were all we had to blame
Sometimes we had to laugh
The preachers raised their steeples clear up to the skies
we never questioned why
We people down below could hardly raise a cry
the price was much too high
They said, ‘We’ll save your soul, but give us all you own
you cannot give enough’
They told us, ‘Pay your way or surely you will burn’
And I just had to laugh
I had to laugh about it
I had to sing
I had to shake my fists in anger
I heard the golden church bells
I heard them ring
they could not peal away our hunger
I had to stand up for my own
break my hammer on a stone
wake the angels with my song
and shake the crystal from the cupboards up in heaven
We needed something we could hold in both our hands
our sweat fell on the land
The bankers turned our salt into a stretch of sand
and took it back again
We heard the echo of our prayers down empty halls
no answer from above
We said the secret words and made the sacred cross
We had to fight for love
And I had to laugh about it
I had to sing
I had to shake my fists in anger
I heard the golden church bells
I heard them ring
they could not peal away our hunger
I had to stand up for my own
break my hammer on a stone
wake the angels with my song
and shake the crystal from the cupboards up in heaven
I entered this song in the Wistful Song of the Century contest, and it won. That’s a lie, of course, but it might just as well not be.
Just So You’ll Know
Start with goodbye
laugh when you can
cry when you cry
That’s how it goes
just so you’ll know
There’s no holding on
there’s only memories
of things that are gone
that’s how it goes
just so you’ll know
How many kisses stay fixed
like the stars?
You can’t keep them prisoner
can’t bind them with bars
Nothing’s for long
everything flies
like a bird or a song
that’s how it goes
just so you’ll know
How many kisses stay fixed
like the stars?
You can’t keep them prisoner
can’t bind them with bars
So start with goodbye
laugh when you can
cry when you cry
that’s how it goes
just so you’ll know
I sent this to my friend Bill who cussed at me for it. He said he couldn’t get the tune out of his head the next day. It’s catchy, I’ll admit, which might be the reason I finished writing the darn thing. The first verse and chorus occurred to me about twenty-five years before the rest. I think the phone rang, and I got distracted.
Last Saturday Evening
Had a dream last Saturday evening
where this angel bent over my bed
and she whispered “It’s all been forgiven”
and then she kissed my shiny forehead
Now I stand jingling these coins in my pocket
like the guys up the corner drug store
all my blues long been forgotten
just don’t worry about me anymore
I awoke and I went to my window
and I gazed at the streetlamps below
they shone clear out to the horizon
like the chrome on a brand-new banjo
Now I stand jingling these coins in my pocket
like the guys up the corner drug store
all my blues long been forgotten
just don’t worry about me anymore
Don’t know why but I called up my brother
who has not been the same since the war
just to hear him cry through the receiver
“thought I told you don’t call here no more”
Now I stand jingling the change in my pocket
like my father and his father before
all my blues long been forgotten
just don’t worry about me anymore
Dedicated to Allen, who, I pray, is at peace.
Let it Fall
There’s times that I remember clearly
days that I remember dearly
when for a while we lived so freely
and everything was almost easy
now we’ve got these memories
But didn’t somebody say
there’s a day
you build your house along the way
and a day you let it fall
I recall a tender woman
and so respectful was our loving
I cannot tell you of the honor
that I so gladly place upon her
now she’s with another
But didn’t somebody say
there’s a day
you build your house along the way
and a day you let it fall
I had a friend
who lives no longer
and sometimes
in the midst of laughter
I want so bad to share the pleasure
of something he would surely treasure
or hear what he would say
Didn’t somebody say
there’s a day
you build your house along the way
and a day you let it fall
There’s times that I remember clearly
days that I remember dearly
when for a while we lived so freely
and everything was almost easy
now we’ve got these memories
Dedicated to the group who inspired it: the D.C. Listening Lounge, a bunch of independent radio producers, mostly, and other sound enthusiasts who get together once a month to play new stuff they’ve been working on. I love going to the meetings; you can hear everything from unadorned sounds of the forest to highly produced, multi-voiced features. Everyone has in common one thing: We find sound intoxicating. Sound is enough. You can find the DCLL Website if you look.
Listening
Some ask for mercy for sinners below
some are so thirsty for something to know
Some won’t stop searching for silver and gold
some would give everything for someone to hold
Some will keep seeking until they have heard
some high heaven speaking some high holy word
But all that is given is ringing so clear
to those who will listen to what’s ours hear
So we listen for the rush of wings
and we listen for the hope in children’s voices
and we listen as the blind man sings
as we make our fearful choices
And we listen to the breath of wind
and we listen to the pounding fists of thunder
and the silence just before the rain
as it whispers ‘all we have is wonder’
I hold with those poets who say that the only correct way to write is to get out of the way and let whatever comes come. That works sometimes. I don’t know what this song means, but it haunted me until I copied it down right. Likewise, I don’t know if my stance in regard to juju makes me a mystic or a spiritual kind of dude, but I do know that something Dave van Ronk said has stuck with me. Here’s how he explained why he always started his performances with a particular song: “I’m not a religious man, but I am deeply superstitious.” Close enough.
