Three Words from the Murky Depth

I may not always say the words, but

My friends should know I mean them.

Sentiment may long remain unexpressed

But like bullion on the ocean floor

Value is undiminished by murky depth,

And perhaps appreciated all the more

For the obstacles between us;

Anticipated like a museum opening,

With polished baubles, gold and silver

And great forever stones displayed upon a felt,

Glistening beneath a new morning’s sun.

Brothers and Sisters,

Please know that I think of you often

As the treasure map to my soul,

And spend many a waking moment

Contemplating the prospects for

Our next swashbuckling adventure together.

While the rustling wind whispers

Against the pages of our history,

May the written word echo in your minds eternal.

Relationships are my compass rose,

And friendship is true north.

If you are one to decode this key

Your “X” is etched upon my heart…

Take this Razor

There could not have been a more opportune time in my life to discover Metallica. There have been several difficult times since, but seventh grade (1988-89) was the most miserable point in my life; the time when I felt most low about my life. It was the worst and greatest year of my existence. That was the year I chose to learn to love the one person I cannot escape - myself. And in doing so, I began to grasp the keys to sharing that love with others. It is still a work in progress...

It would be years before I learned to begin writing about it, but it was during that period in my life when I began studying lyrics. It was that period when the deeper meaning of lyrics, in the songs of the bands I enjoyed, began to take shape in my mind. I began to understand the stories and the ethics of heavy metal music, and I knew that I wanted to write like those guys.

I studied Ozzy and Lemmy, Paul and Gene, Peart, Mustaine, Axl, Cantrell and many others. But the guy who's lyrics I studied most, and whom I most tried to emulate, laying on my bedroom floor for hours pouring over liner notes, was James Hetfield of Metallica. His were the lyrics that spoke to me most.

This piece, (written 07/21/2013), is about my most profound memory of how that came to be. It is not my intention to get mushy or sentimental about it. But I am grateful for that perfect moment, when ugliness crashed into hope, and for the privilege of experiencing everything that followed, bad and good. My choices are my own, and Metallica was the soundtrack to the biggest choice I ever made. "Take this Razor" is dedicated to James and the rest of the guys, and to anyone who has ever felt lost or helpless...

Take this Razor

I was lost but now I’m found

So much emotion carried ‘round

Gathered strength in raging sound

‘Cause I won’t live life underground

Life is all but slipping sand

Love of self is my demand

Only I can make my stand

Take this razor from my hand

So unhappy in that time

Imprisoned silent as a mime

Rage cannibalizing my own mind

Served the sentence without the crime

Impending sense of growing doom

Moping around in my veil of gloom

Found liquor cache in a darkened room

My vow of silence a stifling tomb

That drunken fool thought he was king

She would not hear when I tried to sing

He planned to steal her soul with a ring

And powerless I could do nothing

Life is all but slipping sand

Love of self is my demand

Only I can make my stand

Take this razor from my hand

I wanted to push him down the stair

But no act of hate would make her care

Only metal brought comfort there

While I slowly suffocated on despair

Felt so all alone in that year

Too distraught to shed a tear

The jump, the bleach – survival fear

Rusty razor blades enticed quite near

Throbbing urge inside my brain

A plan to bleed away the pain

And wash it all down the drain

This soul of fire and eyes of rain

Screaming riffs from bedroom rolling

Bathtub faucet turned and water flowing

Then Fade to Black crescendo growing

I chose right there, I am not going

If life is spite than I spite life

I will not escape into the night

Strike the hammer, break the ice

Ride the lightning and roll the dice

Life is all but slipping sand

Love of self is my demand

Only I can make my stand

Take this razor from my hand

In the moment we seldom know

How present seeds in future grow

The march of time is straight and slow

Courage feeds courage as you go

Past love is prologue if I am right

With these swords that I write

Commit myself to stand and fight

And slash the darkness with my light

Though wisdom often makes us pay

I had to say what I had to say

To open her eyes to a brighter day

And then we two were on our way

Life is all but slipping sand

Love of self is my demand

Only I can make my stand

Take this razor from my hand

Full Moon Fever

Any guy who has lived in New York in the summer knows that there are certain kinds of moments that make your whole week worth while. This poem is about one of those moments...


