Of all the many places,
Here you are drifted away
In a song of timelessness.
The water; small waves lap the shores.
The hills; the pines, the clay roofs.
Ships ply slowly the gray waters.
Sun of the east on the many minarets,
On the sparkling wakes between the lands,
And Hagia Sophia graces the sky.
As the sun sets, the skirts rise
In the steep narrow cobbled streets;
Today as yesterday.
Lovely, it’s song of timelessness.
The oboe sings its melancholy song
A piano key or two, tell their story too:
My favorite Bacharach comes to an end.
Familiar patchwork of molded concrete
And new glass buildings,
Rise in varying degrees of innocence and guilt
Over the littered, heaving, now hopeful,
Now inspiring, now wonderful streets below.
Now the Requiem plays.
I, transported, uplifted, by its
Anonymous, eternal wonder,
Drink my Kingfisher from a can
And whistle along with the Kyrie
As I look through the window
Over the artificial world
Of the manicured hotel patio.
Over the molded concrete,
Over the inspiring humanity,
Over the seas, over the far-away shore,
To a lovely loving wife
And my children
The angels of my soul.
Do I do right by them?
Enough for them?
I do not. I do not.
My belly is full of my own wishes
That I have hungrily eaten.
I think to myself, how wanting-to,
and doing, are very separate things…
I am off again
Over the tree tops
Through the clouds
Past time and space
The joy of the ages
The tragedy of unnecessary suffering.
I am the luckiest man alive.
None of us is better than the other at the start
Few better in the middle, and
Our souls are all equal at the end.
Liber scriptus proferetur
In quo totum continetur
Et lux perpetua luceat eis
Our time is short.
My time is short.
Lord, let them not weep.
Let me my sense of humor keep;
And leave the world a better place
Then when the sun first saw my face.
For my children and wife,
May I be what they need, all their life.
The sweet song ends and I quickly soar
Back to my room in Bangalore.
To rags and hope, and the Kingfisher’s gone;
Time to go down, to the manicured lawn.
(Written during a very long day and night of delays at New York Laguardia airport)
Drip drop thunder boomer
No one’s fault not leaving sooner
But on and on, here I sit
Indefinitely stuck in this pile of shit
Inching me closer, beer by beer
Whoa, how’d that bird get in here?
Now back to my story
Of love and loss
And lack of floss
Where droves of fools
Their company’s tools
Toil and drink
And watch the pink
Of magazine covers
And sad sappy lovers
Waiting the time away
I drift to green spaces
With familiar old faces
Wishing I were there
Made bolder by boredom
We start to chat some
A moment that, with opinions shared
Twixt folk to never again be paired
Oh this tale of import none
Well past our setting sun
Plays its stage in future and past
But can’t for all eternity last
Breathe deep the helplessness
Surrender to its sweet caress
For surely past all this time and space
I’ll land soft home, in a wonderful place.
Home by Friday
The hotel pillow
Limp as a willow
Still, don’t despair
Over all the threads bare
Close your eyes and push through the fray
Either way, you’ll be home by Friday.