A Message From Mom

It will be ten years this June since my mother passed away. I miss her gentle kindness and love; she was always the one with a ready ear and compassionate heart. There are still many of her things in the house and I was cleaning out a drawer the other day when I found something she had cut out and saved.

It was a poem by Doone F. Lemmy (searched and couldn't find anything on him) and was published in the Washington Star. The Star was a Washington D.C. daily afternoon paper from 1852 to 1981 when it went out of business. There is no title on this poem, so I'm just calling it a message from Mom:

While working at my desk today
Striving to put my thoughts in rhyme
I heard my little children say
What I oft said in olden time,
Before my hair had turned to gray
Before times wrinkles creased my brow,
"Please, mother, do not keep us now,
But let us go and play!"

Their plaintive voices came to me
From the adjoining chamber, where
Both wife and children I could see
When seated in my easy chair,
She kissed them tenderly, and they
With joyous shouts went to their game,
They could not hear my heart exclaim,
"Oh, would then we could play!"

O God, I pray that thou wilt leave
Their mother here until my boys
Can comprehend that they but grieve
Themselves when they leave her for toys!
Oh, they'll remember when they pray
For their dear mother, when she's dead,
How often they to her have said,
"Please let us go and play!"

Aye, in this life from day to day
Unknowingly we oft disdain
Our blessings, and but wish for pain
When we scorn sacrifice for play.

What would you sacrifice for one more day with your mother?

Idle speculation on the impossible, but a catalyst for fond memories.

Have a wonderful Saturday my friends and if you're still lucky enough to have your mother with you, give her a call just to let her know how much you love her.

To Debby - Thanks

To make amends for my idiotic poem in "Shakespeare Doesn't Live Here", two offerings of a different nature. The first I wrote driving home from Syracuse today, the second offering is a song I wrote and recorded for my wife a few years back.

Good times are easily shared
Fertile ground for love,
Which seldom grows in grim circumstance
Shallow love and shallow ground
Both bear jealous fruit
But the roots of true love grow daily deeper
The synergy of two as one can withstand all
If each has given all
Tragedy refuses to play favorites
Yet, unlike too many others,
Our roots remain intertwined
Though we live our love each day,
No Valentine's Day has ever meant more

THANKS

When you've been in love with someone
As long as I've loved you
It's hard to explain all the things that you take for granted
The words you mean to say, but never do

When you share your heart with someone
Like I shared mine with you
Your love may be spurned or returned
Sometimes I wonder
What did I do to deserve a love so true

When you share your soul with someone
Like I've shared mine with you
If love is pursuit of what's true
I think we've found it
It's plain to see in everything we do

When you'd give your life for someone
Like I'd give mine for you
That may seem old fashioned
But that's love, and that's passion for someone
For the rest of my life that someone is you

So thanks for understanding me, when you don't, at least you try
And thanks for holding on to me even though I've made you cry
And thanks for all the little things you always seem to do
But most of all, I'm thankful that I am so in love with you
And you love me too

Happy Valentine's Day Debbie - I love you!

Shakespeare Doesn't Live Here

Least someone think I'm well versed in the works of William Shakespeare, let me say that it was high school when last I read the bard, so now I get a "Sonnet A Day" just for S&G's. I had to read slowly; some passages more than once; but the bottom line is that men have been paying the price for our natural instincts since God kicked his kids out of the garden lo those many years ago:

Sonnet #129
Posted:
CXXIX.

The expense of spirit in a waste of shame

Is lust in action; and till action, lust

Is perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame,

Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust,

Enjoy'd no sooner but despised straight,

Past reason hunted, and no sooner had

Past reason hated, as a swallow'd bait

On purpose laid to make the taker mad;

Mad in pursuit and in possession so;

Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme;

A bliss in proof, and proved, a very woe;

Before, a joy proposed; behind, a dream.

All this the world well knows; yet none knows well

To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.

Ladies: Feel free to leave your opinion of this sonnet in the comments section. Don't go there yet though, let me give you something else to write about.

I would be remiss if I didn't note that we are but days away from Valentine's Day, the penultimate Hallmark holiday. For all of our anonymous atheist friends out there, yes, it was a pagan holiday usurped by the Catholic Church - but since it all worked out for the best, why not just pass on this one.

I don't know exactly what prompts me to write things like the poem that follows, and my wife warned me not to put it on-line, but it is truly a love poem...kinda...with an accompanying warning from the Surgeon General. The poem has no title because I want any man out there brave enough to send it to his wife to put his own title on it - heh, heh, heh.

I wonder if you wonder

After all that we've been through

Is his love strong enough? Deep enough?

For a lifetime meant for two

When I look to the future

You're always at my side

And my love for you

Is as strong and as deep

As your pleasantly plump, rump is wide

SURGEON GENERALS WARNING: Humor of this nature is not necessarily appreciated by all women and may be hazardous to your health. It may result in bruising, lumps, bumps, lackanookie and - God forbid - a "bobbit". Please google Lorena Bobbit for full details.

