My song

I’ve always wanted a song. When asked what song did I call my own, I have been known to respond jokingly, “Nowhere Man.”

It wasn’t because of the lyrics. If I had listened to the lyrics, I would have known that wasn’t me. I just liked the title.

I’ve thought about Simon & Garfunkel’s “The Boxer.” Love the song but it’s one of those pick-my-rear-end-out-of-the-dirt-and-get-on-with-it songs.

It does that. And it does it in aces. But I can’t say that it is a song that defines me.

Then I heard Greg Lake of Emerson Lake & Palmer perform his “Footprints in the Snow.”

I chanced upon the song by accident. I had heard that Keith Emerson had committed suicide. To honor this great musician whom I had loved in my youth, I went back and listened to several of their albums, then I found Footprints. At first, I thought maybe Greg had written it for Keith–and that may be so. I found it on the 1992 “Black Moon” and began to re-evaluate. Maybe Greg composed this song for one of his children. Or a lover.

But there seemed to be more to it than that. At least, for me. Over the years since that 2016 night, I’ve listened to Footprints hundreds of times. Wasn’t sure why I loved the song but I loved the song.

The other night I pulled it up and listened to Footprints once again. And it hit me. This is a song about my relationship with myself. It’s a struggle of trying to come to terms with that relationship.

“First time when you looked at me
You tried to hide but I could see
A special beauty in your eyes
Passion flying like a spark
Like an arrow to the mark
I feel it sting my jealousy

Before you know there’s footprints in the snow

Desire like a river flows
Where it comes from no one knows
It isn’t heard, it isn’t seen.
Love just like a flower grows
And then God only knows
It comes down like guillotine

Now I feel the rain
of love torn by a hurricane
One night eclipsed the sun
How deep still waters run

How deep they go like footprints in the snow

Take my love into your brest
Commit my spirit to the test
You will see him like a knight
His armour gleams
We’ll fly upon his angel’s wings
Above the clouds in rainbow rings
We can sail a ship of dreams

If you will take my hand
We can cross this desert made of sand
We can break in through the ice
And feel the wind of paradise
We’ll feel it blow our footprints in the snow

Anytime you feel alone
Just raise your hand, pick up the phone
Take in my number, there I’ll be
If one day your stars won’t shine
I will give you some of mine
Cause they could fall so easily

We both know there’s footprints in the snow.”

Do you have a song you claim as your own? What is it, and why?

Why did God give me one big mouth to stick my two feet in?

Another Uncle Bardie lyric. This is what a country song should really sound like.

My wife is divorcing me
My girlfriend is mad as hell
Got run over by my truck
My dawg bit me in the tail
Lost that lottery ticket
And its six numbers to win
Shot myself in the toe
Hurt like all kinds of sin

CHORUS:
Cause I drank that moonshine
That cornlikker’s getting to me
Oh, that sweet shine of shines
Sure made a man out of me

Went myself a cow roping
Tipped some cows on the sides
Rustled up some of that beef
Pushed ‘em into my double wide
Bull saw me in the pasture
Bull took a liking to me
Now I got a big ole hole
In that place I cannot see

CHORUS:
Cause I drank that moonshine
That cornlikker’s getting to me
Oh, that sweet shine of shines
Sure made a man out of me

BRIDGE:
Why did God give me one big mouth to stick my two feet in?
I’m a-thinking the mouth is lonely and needs two good friends

Got myself some Jesus
Off to the church I went
Down came the big ole steeple
They said it was an accident
Now I’m six feet under
My grave is double-wide
My mouth’s full of dirt
Toes pointing to the sky

CHORUS:
Cause I drank that moonshine
That cornlikker’s getting to me
Oh, that sweet shine of shines
Sure made a man out of me

The Coronavirus Blues

The lonely vending machine
He’s sitting in the corner
Waiting for the coins to drop
Nickels, dimes and quarters

But there ain’t no coin
There ain’t no coin
There ain’t no coin
To drop
But there ain’t no coin
There ain’t no coin
There ain’t no coin
For the slot

There’s a washing mahine
Standing in the laudromat
Waiting for the dirty clothes
Stained with mud and chocolate

But there ain’t no coin
There ain’t no coin
There ain’t no coin
To drop
But there ain’t no coin
There ain’t no coin
There ain’t no coin
For the slot

And the slots off in Vegas
They’re waiting for a handout
From the unlucky many
Who are down for the count

But there ain’t no coin
There ain’t no coin
There ain’t no coin
To drop
But there ain’t no coin
There ain’t no coin
There ain’t no coin
For the slot

A haiku moment

Who is to say where a poem comes from.