The thing that gets me about all this is that, of late, every author of every book about particle physics I’ve read includes a little something about having to include the spiritual world in our equations, or we won’t go any further. They all say we’ve bumped up against the limits of science and that the only way we’ll come closer to understanding the Big Shebang is by admitting this and somehow incorporating what all the yogis and gurus and those in loincloths have been saying for quite some time. Reportedly, all the name-brand physicists who worked on the Manhattan Project became very religious in their later years; and they didn’t do it out of guilt. That was a pretty informed bunch of characters, so they might have a point.
On a Midnight Train
Saw you just today
you were like
a face I’ve seen
in the mirror
Didn’t know what to say
no one knows
how to talk to a stranger
Heaven send down the rain
start all over again
take your share of the blame
you left your children alone
on a midnight train
on a midnight train
Haven’t got a dime
no one’s got
change for change
of a dollar
we talk in pantomime
we talk like
phantom winds down a holler
Heaven send down the rain
start all over again
take your share of the blame
you left your children alone
on a midnight train
on a midnight train
A true story full of excellent advice. This song would make a great sing-along with very young children!
Opportunity
Yonder sits a baby buzzard
learning how to fly
mama says ‘come on now, Custer,
let’s give it a try
When I sees a dying duck
my heart is overjoyed
Call it fate
or call it luck
but don’t blow your opportunity, boy
‘Don’t blow your opportunity, boy
Don’t blow your opportunity, boy
She might knock once
but she won’t knock twice
so don’t blow your opportunity, boy
‘Out on every highway, son,
there’s possum, coon, and snake
freshly killed and sweet as honey
if you stays awake
There’s trains and cars and trucks and buses
all out to destroy
He who eats is he who does
‘nt blow his opportunity, boy
‘Don’t blow your opportunity, boy
Don’t blow your opportunity, boy
She might knock once
but she won’t knock twice
so don’t blow your opportunity, boy’
All at once, the mama buzzard died
most suddenly
It was just a freak of nature
as far as I can see
She would have been so proud of him
her little pride and joy
he wiped his chin yodeling
‘Don’t blow your opportunity, boy.’
Don’t blow your opportunity, boy
Don’t blow your opportunity, boy
She might knock once
but she won’t knock twice
so don’t blow your opportunity
I owe this song to Jim Kennedy, a living saint if I ever met one. He’d argue that point, but that would only add to the evidence. We got to talking, and that started me thinking about something other than how I can justify eating more chocolate.
My regrets talk to me often enough; I figured it was time to talk to them. It didn’t make them leave, and it didn’t make them any more reasonable; but it did prove we don’t have to shout.
Salt Salt Sea
I have heard them in the silent night
and in the endless, soundless skies
No breaking day, no morning light
can quiet their sad cries
Despite the years, regretful tears
and bitter memories
call me with their heavy cares
like sailors called to sea
Don’t they know that I have paid
for everything I’ve done?
every unkind word I’ve said
restless hours, reckless fun?
My regrets are like poor sailors lost
who’ve sought harbor deep in me
but I would have them once more tossed
and flung across their salt, salt sea
If I met them like I meet old friends
I wonder what they’d say
but I’ll leave regrets to make amends
in time, and their own way
I imagine it would make us smile
and it just might set us free
if I learned they’d wanted all this while
to apologize to me
Don’t they know that I have paid
for everything I’ve done?
every unkind word I’ve said
restless hours, reckless fun?
My regrets are like poor sailors lost
who’ve sought harbor deep in me
but I would have them once more tossed
and flung across their salt, salt sea
A couple of funny things about money: First, ever notice that the people who most loudly insist that it isn’t important are those who have plenty of it?
Second, my family never had much, not much at all. As a teen, my father had had to work to support his family, so he never finished high school. And he was far too honest and gentle to do anything rapacious, or even marginally dishonest, for a living.
But seeing just how many people loved my father, poor as he was, came as a surprise to me. I was fifteen when he passed away. We buried him on a cold, rainy day. The newspapers were on strike in Baltimore then, so no one could have read of his death in the obits. Sitting in the front of the funeral home, I wasn’t aware of the number of people who’d packed into the place or who’d had to stand in the aisles and out in the lobby. But, when I glanced through the rear window of the limo as we crested a long, long, straight hill, headlights shone as far as I could see. I’ve since been to many sparsely attended services for some decidedly wealthy people.
