I Killed the Alien (Vacuum)
My sweet grand pup, Sir Lancelot, was a rock of devotion, steadfast and ever true - always ensuring the security of our home.
The alien came out of nowhere
Big and fast and round
Slithering on its belly
With a boastful, angry sound.
I sprung into quick action
Always prepared for the worst
I’d show this alien a thing, maybe two
Attack just like I’d always rehearsed.
I barked and I barked until out of breath
Bared my teeth and gave a fierce growl
Then I pounced on that alien’s really long neck
Stopping him dead in his tracks with a big howl.
My master paused and gave me a smirk
(Of praise cuz I'm savage, of that I am sure);
I stood ever ready between the two
Ensuring my universe stayed all secure.
I bit its neck, best to check it was immobile
I’d show this alien its rightful spot
So, pulling, I moved it to the trash bin
Where I was hellbent it could sit and rot.
Strangely enough, that was my last rescue
My master has banished me to the outside
That damn alien’s enjoying all the comforts of home
While my living conditions have all been downsized.
Storyteller
I have always been drawn to music. Even at seven years of age, my heart and feet beat to the sound of Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker Suite or a Polonaise by Chopin. I am now considerably older, and through the years, my musical world has evolved to include a diverse array of musical artists, including, but not limited to the Beatles, Cat Stevens, Bruce Springsteen, Jimmy Buffett, Dan Fogelberg, Nirvana, NSYNC, Disturbed, K-Pop, Italian and Spanish vocalists, and many others. Gravitating to music has consistently been an avenue I’ve chosen, through good or bad times, and, if for no other reason because of the sheer wonder of it that never fails to resonate deep within, bringing both solace and joy. Music has never failed to meet me in moments of time not easily forgotten, perhaps due to circumstances found in the moment or simply due to the sheer beauty found in the music. Either way, music has chronicled much of my life.
While listening recently to Pandora recently (Dan Fogelberg Radio), I heard a large assortment of songs by not only Fogelberg himself, but by Jim Croce, Jackson Browne, Carole King, Cat Stevens, and many others, and I was struck by the stark contrast in the songwriting styles of the 70’s and 80’s when compared with more recent compositions. Musicians from the earlier eras seemed to largely fill their lyrics with high emotions, descriptive imagery, and amazing poetry, and in doing so, were able to weave illustrious tales complimented by musical tunes. Indeed, these musicians were not simply lyricists or composers: they were masterful storytellers. This is not to say that today’s musicians do not achieve the same method; however, my perception is that it is more easily evidenced in the songs of past days, as I wish to expand upon in this piece.
………………………..
The late Dan Fogelberg is a big favorite. Not only was he equipped with an angelic voice that covered several octaves or ranges, allowing him to harmonize with himself and do his own background vocals, he was also a poetic genius, musician, composer, and lyricist who could easily play an array of instruments. Fogelberg is largely known for the song, “Same Old Lang Syne”, often played over Christmas holidays. The song details the story of his return home where he unexpectedly encountered his former lover in a convenience store on Christmas Eve. The story – or rather the song – is a special kind of gift in and of itself, not only because of the lyrical magic, but also because of the beauty in its musical composition, which was based upon Tchaikovsky’s “Auld Lang Syne”. I was driving along the interstate on a cold, winter day the very first time I heard this song played across the radio. Of course, the tune was captivating, but even more so, the emotion it evoked was overwhelming, a mixture of joy and regret, encompassed strongly in the lyrics. The song was both wistful and romantic in a tragic sort of way, and as I listened, it struck a chord within me so deeply that I felt I personally knew the man who had written it. To this day, I identify just as much with the bittersweet song now as I did at twenty-three years of age when I first heard it.
“Met my old lover in the grocery store
The snow was falling Christmas Eve
I stole behind her in the frozen foods
And I touched her on the sleeve…..
We drank a toast to innocence
We drank a toast to now
And tried to reach beyond the emptiness
But neither one knew how…..”