I'm gonna pay for this one.

Big time!

Give Me The Highway

After seeing my brother's response regarding God's sense of humor and my golf game, I noted again that he had honored me by choosing "Give Me The Highway" as his blog name. Of all the songs that I have authored, this is also one of my Dad's favorites. You're only going to get the lyrics - for now:

Give Me The Highway

I've hitch-hiked the miles of a hobo

Who's love is the open road

I know of the pain and the hunger

That time can't erase

I've seen the tar bubbles

That blister like feet driven too many miles

The lines of the road

You can see clearly etched on my face

In all of my travels

I've met a few women whose love I returned

Falling in love was as easy

As learning to breathe

The warmth of their arms

Beat the hell out of highways

On cold, lonely nights

But not enough

To let them put chains around me

Give me the highway - Don't let my feet settle down

I tried it a long time ago

But it didn't work out

I'm just a daydreamer, hoping that dreams never end

They never will just as long as I'm traveling about

Life on the blacktop

The world as your backdrop

The curtain comes up with the sun

Each day brings memories of good times we've had

Night brings the promise of good times to come

But sometimes late at night on the road

Can't help feeling all alone

Second thoughts come

As I dream of a life that might be

But then I see bright lights

A new town where I've never been before

Lord there is joy in a man

Who is footloose and free

Give me the highway - Don't let my feet settle down

I tried it a long time ago

But it didn't work out

I'm just a daydreamer, hoping that dreams never end

They never will just as long as I'm traveling about

How appropriate that I ended up in marketing - on the road to the tune of over 50,000 miles every year. Now it often seems difficult to remember what life was like without a laptop, a cell phone, blueberry, blacktooth, vice versa - whatever.

The big boys in Michigan are promising us cars that drive themselves within ten years - just think of all the work you can get done!

I'll be retiring, thank you very much.

Amazing Grace

As I write this, I'm preparing to leave for another funeral in about an hour. I'll be singing two songs at the funeral, one of which is "Amazing Grace". It is a song that I have been singing at funerals for family all too often of late.

My 36 year old cousin was killed in a snowmobile accident last Saturday morning, leaving behind a wife, a brother, sisters, and two parents who have just joined the club that none of us ever wanted to be a member of: Parents Who Bury Their Children. As members of that club, my wife and I can only offer what everyone offered us during our time: our love, our prayers, and our support.

One of the gifts that God gave to me was the ability to play music. I have put that gift aside for some time now because I could find no joy in playing. I realize now that just because God gives us a gift, it doesn't necessarily mean that the gift has to always bring joy to us. I dread standing up in front of all of those people this afternoon, but they are my family, so no matter what happens, they will continue to love me. Having that thought pop into my head just takes the worry away.

When I write songs, the lyrics always come first, or almost always. Since my job includes long hours behind the wheel of my car, I often write lyrics as I drive. That's what I did yesterday.

Instead of focusing on the negative aspects of death, I decided to be just a bit cavalier about the whole thing, thus the lyrics below to a song I've titled "That's All She Wrote". Not to make things too complicated, and with apologies to Carl Perkins and Chuck Berry, as you read the words, imagine a variation of "Blue Suede Shoes":

THAT'S ALL SHE WROTE

IT’S ONE – YOU’RE BORN, TWO – YOU DIE
WE ONLY COUNT TO THREE SO YOU CAN SAY BYE-BYE
THAT’S ALL SHE WROTE
THAT’S ALL SHE WROTE
YOU NEVER KNOW WHEN YOU’LL PLAY YOUR FINAL NOTE
AND THAT’S ALL SHE WROTE

GOD SAID TO NOAH “BEST BUILD YOURSELF A BOAT”
NOAH SAID “GOD! WHAT IF THE BOAT DON’T FLOAT”
WELL THAT’S ALL SHE WROTE
THAT’S ALL SHE WROTE
BETTER BUILD IT WATERTIGHT AND YOU’D BETTER DO IT RIGHT
OR THAT’S ALL SHE WROTE

A KING IN HIS CASTLE, THE MAN ON THE STREET
BOTH TAKE NOTHIN’ WITH THEM WHEN IT’S TIME TO LEAVE
‘CAUSE THAT’S ALL SHE WROTE
THAT’S ALL SHE WROTE
YOU CAN SAVE IT IF YOU LIKE, BUT I’D RATHER DIE BROKE
‘CAUSE THAT’S ALL SHE WROTE

And that, my friends, is all she wrote for today - if you love someone - tell them!

Blessings!

Poetry

In my never ending effort to bring something a little different to the blog, I recently received this beautiful poem about winter from my friend Heather G. I hope you find it as succinct and appropriate as I did:

Winter

A Poem by Abigail Elizabeth McIntyre

Shit - it's cold!

Okay, its not all that cold today and its supposed to be in the 50's by Tuesday, but this is Northern New York, so don't put away the longjohns just yet.