Full Moon Fever

Full moon fever on a hot summer day –

Fabric mottled; white with Rorschach black,

Ruffled like rose petals in the spirit of play,

Enraptured blossom around the stem of a lithe body.

Stolid chowder air sliced by a renegade gust,

While traffic trudges languidly up baked asphalt

A flash in the street as cheeks go flush

An instant that echoes in eternity.

Bumming a ride on the backside of a long haul caboose

Burrowing deep into the tunnels of my mind,

This eyeful like the holy grail out on the loose

A chalice in an unguarded oasis between the sands.

Rays from the sun bring the nether to light

A vision that I alone am privileged to witness

My rapt eyes in awe of this glorious sight,

If there is floss I do not notice. All I see –

Two perfect scoops of butter brickle ice cream

Sweetening the harried plot of a stifling day,

Twinned bubbles floating through a walking daydream

Like clouds across the curvature of a city crosswalk.

While mind shutters burn this footage into my brain,

The gaze of my companion distracted by thoughtful chatter
This indelible image already threatening to drive me insane,
As her soft hand gently slides the carriage door shut...

As if a granule of sand slipping through narrow glass

The scars of time leave naught but fragile memory

Of soft skin and trembling flesh, unless, alas -

She blushes slightly beside her ambling beau.

The moment went as quickly as it came

Yet satisfaction finds me with one fleeting glance.

I never even had the chance to learn her name,

But then, perhaps, I did not need to…

The Plea

You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make him drink.

You can hand a man a book, but that won’t make him think.

All the knowledge in the world won't inform one who doesn't want to know.

If you won't hear what I'm saying then I might as well go.

When I offered suggestions to do what I could

You chose to remain ignorant and misunderstood.

I cannot make you receive the advice that I give.

The choices you make are your own prerogative.

You've put a wall between you and the rest of the world.

You’re ready for war and your flag is unfurled.

You’ll hear nothing and no one offering peace.

Even your friends come to you down on their knees.

This is my plea. Won’t you listen to me?

You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make him drink.

You can hand a man a book, but that won’t make him think.

All the knowledge in the world won't inform one who doesn't want to know.

If you won't hear what I'm saying then I might as well go.

A man is a being meant to stand on two feet,

Not to bow to an ego of lofty conceit.

So while you stand on the hilltop judging all that you own,

Don’t be surprised if you find yourself standing alone.

The wind is in the willows, but it won’t weep for you.

You are the product of all that you do.

If you find yourself lost in a world dismal and grey,

Only you are to blame for those you pushed away.

But even though you stabbed yourself, you need not twist in the knife.

It doesn't have be this way for the rest of your life.

I am here now and I am ready to dance.

Step off the wallflower. Come take a chance.

This is my plea. Won’t you listen to me?

You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make him drink.

You can hand a man a book, but that won’t make him think.

All the knowledge in the world won't inform one who doesn't want to know.

If you won't hear what I'm saying then I might as well go.

  

What are you waiting for? What do you fear?

It’s still not too late to shift back in to gear.

So hitch up your saddle and ride to that stream.

Make a cup of your hands and feed off your dreams.

Love is a thoroughfare, not a one way street.

Open your heart and you may be surprised who you meet.

Reflections in water show self against sky,

So who do you think you should learn first to look in the eye?

A man is a being meant to stand on two feet.

The rest of that stanza I need not repeat.

Just remember that to have friends, you must be friends to them too,

Thus together happiness will be yours to pursue.

You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make him drink.

You can hand a man a book, but that won’t make him think.

All the knowledge in the world won't inform one who doesn't want to know.

Please hear what I'm saying, so that I won’t need to go.

This is my plea. Won’t you listen to me?

Beyond the Clouds of Misunderstanding

There is something to be said for allowing a piece to stand on its own. This is, ironically, the title piece of the book I never published, "Beyond the Clouds of Misunderstanding"...