Dan Fogelberg, “Same Old Lang Syne” (1981)
Because I fell in love with “Same Old Lang Sang” (and Fogelberg’s voice), I purchased the LP or album from which it originated, a true masterpiece entitled The Innocent Age. The double album is a collection of songs that spins the tale of man’s evolution from the cradle to the grave, each song written and performed by Fogelberg. I can still remember listening to it for the first time, watching it spin around on my stereo turntable while I sat alone in my grandmother’s living room. It was nothing short of sheer magic, and I was engulfed in the spell housed therein, each note and word enchanting. By the second song, I knew the album was more than a mere collection of music – I understood it was a wondrous piece of art and literature. Each song in this album embellishes life in such a unique way that it easily brings personal association and reflection for the listener, resonating in the very crux of one’s soul.
The album goes on to detail man’s evolution, touching on love, family, work, and the days preceding death. The haunting, final song of the collection is entitled “Ghosts”, and what I consider to be one of the greater pieces of poetry in the collection. Together with the echoing, chilling music, the lyrics lead the listener to the precipice of a man’s death:
“Sometimes in the night I feel it
Near as my next breath and yet untouchable
Silently the past comes stealing
Like the taste of some forbidden sweet
Along the walls in shadowed rafters
Moving like a thought through haunted atmospheres
Muted cries and echoed laughter
Banished dreams that never sank in sleep
Lost in love and found in reason
Questions that the mind can find no answers for
Ghostly eyes conspire treason
As they gather just outside the door….”
Dan Fogelberg, “Ghosts” (1981)
Of the many artists I’m fond of, Bruce Springsteen also springs to mind (my apologies, pun intended). While I’ve enjoyed his diverse musical talent for many years, I did not become familiar with him until I attended college in the 70’s. My university, being Southern based, was filled with out-of-state attendees from New York and New Jersey and nearly every one of them was a huge Springsteen fan. His album, Born to Run, was always played at parties I attended. In addition to the title cut from the album (that’s so amazing), “Thunder Road” is also one of my all-time favorite songs. I can’t remember exactly where I was when I first heard this song, but I can definitely remember singing the words out loud with several others whenever it was played – in parties, in cars, in bars – wherever you happened to be. “Thunder Road” is story woven from carefree youthful days and desperate love, a description of someone who is hell bent on going to the ends of the earth in search of fame and fortune - and you’re either with him or you’re not. The song is haunting, engulfed in a force of power, while being wrapped in freedom and youthful destiny.
“A screen door slams, Mary's dress sways
Like a vision she dances across the porch
As the radio plays
Roy Orbison singing for the lonely
Hey, that's me, and I want you only
Don't turn me home again
I just can't face myself alone again….."
Bruce Springsteen, “Thunder Road” (1975)
Admittedly, the music for “Thunder Road” is just as haunting as its lyrics, and both create inviting, vivid imagery for the listener. Who can hear the words Springsteen sings without the sound of a screen door slamming or Roy Orbison’s voice looming in their head? You can feel the eagerness and anticipation in the lyrics so much so that it makes your heart palpitate. As the music and singer crescendo near the song’s completion, you feel excited, exuberant, and ready for whatever life brings. Springsteen’s massive talent and success have easily proven his worth as musician, poet, and storyteller, and this song is among his best. His lyrics have a powerful effect on the listener, as proven time and again over the years with his many songs, scores, and Grammy’s.
I don’t personally know anyone who can deny the appeal of Carole King’s music. I listened to my cassette copy of Tapestry when I was in high school so much that I literally wore the tape out. It was only King’s second LP, but it packed a punch with every song on it becoming a single hit that rocked the Billboard. I have to wonder if every other listener, particularly females, identified as much as I did with King and her lyrics. Her songs encompass the full spectrum of human emotion and weave a wistful tale of love, regret, friendship, and life. The songs on Tapestry are so engrained in my memory that I can still sing along with them whenever they are played.