“Money isn’t everything.” And maybe if those who have it would share a little more, they’d find that these words–a lie when they say them–are true.
Silver Dollars
When I was young
my father gave silver dollars
they filled our hearts
the way they filled our hands
and memories
of how he smiled across the table remain
like the coins that are lost
in the stretching sands
When I was young
my father gave silver dollars
on every holiday
to every child
and I was young
and let them pass from my fingers with pain
as the clerk and my father
exchanged a smile
The days unwind
the years unfold
and money spent is soon forgotten
the silver coins I would hold
are no longer
a simple warning I was told
but I was just too young to bother
‘just don’t rush to grow old
like your father’
When I was young
my father gave silver dollars
they filled our hearts
the way they filled our hands
and memories
of how he smiled across the table remain
like those coins that are lost
in the stretching sands
The days unwind
the years unfold
and money spent is soon forgotten
the silver coins I would hold
are no longer
a simple warning I was told
but I was just too young to bother
‘just don’t rush to grow old
like your father’
When I was young
my father gave silver dollars
for all the years
I still recall so well
and in the mirror of your eyes
I must smile as I gaze
and remember
that we are our fathers now
I wrote this for a friend just after she’d had her first child.
Someday
Tell me what you’re crying for
daddy’s little girl
your father used to cry like that himself
You want to know the very worst
of your troubles in the world?
Someday, your troubles gonna be all over
You wave your little fists around
and kick your little legs
and cry out like
there’s been some kind of crime
Go ahead, kick like that,
have yourself a time
because someday, your troubles
gonna be all over
Someday your troubles
gonna be all over
someday your laughter left behind
There’s just a couple times you’re sure
there’s goodness in the world
and then your troubles
are all over
I fear people who fear questioning more than I fear questioning. Questioning belief might make me uneasy, but it also makes me unwilling to use belief as a wedge, a weapon, a pretext or justification for violence.
I must, and do, forgive some of those who visit misery on others in the name of belief. Some of these people don’t know they’re making a choice. We might be able to show them that they have choices. I devoted my career to trying to awaken my students to the choices they make every moment.
I’m supposed to forgive those who do know they’re making a choice but who choose to abuse belief. I’m trying, but I have a hard time; sad to say, those people have abused my forgiveness. Sorry, Mr. Gandhi. Please be patient with me.
Songs of Peace
O the dreams we used to dream
back when we were in our teens
and we sang our songs of peace
and we dreamed the wars would cease
Where did we go so wrong
when did we learn to grieve
why did we bother to believe?
So many different bibles
mystic numbers, sacred birds
everybody says the sky
wrote down all of those holy words
so many different voices
speaking in secret tongues
so many consecrated guns
Everybody wants so badly
just to stand on solid rock
everybody yearns so sadly
just to join some chosen flock
all of these webs that catch us
all of a golden weave
maybe it’s best not to believe
Oh, the dreams we used to dream
back when we were in our teens
and we sang our songs of peace
and we dreamed the wars would cease
So hard to wake from dreaming
so hard to roll up your sleeve
Harder to love than to believe
I recorded this long, long ago. David Goodfriend plays lead guitar; Pete Kennedy, bass; and Russ Beeker and Eleanor Ellis do backup vocals.
You can easily glimpse my devout nature through this lyric. The song is patently non-fiction, especially the last verse. No doubt, you recall that day.
Sugar in the Sun
Lily mommy dead
daddy gone
Lily live with her uncle
on the farm
Lily uncle mean
but mean no harm
beat poor Lily silly
in the barn
Lily lover man
him name big John
have to make they love
down by the pond
John say
when the sugar harvest done
him and Lily
going to make they run
Same old song
same old song
same old genre
chantons toute le monde
Lily long to kiss John by the pond
John lay Lily down upon the frond
All that summer hot
summer long
John keep cutting
sugar in the sun
waiting for
that ‘lopin’ day to dawn
Lily uncle know
somethin goin on
Lily uncle
buy him brand new gun
everybody heart go
rum-tum-tum
God say
‘I don’t know
who will be done
Think I’ll
sit this here one out
for fun
Same old song
same old song
same old genre
chantons toute le monde
Lily long to kiss John by the pond
John lay Lily down upon the frond
But that ‘lopin’ day
never dawn
God forget to set
the big alarm
Everybody sleep
til afternoon
have to eat they lunch
under the moon
Same old song
same old song
same old genre
chantons toute le monde
Lily long to kiss John by the pond
John lay Lily down upon the frond