I encourage you to look into the mirror and

Love what you see. Be secure in your

Self. It makes sense for me

To want you to be the best you can be.

Everything I write is about one

Individual being the best he or she

Can be. Everything I write is about one

Strong person standing up for self,

Having the courage to face fear -- to stare

Down hatred -- to deny naysayers -- to cast

Aside guilt without a safety line --

To take the leap with faith in the self,

In yourself, in myself. I like what I see,

And work to continue liking me. Do you

Want to look back and smile? Shed denial!

Take pride in what you have accomplished.

To be happy, be strong, be you,

Be happy. I encourage you, because

I want more of me in the world.

The weak are violent -- the frightened are weak --

The haters are frightened -- The ignorant hate.

I want more of me in the world.

Be strong -- Take courage -- Love -- Explore -- Learn. Grow

Beyond the clouds of misunderstanding. Everything

I write is about one strong person standing

Up for Self. Everything I write is about

Many one strong persons standing up for themselves.

Solidarity of guiltless individuals will bring us

Beyond the clouds of misunderstanding.

Blue Wednesday Morning

Something old, something, new, something borrowed, something blue...That was the template I set for my first four posts. The time has come for blue. Unfortunately I could not find the file for this piece, though I know it is saved somewhere. Instead I have typed this one from memory. The piece was written as a song. This is definitely my most performed piece, most notably at Bar 13 on numerous occasions. It contains a chorus and three basic stanzas, however I have written it here in the manner in which I have performed it. I open with the chorus in three refrains, and then repeat the two refrain chorus in between stanzas on the first pass, then hit all the stanzas in a chunk, finally breaking down on the final two lines of the final chorus. Maybe I'll record it someday.

"Blue Wednesday Morning" was one of the first pieces that I wrote after my father died. He died the day after Mother's Day, a Monday in 2002. His mother found him. I was notified that night, and I drove out to Ohio to be with the family. I did not grow up with this side of the family, so I was caught up in the mixed emotions of meeting family for the first time and losing my Dad. They were all quite religious and, to say the least, my father was not. I knew they would try to remember him with religious platitudes which had nothing to do with the man I knew. So I spent the week leading up to the funeral, working on a eulogy that would speak for my father as I knew him.

We buried Dad on a Friday. Dad was a man inclined to test the courage of his convictions, and on that day I found that I was too. People told me that they were moved by what I said that day. And though I was the only speaker whose words were not drenched in saccharine religiosity, I am inclined to believe them.

After the service at the mortuary, and the burial on a grassy knoll beneath a weeping willow in a cemetery along an old dirt road, mountains buffeting the horizon, we turned to a church basement for the reception. The family was a mix of Baptists and other denominations. This particular venue belonged to Born Agains. I thought it an odd place to remember my father, but I had not made the arrangements, and my father was at home among all sorts of people, even those with whom he disagreed. But my guard was up against the needling proselytizing for this as a time for the need of faith. My father did not live his life on his knees, and I refuse to remember him that way.

It was about this time that my father's cousin Lee, (my cousin also by the cousin math), approached me to offer his condolences, heavy as a bucket of holy water. "I am a pastor in my church back home, in West Virginia. And I spoke to your aunt Wilma, and she spoke with her pastor here, and they both agreed that it would be okay if I said a few words from scripture at the service here on Sunday. Are you going to be here at the service on Sunday?" he asked with expectation.

"I don't think I can stick around," I decided. "I have to get back to New York."

"Well, I wish you would stay." He nodded like my own personal Dr. Phil. "You need to find God."

The perfect Dad joke struck me, "I didn't know he was lost."

His was a nervous chuckle. "You're funny, just like your father. But, you do need to find God."

"I appreciate the offer, but I do have to get back to New York."

And so it happened that I spent the second week of the mourning process alone in my apartment. During the drive home with my mother, we stopped at a park that had been recommended to us. Now, the name Gavin means hawk, and my dad had always been fond of eagles and trains. While we stood on a bluff, overlooking a river that cut around the foot of a jutting mountainside, with a train track along its base, a hawk soared through the sky, swooping down to maybe twenty feet above my head as it glided in a semi-circle and then drifted across the river. Then a lonesome whistle blew, as a freight train of at least a hundred cars wound along the track below. While the rest of the family focused their grief upon the bible, it was in that hour upon the bluff that I began to forge my own sense of peace.