“One more song about moving along the highway
Can't say much of anything that's new
If I could only work this life out my way
I'd rather spend it being close to you
But you're so far away
Doesn't anybody stay in one place anymore?
It would be so fine to see your face at my door
Doesn't help to know you're so far away
Yeah, you're so far away….."
Carole King, “So Far Away” (1971)
Jimmy Buffett is another music favorite from my college days. My best friend, Barbara, first introduced me to Buffett’s music as we were headed to college in a little green Volkswagen Bug as she proceeded to sing every Buffett tune from his albums Changes in Latitudes, Changes in Attitudes and A White Sport Coat and a Pink Crustacean. Being trapped in the car, I had no choice but to listen to her sing his songs for two hours. Needless to say, following her outstanding performance, I remained intrigued by Buffett's lyrics, and I was eager –and curious - to hear the actual albums or Buffett himself. Once I’d done that, just as my friend Barbara had, I fell in love with Buffett and his down-to-earth musical storytelling. It is obvious from the diverse and vast number of songs he’s written that Buffett’s life has been packed full of personal experience and growth, and he details nearly all of it (as well as the lives of those he’s met) in his music and lyrics. My absolute favorite songs by him is “He Went to Paris”, the sad tale of a man’s life that seemed to slip quickly through his fingers during years of marriage, toil, war, and death, but still, in the end, he was appreciative of the life he’d been given, not choosing to regret any second of it.
“While the tears were a' fallin'
He was recallin'
The answers he never found
So he hopped on a freighter
Skidded the ocean
And left England without a sound
Now he lives in the islands
Fishes the pylons
And drinks his green label each day
He's writing his memoirs
And losing his hearing
But he don't care what most people say
Through eighty six years
Of perpetual motion,
If he likes you, he'll smile and he'll say,
"Some of it's magic,
And some of it's tragic,
But I had a good life all the way....."
Jimmy Buffett, "He Went to Paris (1973)
“He Went to Paris” is a lovely, moving, and emotional piece of poetry and music. I will always fondly associate Buffett with my youth and love of the ocean. I spent many an hour listening to his music back then, as well as much later in my years. After all, there is nothing like going to a Buffett concert – it’s an entirely different world and those in attendance, an entirely different species.
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I have only highlighted a limited number of some of my personal favorites, but by no means are these few the only ones who deserve recognition– in past or current times. Music is a broad, diverse spectrum that reaches out to touch many, and it has enraptured my life for as long as I can recall. The wonder of music has the ability to enable people to connect and understand in ways beyond the scope of their understanding – beyond their imagination or dreams. It gives life to inanimate objects and makes memories alive again, connecting us to the world of today and yesterday, while also forging a path to tomorrow’s unknown mysteries. I thank all of the musical artists and the impact they’ve made upon my life over the years for I cannot imagine a day without the wonder of music, for without it, I would merely exist and cease to live.
Spritely Creatures of the Night
Whisper light
They float in the
Darkness of each night
Whilst making
Gardens semi-bright.
Mischievous,
Mystical
Little sprites.
Exuding
Auras of delight
Their flights,
A tapestry spun
In the obscured night,
Amidst all else
They blossom,
Consuming at first sight.
Whispers echo
In the gust of wind,
Delicate blossoms
Open to receive
Cryptic showers,
Enlightenment is perceived
In each display of
Pixie dust they weave.
Visions of dimmed light
Obscured by the night
Some fair, some small,
Some large, some tall.
They flit, they fly
Amongst the special chosen few
Spreading strands of magic
To the world anew.
Alluring, divine
Creatures of the Fay,
If they perchance to
Fly your way,
Know they surely bring
An ease of days
Whilst showering
Fortunes utterly sublime.
Heather
Purple heather of the moors
The sight of you, so dear, so sweet
Beckoning the crux of my soul,
Enrapturing all senses when we meet.
Lovely heather so divine
Scattered 'cross vast hillsides,
Haunting my days and nights,
Like an encroaching riptide.