Sometimes a poem sneaks up on me and knocks me in the head. It’s always a surprise when it does. Which isn’t very often . I smile my thanksgiving, knowing what a gift the poem is. And when it’s a haiku, it’s even better.

This one came out of nowhere. I had just poured hot water over the teabag and let the cup of tea simmer in the warm water. Staring into the tea, there were a number of things reflecting back at me: my face, a pond I had swam in when I was in my early teens, a teacher who had dispensed wisdom the way a vending machine dispenses chocolate. Then again, sometimes I stare into a cup of tea, and all I see is a cup of tea.

Trying to think of what it meant–this moment that stopped eternity–I found this poem come into my mind.

a cup of tea
just a cup of tea
and nothing more

 

O’Toole and His Bag of Gold

This one is for the coming St. Paddy’s Day on Tuesday. So have a Guinness and enjoy:

If you’re Irish, you’ve heard all sorts of tales about the leprechauns. This was one of the strangest that ever came my way.

The one-eyed leprechaun, O’Toole, was an old warrior who’d seen more than his share of battles. He was tired of all the war and very little of being left in peace. In his younger days, there wasn’t a tussle he wouldn’t go out of his way to find. He’d been in so many scraps he’d come to be known by the others of his breed as especially mean-tempered. And many of these quarrelsome altercations he’d fought were in defense of what was rightfully his, his precious bag of gold.

Yet here it was a fine spring day in the Glen of Cloongallon, and there was another Irishman slogging along on the path below O’Toole’s hidden green cottage, and he’d come looking for trouble. Of that, the leprechaun was sure. As sure as Patrick was the patron saint of Ireland, he was wanting the leprechaun’s gold. And he was loud, so loud he could be heard all the way to Dublin and back. They were always noisy, these greedy knuckleheaded humans after his treasure. There was not getting around it. O’Toole and his solitude was not to be left alone

Though his muscles ached and he wasn’t as young as he used to be, O’Toole, being O’Toole, couldn’t let a challenge like this go by the wayside. He set aside his pipe and his hammer and the shoe he’d been working on and rose from his wooden chair. He took a quick gulp from a mug of poteen, strapped on his short sword and stepped through the cottage door.

He looked to the sky and sure enough there was a rainbow. He walked past the hawthorn, the ash, and the blackthorn hedges and between the chestnuts toward the man. He was a tall muscular man, all dressed in green, with a shillelagh in his right hand. He called himself Darcy and he stood by the six large standing stones. The leprechaun stopped aways off from the man. Then he drew his sword.

“What is it ye’ll be wanting, Muscles?” O’Toole called.

“I’ll be a-needing yer gold, Leprechaun,” Darcy answered. “Where there’s a rainbow, there must be a leprechaun and his gold.”

“Me? A leprechaun?” O’Toole laughed. “There’s no fairy folk here.”

“That’s not what I’m a-believing. I would be a-guessing ye’re one of the wee people yer own self, tain’t ye?”

“I’m a-telling ye none of the folk ye’re seeking are here in the meadow.” O’Toole swung his sword twice.

“I been chasing that there rainbow for a dozen or so years and here’s the end of it, right here in yer parlor. Ye’re not denying it, are ye?”

“It’s not me parlor. I just happened along.”

Darcy laughed as he pounded the end of the shillelagh against his left palm.

“Be that or not, I’ll be taking yer gold, and I’ll be taking it now.” Darcy started toward O’Toole.

“What will it be worth to ye? Yer own sweet life?”

“That and all me ancestors, as well.” Darcy continued to advance.

“Stop there, or it’s yer head. There’s many a headless chucklehead walking around in this dale. Here ye’ll be one more ghost for the banshees to chase.”

“Ye think ye’ll be about to keep yer head out of the way of me shillelagh?” Darcy asked as he stopped and reflected upon the circumstances that he and O’Toole found themselves in.

“Club or no, ye’ll be a dead chucklehead.”

Darcy raised his stick and O’Toole raised his sword. The two stood there eye to eye and waiting. The leprechaun knew he could defeat the chucklehead before him, but what was the point? He was tired and his muscles ached and there would be others. There were always others. There was no stopping them. As much as he loved his gold, it was a curse. O’Toole lowered his sword.

“So, ye wants me gold? And ye’re about to die for it.”

“Live or die, it’ll be mine.”

“And yer ancestors, knuckle-brain?”

“They’ll die for it too.”

O’Toole sheathed his sword and reached behind himself. When he turned back toward Darcy, he had a large bag of gold in his hand. He dropped it into Darcy’s palm. Then he said, “Take the gold and all the troubles that will beseech ye because of it.”

With that, the old leprechaun turned and walked away happy.