Tag Archives: dreams

What Really Matters

Posted on February 22, 2007 by | Leave a comment

Could be bitter; what’s the point?
Each generation must anoint
its own legion of heroes to cut down.

Complaining they did not pick me
this time around seems to be
another way of sinking in the ground.

Between the cracks sometimes you fall;
you’re lucky to be seen at all.
So many live and die without a sound.

So what that no one knows my name,
that somehow I’ve eluded fame?
despite all that could be I’m still around.

What really matters, after all?
You get right up after you fall
without expecting some reward each time you do.

What really matters, in the end?
You find some truth, maybe a friend,
because the only thing left to become is you.

Could be bitter; what’s the use?
The world needs pointless self-abuse
like it needs one more song about the rain.

Insisting some conspiracy
must be to blame, and woe is me,
just sounds like an excuse for being lame.

Between the headlines that you read,
you find the news you really need
or else you don’t learn anything at all.

So what that no one sings my praise
then tires of it, in a few days?
The headlines make the other print so small.

What really matters, after all?
You get right up after you fall
without expecting some reward each time you do.

What really matters, in the end?
You find some truth, maybe a friend,
because the only thing left to become is you.

22 FEB 2007

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‘Til I Die

Posted on January 18, 2007 by | Leave a comment

Maybe I’m a dreamer, but I sure don’t want to be
one of those two old guys sitting in the balcony:
a grizzled, bitter muppet who makes fun of everything
and never gets up off his ass, and on the stage to sing.

Maybe I’m a geezer, but I’ve got a youthful heart
that’s ready, anytime, to get on stage and do my part;
could be that I’ll look foolish, but I’ve done that bit before:
been some kind of a fool for almost thirty years or more.

‘Cause I can play the guitar and sing circles ’round a song;
the feeling that I get on stage can’t possibly be wrong:
that you can change the world with music, if you only try.
I’ll be an old musician, ’til I die.

Maybe I’m old-fashioned, but I learned back in the day
that every kind of music’s good, in its own unique way;
from Lawrence Welk and Hee-Haw, and the Porter Wagoner show
I figured out there is no song that you can’t make your own.

Maybe it’s kinda crazy, but I wish you’d take a chance
on an old guitar picker who’s too old to learn to dance;
together, we could play some things that are worth listening to,
and change the world, if only for a brief hour or two.

‘Cause I can play the guitar; hell, I’ve played for thirty years;
that should be worth some to you, at the start of your career:
let my voice of experience assist you while you try.
to grow as a musician, ’til you die.

Maybe I’m a dreamer, my whole life spent out of sync;
why ain’t he rich or famous, I can hear some of you think.
You’re right, to some degree, but money ain’t the only thing.
Sometimes, the prize is that you get to sing.

18 JAN 2007

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Burn That Bridge

Posted on December 29, 2006 by | Leave a comment

Dwelling on the future
never seemed to make much sense:
splitting our infinitives
just wastes the present tense.
Why worry on what might be
and dwell on hopes and dreams,
when what counts of past and future
is what comes in between?

Yeah, maybe we’ll be famous;
Maybe we’ll strike it rich;
Maybe the car will leave the road
and leave us in the ditch;
Maybe we’ll stay together,
maybe we’ll drift away;
you can’t predict the future;
all you have is here, today.

We’re on this road together
until we both call it quits;
whatever happens further on,
let’s burn that bridge when we get to it.

Dwelling on what might be
never gets us anywhere;
imagining some great misfortune
waiting for us there
distracts us from the present,
robs us of our savoir faire.
We have each other right now;
let tomorrow meet us there.

Yeah, maybe we’ll be homeless;
Maybe we’ll go back to school;
Maybe the weak will tame the strong,
and wise men act like fools.
Maybe we’ll live forever,
maybe we’ll fade away;
you can’t predict the future;
all you have is here, today.

We’re on this road together
until we both call it quits;
you never know what’s coming
don’t burn that bridge ’til we get to it.

29 DEC 2006

One of my pet sayings is “Let’s not stress over that right now; we’ll burn that bridge when we come to it.” It’s very much akin, in my mind, to the Sufi saying, “Never name the well from which you will not drink.” In other words, don’t say you’re never gonna have a chicken sandwich while you’re still waiting for the hen to lay eggs. Until the time is right, until there is that perfectly auspicious alignment of the planets that triggers the cataclysmic cosmic chain reaction that results in the events that form your tomorrow, you really have no idea what it’s gonna look like. Sure, you have plans and visions and hopes and dreams, but until the proof becomes pudding you don’t really know what it is — and you certainly don’t know the flavor until you take that first bite. Wow. A lot of mixed metaphors here. But you get idea. Live for today.

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Midlife Chrysler

Posted on April 28, 2006 by | Leave a comment

Some dreams are meant to fade away with age;
starting another chapter means you’ve got to turn the page.
What seemed the promised land back in your youth
becomes a lawn to mow, and it’s the truth:
it’s hard when you start watching from the side
when you remember how it felt to ride

It don’t get good mileage, doesn’t have too much appeal
The tires are going bald, there’s a loose screw behind the wheel
When we’re on the street I’m sure that people stop and stare
Don’t where we’re headed, but I hope that we get there
We keep getting old, but not much wiser
Welcome to my Midlife Chrysler.

Sometimes its hard to try and act your age;
just ’cause you’re getting old, doesn’t mean that you can’t rage.
But battles won or lost don’t make a war,
when you’ve got more to lose now than before:
Yet it’s hard to let that feeling slip away
when the balance of your life is yesterday.