You and I, we beat as one
Despite what lies betwixt us,
Steadfast and ever true you grow,
To cover and invoke so much.
And when this life shall vacate me
I’ll gift you heart, mind, and soul
To wander over your flower strewn hills,
Knowing there, I will be made whole.
Battle - or Jest?
Pen a roast against the great, noble Bard?
Without a doubt you jest, it can’t be true,
A battle of such penmanship will fail
For those who've missed him and have not a clue.
Beauty inherent and creative might
Are penned in words and characters divine.
Perchance, have you not wandered through them all -
Whimsical fields of poetry sublime?
No, this nightmare must not breathe and persist -
’Tis a bad feat of which I dare not dream.
It surely spells impending doom and doubt,
This godforsaken and horrendous theme.
So, if you dare to take the risk and write,
I won’t wish you well in your doubtful plight.
Rebirth
The lone red flame
Flickers incandescent
In the night
Burning, ravishing,
Until it stokes
The pain and darkness,
Caressing embers
Like an infant
Born of death.
Distraction provokes.
The pain eases,
Lingering, enveloping
The fire’s flame.
Heat beckons
With a game of chance.
Derived echoes
Of life and death
Threatening to consume.
The choice is but
A self-made dance.
Leaping, running,
Stumbling
Until you fall,
You refuse to be consumed
Within the flame.
Rising,
Prepared to live,
Prepared to fight
Another day,
Without laying any blame.
Leave yesterday
Behind
Burning in the flames.
The past is done.
The world
Will spin anew,
Tomorrow
Bringing respite,
Recharged energy
Of life renewed.
My Little Monkey
When I was little, I had a stuffed monkey. He wasn’t anything particularly pretty, like the fancy sock monkeys, but to me, he was special, and I loved him, nonetheless. I am no longer in possession of that little monkey, but I remember him in detail: he was made of soft cotton, small in stature, gray colored with button eyes, wore a smile, and had a thin, long tail. Much like the story of the velveteen rabbit, he was worn thread bare from excessive love and handling, and he slept with me each and every night. Unfortunately, I don’t remember when he disappeared, what became of him, or what he was called, but the memory of him is still very much alive.
One summer, my family and I went on a trip to the mountains. At five years of age, because it didn’t happen very often, I thought staying in a motel was the stuff from which dreams were made – enjoyed by only a few moderately rich people (even though we were more than moderately non-rich). I remember waking up bright and early the first morning during our stay, eager for a day of sightseeing in Maggie Valley, North Carolina. Once my family was ready, I wanted to leave my monkey on the bed, but my mother quickly shunned the idea, saying he could become tangled up in the bed covers and accidentally taken away by the maid; instead, she hid him behind the luggage. When we returned to our room later that day, we found the newly cleaned room and bed waiting for us, with none other than my esteemed, loved monkey sitting front and center against the plumped-up pillows. It was only years later I learned my mother had been embarrassed by the worn, tattered (and likely dirty) monkey and had sought to hide him from the cleaning staff. The maid, however, being the diligent individual she was, had found him, choosing instead to leave him in an honored position, situated in the center of the bed – much to my mother’s mortification.
When my children were young, I often read “The Velveteen Rabbit” to them. Each time I read that story, I was reminded of my beloved monkey. It may be pure, whimsical folly to think it, but I so hope my sweet little, stuffed monkey was so well-loved that he, too, became real, and to this day, he enjoys a full life in some far away, enchanted land filled with plants, fruits. Wherever he is, I am sure he has an abundance of monkey friends and is loved by all.
Response to “Grandpa and Grandma’s House Sold Today”
Dearest Plexiglassfruit:
I saw a caterpillar today. It was slowly moving along the sidewalk, headed toward a freshly bloomed azalea bush. Immediately, my mind drifted to my grandmother, and I welcomed the insect with a resounding, “Hello, Grandmama!” My goodness but how she hated caterpillars, and I can still see her shiver at the sight of one. Still, without fail, seeing one always brings her to mind.
