“I look down and see
children dancing in the dark.
This is my answer.”
A friend and I were talking about the meaning of life and he asked me the question above. My reply was this poem.
Creeping over hills
and sliding into valleys…
What hides in the mist?
– another golden oldie that I’m posting for the fun of it.
There are many who would make their name
and seek the glory of the limelight –
there are few who’re prepared for fame.
There are those who like to claim
that it’s all theirs by right.
There are many who would make their name.
There are so many that are all the same;
they twinkle and then fall from sight.
There are few who’re prepared for fame.
Their life laid bare, a public shame,
displayed for our vulgar delight.
There are many who would make their name.
For the successful, a lifelong game
of putting on masks every night.
There are few who’re prepared for fame.
But in the end, who can blame
them for reaching towards such heights.
There are many who would make their name;
there are few who’re prepared for fame.
I couldn’t believe that sight.
My skin’s as white as a pall;
it gave me such a fright.
It almost seemed a trick of the light
save for the shadows on the wall.
I couldn’t believe that sight.
Ghosts, goblins, and a wight
strolling boldly with visible gall.
It gave me such a fright.
I followed and watched their evening rite –
I couldn’t resist that phantom call.
I couldn’t believe that sight.
And as the ceremony reached its height
their voices shook the very walls.
It gave me such a fright.
I hear their revelry each night
the echoes of their spectral ball.
I couldn’t believe that sight;
it gave me such a fright.
I’m listening to the sound of rain
caressing each blade of grass,
lingering on the window pane.
It lays low the sugar cane –
that tumble down with a crash.
I’m listening to the sound of rain.
I lift high my head and crane
towards the recent lightning’s flash
lingering on the window pane.
The whistling of the raindrop train
and booming splendor of each splash.
I’m listening to the sound of rain.
How many days have I lain
watching it, in my blanket sash,
lingering on the window pane?
Though it’s so simple and so plain,
I love each and every moistened lash.
I’m listening to the sound of rain
lingering on the window pane.
Let loose and let ‘er rip!
This is the only chance we get –
grab life by the horns and enjoy the trip.
Sing, dance, and shake your hip;
happiness is a just mindset.
Let loose and let ‘er rip!
Head on out and hit the strip
for a couple of beers and a cigarette.
Grab life by the horns and enjoy the trip.
Mosey on down and take a dip;
don’t be afraid to get your feet wet.
Let loose and let ‘er rip!
Enjoy the taste of the lip
of that certain someone you just met.
Grab life by the horns and enjoy the trip.
Learn to take a bow and do a flip
and live without a safety net.
Let loose and let ‘er rip,
grab life by the horns and enjoy the trip!
I saw in you a vision rare
lighting the contours of your face
beneath the canopy of your hair.
There was something in your stare
that compelled me to give chase.
I saw in you a vision rare.
That wink and smile, a sultry dare
that made me want to stand and race
beneath the canopy of your hair.
I approached without a care
to all the jealous in that place.
I saw in you a vision rare.
After an evening beyond compare,
you pulled me into an embrace
beneath the canopy of your hair.
Now, I say, we make quite the pair
sauntering to our own pace.
I saw in you a vision rare
beneath the canopy of your hair.
It’s the thing that makes us croon,
cackling as though driven mad
under the quicksilver moon.
Written in ancient text and rune
in the stories I heard as a lad.
It’s the thing that makes us croon.
Hidden in both dance and tune,
often making the weary glad
under the quicksilver moon.
The saving grace of the buffoon
and tool of every wretched cad.
It’s the thing that makes us croon.
Often ending far too soon
crushing the hearts of the sad
under the quicksilver moon.
The blessing of all those who swoon
and curse of those who’ve been had.
It’s the thing that makes us croon
under the quicksilver moon.
Do you know the nature of the Raven
or of the calamity he brings?
You’ll not find one who is more craven.
Stubble-chinned or clean-shaven,
he’ll beguile you with the song he sings.
Do you know the nature of the Raven?
He’ll play you on by misbehavin’:
twisting words, belying meanings.
You’ll not find one who is more craven.
Dare you bring him to your haven,
a victim of his smooth preenings.
Do you know the nature of the Raven?
He says that you’re the one who’ll save him
and pull you down beneath his wings.
You’ll not find one who is more craven.
By the morning you’ll be needing savin’
for you’ll be dancing on his strings.
Do you know the nature of the Raven –
you’ll not find one who is more craven.
Hear now a familiar tale
of wartime pageantry.
Can you hear the ravens’ wail?
They traveled far over hill and dale
and forests ripe with trees.
Hear now a familiar tale.
Arriving at last, hearty and hale,
to fight for their country.
Can you hear the ravens’ wail?
They clashed against, with weapon and mail,
the rival infantry.
Hear now a familiar tale.
Blood quenching the ground, a hearty ale
poured from men at their knees.
Can you hear the ravens’ wail?
None were left to say which side prevailed
in that visceral sea.
Hear now a familiar tale –
can you hear the ravens’ wail?
A (wise) man of two faces 