|
I see St. Paul walking the south coast
Do I see Timothy close behind?
Or just a comforting figment of my mind?
The whole world calls this place Athenstown
They call it wise and picturesque
Out past the shoreline I see a shipwreck
My thoughts and feet are turning Northward
St. Paul and friends are heading West
They left a package at my door, prayed for the best
Tore out the tape and packing peanuts
Gave one good look and had to sigh
Not in despair but like a rider on a redeye flight
I tucked it in my pocket and rode off in the Sun
King Alexander pointed me to station one
But then St. Timothy he tugged me by the wrist
and took me to the fork so many times I’d missed
and I could tell he was real by dust marks on his coat
he pointed to the right and gave the greenlight, go
I swore the universe behind me would explode
But he patted my back and said “We’ll see you home”
A few days have passed, I’m going steady
The gift is still somewhere with me
My route is by the dust and not the sea
mercy
Have mercy
have mercy on me
|
|
Wind blows through an open window
chills the bone of the stowaway
his sold-off conspirator says to him,
"We should have gone home yesterday"
Stowaway says, "I've got no home no more,
but I've seen all this before"
Dear friends with names long forgotten
highway strangers known throughout the land
whatever kept them running against the wind
they kept in their souls like keys in their hand
sure to make the stowaway stop and smile
through each long and lonesome mile
I pray I've got it in my pocket
like a ticket to the edge of the world
with friends, strangers, and stowaways
we'll cling to keep the tattered sails unfurled
it's not so impossible to cope
when you live on hard earned hope
we'll climb this hard and ugly slope
with love and hard earned hope
|
|
Set sail you sailors and take to the seas
there's sunlight reflecting on shores you shall reach
but I ask you see to it, to clear and keep clean
a shelf in your mind to remember me
A rain will fall heavy on ceilings of tin
and long years of roaming may wear your wheels thin
I hope I am someone you'll think on and grin
as you sweep up the past and the present begins
but a life in nostalgia you please must abstain
for my rusty trophies will buy you no fame
why toast to yesteryear's symphony in a bar
when outside the window lies an ocean of stars?
So box me up gently behind closet doors
and bury me under a secondhand store's
outfit of odyssey, simple and warm
and may memory be an eye in the storm
now fly on you songbirds and take to the sky
there's better things coming so dry your bright eyes
but I ask you see to it, to clear and keep clean
a shelf in your mind to remember be
|
|
Italian poet, lines on his face
dust on the mirror, lines on his page
obituary yesterday read
‘the poet has laid down his pen’
A penny a pint was all he would pay
a beatnik by night, a raven by day
when the bartender heard the news
he sang that old Carter tune
“Will you miss me when I’m gone?”
was all he remembered of the song
Then he poured one more, for the raven he knew
had opened his cage and flew
Italian poet, lines on his face
dust on the mirror, lines on his page
obituary yesterday read
‘the poet has laid down his pen’
In a cold Jersey hotel, a woman’s in town
clutching a photo of lovers in brown
and sepia hues, the poet and she
In love in May ‘53
They called it “Summer,” she was his muse
but now summer’s over, the autumn is blue
the service next morning she will not attend
in sepia, Summer won’t end
Italian poet, lines on his face
dust on the mirror, lines on his page
obituary yesterday read
‘the poet has laid down his pen’
The town’s only priest for him did pray
rosary beads in elderly sway
and welcomed the mourners funeral day
sad as a rainy parade
A frown on his face, just like the clowns
He blessed the grave, the circus closed down
the priest and bartender locked the gate
A bird flew by that day
Italian poet, lines on his face
dust on the mirror, lines on his page
obituary yesterday read
‘the poet has laid down his pen’
A newspaper writer was given the task
of telling the county the poet had passed
One sheet of paper covered in notes
on a man he had never known
Almost a paragraph, one line short
Then he felt clever and added one more
the newspapers hit as the paperboys yawned
and the new world was gone…
now the world knew he was gone
|