Unlike you, my memories of my grandmother are much stronger than those of my grandfather, who was only present until my 7th year in school. My grandmother, on the other hand, lived to be just shy of 104 years of age, so I was more than blessed with her presence in my life for about half a century. Grandmama's been gone for twenty years now, but while reading your piece, “Grandpa and Grandma’s House Sold Today”, I was vividly reminded of the woman she was and how dearly I miss her.
I was only sixteen when my mother, a single parent, died, so at that point, I went to live with Grandmama. She was almost 80 years old at that time, but she remained steadfast and ever strong, enduring through my last years of high school, then college and the first two years of my working career before she sold her home and moved 100 miles away to be near her only living child. Just recently, and for the first time in over fifteen years, I rode by the home I shared with her following my mother’s death.
The memories evoked by the sight of Grandmama’s home are difficult to express. It didn’t look much like I remembered. Admittedly, the years had made a difference and some of the structure had been redone, but it was so much smaller, so much plainer than I remembered. That house was pivotal in my life for nearly a quarter of a century, well beyond the years after my mother's death. I recall sitting in the tiny kitchen, eating Eskimo Pie ice cream in a crystal federal petal glass bowl, as well as sharing Sunday dinners every week around the table – sometimes with just my grandmother and mother, but upon occasion, also with my aunt, uncle, and cousins. I remember the small silver Christmas tree she placed in the living room’s large picture window, with its kaleidoscope wheel reflecting colors as it spun slowly around. I still have a precious mercury ornament that was Grandmama’s; it hangs every year, front and center, on my own tree. I remember Easters with a yard filled with an overabundance of beautiful dogwoods, camelias, daffodils, and azalea bushes. Grandmama was immensely proud of her yard each spring, and we always took pictures in our Easter finery, posing in front of the flowers.
Needless to say, the memories of my grandmother and her house are too extensive to detail in full. Still, after reading your piece, I was overcome with an urge to say to you that yes, your grandpa and grandma are still fishing and making lasagna. More than anything, though, they’re still missing you, too, but finding peace in knowing that they remain alive through love and memories housed in the depths of your soul, as evidenced so beautifully in your writing. I know they are immensely proud of you, understand the loss you feel, and long to soothe the tears you cry. As they were brave in life and death, I am sure they see that same strength in you and all you do.
Life goes on despite the losses we incur through the years. From treasured memories and those we’ve loved and known, we take valuable, hard-learned lessons that enable us to be courageous and propel us forward. Thus, the legacy that your grandpa and grandma, as well as my own grandparents, created vibrates with a resounding life. May you take comfort in remembering that despite struggles and scars, yes, it is always worth it.
Shadows of Fear
Dark, foreboding shadows
Linger, suffusing
Evening’s lack of light
They rise to surface,
Unbidden and unwanted,
Luring you to distraction,
The brink of no return.
*
Against their unreality and
The ramifications
Imposed therein,
Fight with bated breath
To banish them away,
Dispersing them back
From whence they came.
*
Breathe deeply.
With tactful tranquilization,
Illuminate the shadows
To secure comfort whilst
Obviating the darkness and
Narrowing the threat of
Impending doom.
Whispers of the Fay
Whisper light
Is her flight
As she flits all about
In the garden midst the night
Beautiful unearthly, mythical sprite.
*
With an aura of delight
She spins her tapestry of flight
Incandescent in the beams of night
Flower blossoms open at the sight.
*
Whispers echo in wind’s gust
Amidst the garden's flowers,
The brilliant sheen of pixie dust
Becomes a veil of cryptic showers.
*
Visions fair and small
Whisper amongst us night and day
Spreading magic wide and tall
Are these alluring creatures of the Fay.
*
Fortune smiles on you,
If you are amongst the select few,
Who in the light of night see such a sprite
For they bring good fortune to your plight
Whilst spinning all your dreams anew.