Now this next item is not poetry, unless you happen to be on the receiving end of unattended children, in which case it not only qualifies as poetry, it should also be considered as an ammendment to the constitution:

I'd be willing to throw in a kitty with litter box as well.

Odds & Ends

POLL QUESTION

I took another Zogby Poll this evening, and at the end of this one, they offered the opportunity to suggest a question for a future Zogby poll. My question:


"If Jerusalem became the home for the United Nations, becoming the first "world city" - open to everyone of all faiths, do you believe this would provide the impetus necessary for peace in the Middle East?"


Feel free to share your opinions here as well. I think the Dali Lama should be in charge - no, I'm not kidding - think about it. Or not.


THE YANKEES

In 1978, as the Yankees closed in on the Red Sox, I was mere weeks away from getting married, and Bucky Dent was only days away from becoming Bucky "F*****" Dent in all of New England. In Yankeeland, we believe, while in New England, and even parts of New York, the Red Sox Nation is suffering through a region-wide run on Aspirin, Tylenol, sleeping aids, tissues and Depends.

I had the pleasure of seeing Monday nights game in person with my son, and two friends. I hadn't been to the stadium since Opening Day 1996 - Andy Petite pitching in a snowstorm - and it was a real treat to get back there. I also had the good fortune to be the guest of a gentleman (I use that term loosely Lar) who is a seasoned veteran when it comes to preparing for a ballgame. If you're taking kids, or if you just like to save $200-300 for food, bring your subs/water/chips, etc. in a clear plastic bag and you will be allowed to bring them in with you.

I know you need to make money to pay all those huge salaries George, but $6 for a beer and $5 for a hot dog just violate the basic economic principles most of us live by here in Lewis County.


JOYCE KILMER


There was one other thing about the trip to New York City, or more specifically, The Bronx, that has stirred some different feelings. We parked on the Grand Concourse and saved another chunk of change by walking a few blocks to the stadium. Just up the street from where we parked was Joyce Kilmer Park. I asked my son if he knew who Joyce Kilmer was, and he had no idea, while one of the other guys asked who she was.


Sgt. Joyce Kilmer (1886-1918) was killed in the second Battle of the Marne in WWI, and at the time of his death he was a well known poet in the United States. After my brief dissertation on Mr. Kilmer and the recitation of only the last two lines of the poem, which was all I could remember from my Catholic School days, I wondered what kind of poetry was being studied in middle schools and high schools today.

This very brief poem could be considered trite by more eclectic tastes, but having found it again, I'll share what I think should be the aim of all writers, and something I'm not very good at yet: meaningful brevity.


From his book, "Trees and Other Poems":


Trees

(For Mrs. Henry Mills Alden)

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in Summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.


Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.


Photo and link - Joyce Kilmer Memorial Forest:
http://www.fs.fed.us/wildflowers/regions/southern/JoyceKilmer/index.shtml



GROUND ZERO

The only way Ahmahdinejahd should be allowed at Ground Zero is if he's wearing a bulls eye as a yarmulke, and every Jew in New York City is given an AK47. A bit cheeky and far fetched I'll grant you, but fun to consider nonetheless.

On Middle Age

I was told the other day that I was middle-aged and that I should look forward to my golden years. First off, I don't expect to live to be 112, so at the tender age of 56, the only thing I'm in the middle of is hair loss and girth growth. And as far as the "Golden Years" go, I think someone has again mistaken pyrite for the more malleable metal.

Unless one knows their date of departure, middle-aged could be any age, but most of us associate middle-age with that period of time when the invincibility of youth gives way to the uncertainty of time. A very good friend of mine, even more middle-aged than I am, sent this poem to me the other day. His name is Charlie Walker, and I hope you enjoy his work as much as I did:

ON MIDDLE AGE

There is that strange sunlit moment
When, as a pebble tossed carelessly into the air,
Life itself arcs and reaches a shimmering apogee.
I can climb no higher
And yet I struggle against the inexorable fall.

How profligate I have been...
Squandering the days of half a lifetime.
Never realizing until the toll was called
How precious mere moments could become.
My God! I have lost whole years!

Long ago, still fearing death,
I foolishly wished to live forever.
While not yet the friend it will become,
Death seems a gentler, more acceptable estate.
Now we can meet on more even terms.

Each year passed, is a room, neatly labeled.
Of triumphs and failure; no hint is given by the doors.
They are closed and sealed forever.
Yet, contained within are the patterns for what must come.
Images from which time will weave its unclear cloth.

Still the fabric of dreams.

There is quite a bit to be digested, so read it over a couple of times and find yourself.

The Doldrums

The wind has little to say and the heat prevails
Don't know when the sails will fill again, but they will
They always have
The hour to mark draws near
Without her - without the wind
My compass is awry, but He navigates
So the journey continues, the color of the sky unimportant
Just another twinkle in the galaxy
Some images seen now only with eyes closed