It don’t get good mileage, doesn’t have too much appeal
The tires are going bald, there’s a loose screw behind the wheel
When we’re on the street I’m sure that people stop and stare
Don’t where we’re headed, but I hope that we get there
We keep getting old, but not much wiser
Back in the shop … my Midlife Chrysler.

You may call it vintage, but it’s not the same as wine;
Past a certain point, you end up tinkering all the time.
Then the parts start wearing out that are hard to replace
and all that mileage shows up on your face.

You can’t put a wild beast in a cage;
and there behind the curtain, you’re still standing on the stage.
The pace is slower, but the view is grand;
we can watch the young fools, hand in hand.
This ol’ ride’s still rolling, and there’s room enough for two
No telling what this crazy heap can do…

It don’t get good mileage, doesn’t have too much appeal
The tires are going bald, there’s a loose screw behind the wheel
When we’re on the street I’m sure that people stop and stare
Don’t where we’re headed, but I hope that we get there
Sure we’re getting old, but somewhat wiser …
Hop on in my Midlife Chrysler.

28 APR 2006

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Hanging on Dreams

Posted on January 3, 2006 by | Leave a comment

I know you want me to say
I love you in some tired cliche:
forever in a bright pink bow
with Hallmark lines I ought to know;
and when I speak, some hidden strings
should start to play. It should be Spring;
then as the moonlight filters through
the clouds, you’ll know that I love you.

Well, our life isn’t like TV,
and that Prince Charming isn’t me:
a handsome, careless perfect fool
who’s crown is missing just your jewel,
and when I speak, the words I choose
may be too rough, and be misused;
but when you hear, you’ll understand
that I deserve to be your man.

That’s all that I have, not anything more
If that’s not enough, I’ll walk out that door
’cause if me pretending is what you long for
it’s not me you’re after; and all that’s in store
is no happy ending, no fairy tale glow,
just holding to dreams, when we ought to let go.

I know you want me to be
more like your girlhood fantasy:
forever on a big white horse
prepared to face some dragon’s force;
and when I come back from the wars
your love alone will soothe my sores;
then we will break the magic spell
that made the past a living hell.

Well, our life’s not a storybook;
no golden apples can be shook
from that old tree in our front yard,
the future’s certain to be hard.
But this I promise you, my dear:
It’s not loneliness you should fear;
‘Cause I’ll be here to see it through:
to me, that’s saying I love you.

That’s all that I have, not anything more
If that’s not enough, I’ll walk out that door
’cause if me pretending is what you long for
it’s not me you’re after; and all that’s in store
is no happy ending, no fairy tale glow,
just holding to dreams, when we ought to let go.

03 JAN 2005

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The Aftermath

Posted on November 19, 2005 by | Leave a comment

Ain’t no use in looking back;
your eyes will be fooled by the mirror.
What seemed once to be so small,
becomes too big and crystal clear

Ain’t no use in laying blame;
The line between who’s right and wrong
is blurred with every movement on:
The tide rolls in, and then it’s gone.

What good is simply hanging on
to dreams that fade and turn to dust?
We struggle forward ’cause we must,
like darkness crawling to the dawn.

What good is thinking might have beens,
or wishing for some different path?
They won’t help you to understand
or live on in the aftermath.

Ain’t no use in looking back;
let shadows take the past and go.
There’s not much point in memories
that only say I told you so.

Ain’t no use in wondering why;
some things aren’t meant to understand,
and reason’s never all you need
to carry on the best you can.

What good is crying for a dream
that’s faded and returned to dust?
You struggle forward ’cause you must,
like winter’s snow melts into green.

What good is mourning what you’ve lost
in shadows somewhere down the path?
You’ve got to try to start again
and rebuild in the aftermath.

There’s just no point in sad tears
for the wasted years,
the time spent building those castles of sand;
As the new morning nears
and the stormclouds clear
you work with what you’ve got at hand.

What good is trying to hang on
to dreams of what is dead and gone,
leaves turned to dust there on the lawn,
the memory of a faded song

What good is dwelling on the past?
Those days are gone, the die are cast.
You’ve got to play the hand you’re dealt
and live on in the aftermath.

19 NOV 2005

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Stars at Night: a sestina

Posted on July 20, 2005 by | Leave a comment

To look out at the stars at night
against a distant tapestry
of endless black, that seems to spread
beyond our fickle sense of time
and stretch the limits of our sense
to breaking, is to feed a dream.

No simple, selfish kind of dream –
the kind that wakes you in the night,
half-conscious, where you only sense
your astral footprints on the tapestry
like sand grains, swept by tides of time
into the ocean’s ancient spread;

nor nightmares through which are spread
vile creatures half-real and half-dream,
who live to devour all, in time;
dividing sunlit day from fearful night
with claws that rend that fragile tapestry
between unconscious fear and sense.

No, this dream gives to us the sense
that all of what we know, if spread
out on the floor, or hung as tapestry,
would seem as fleeting as a dream,
a single faint star on a full moon night,
a mere second in the endless hours of time.

The palimpsest we know as time,
the fickle moments with which we try to make sense
of what seem random shifts from day to night,
great gifts and curses wrapped and spread
like shiny baubles on a blackened velvet dream;
on our illusions hang life’s frail tapestry.

Yet mixed among the threads that weave our tapestry
are warp and woof from far beyond our time;
alone, under the stars, sometimes we dream
of ancestors and progeny, who sense
our presence, head back, legs and arms spread,
offering ourselves, and them, back to the night.

At the tapestry’s frayed edge, we sense
an end to time; and hopeful spread
this dream, in silent prayer, each starry night.

20 JUL 2005

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