Once back in New York, I decided to take my mind off of my loss by focusing on a movie. Perhaps I could have chosen better. Perhaps I chose perfectly. I saw "The Road to Perdition", essentially the tale of a boy who loses his father just as he is beginning to really know him. For 117 minutes my eyes rivaled Niagara Falls. I left the theater knowing that I had to say something more for myself. I had to create something that spoke to my relationship with my father, something simple that I could remember and call upon whenever my emotions threatened to overwhelm me.

Late in night of my first Tuesday back in New York, I began writing. My first efforts were too much on the nose, in artful, inelegant, missing something. My Dad was a fan of blues, and jazz, and most of all bluegrass. I tried to emulate those styles, but it did not work. When I had first begun studying drums, back in grade school, my dad had given me two cassettes by swing drum legends Gene Krupa and Buddy Rich. So it was only fitting, that in the wee early hours of that Wednesday morning, the piece that stuck would come to me with an upbeat, swinging tempo and lyric scheme.

I never did write down the music that was in my head, and I've since attempted the piece a cappella in other styles as well as swing. I've sung it on stage, and I've sung it to myself. I've sung it to mark the special occasions he and I shared, and I've sung it just because...I always miss him. And this is how I keep his image in my head. For anyone who has ever missed someone, this is "Blue Wednesday Morning"...



It’s a blue, blue, blue Wednesday Morning

And I am wanting to turn back the clock.

It’s a blue, blue, blue Wednesday Morning

And I am wanting to turn back the clock.

It’s a blue, blue, blue Wednesday Morning

And I am wanting to turn back the clock.



There were things said and left unsaid,

Ideas floating around in my head

Wish we had more time to spend

There's a hole in my heart that needs to be fed.



It’s a blue, blue, blue Wednesday Morning

And I am wanting to turn back the clock.

It’s a blue, blue, blue Wednesday Morning

And I am wanting to turn back the clock.



Daydreaming in the middle of the day

Daydreaming, wondering what we'd say

daydreaming my life away

The world is calling me to come out and play

Gotta take my dreams and be on my way.



It’s a blue, blue, blue Wednesday Morning

And I am wanting to turn back the clock.

It’s a blue, blue, blue Wednesday Morning

And I am wanting to turn back the clock.



Yellow buttercups growing on the lawn

Sunrise creeping up from the dawn

Red, red robins singing a song

Dew drops falling on the nose of a fawn

Life keeps rolling on, and on, and on, and on, and on...



It’s a blue, blue, blue Wednesday Morning

And I am wanting to turn back the clock.

It’s a blue, blue, blue Wednesday Morning

And I am wanting to turn back the clock.



There were things said and left unsaid,

Ideas floating around in my head

Wish we had more time to spend

There's a hole in my heart that needs to be fed.

Daydreaming in the middle of the day

Daydreaming, wondering what you'd say

Daydreaming my life away

The world is calling me to come out and play

Gotta take my dreams and be on my way

Yellow buttercups growing on the lawn

Sunrise creeping up from the dawn

Red, red robins singing a song

Dew drops falling on the nose of a fawn

Life keeps rolling on, and on, and on, and on, and on...



It’s a blue, blue, blue Wednesday Morning

And I am wanting to turn back the clock.

It’s a blue, blue, blue Wednesday Morning

And I am wanting to turn back the clock.

It’s a blue, blue, blue Wednesday Morning

And I am wanting to turn back....

I Dream of Paradise

Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue...This is the template I have chosen for my first four posts. And now we are up to something borrowed. The true poetry aficionados among you may recognize a few lines from one of the lions of the poetry world.

In tenth grade my English teacher, Mr. Nangle decided to forgo the proposed curriculum, (I think it was "A Tale of Two Cities"), and take my class on a journey that differed from all the others. We began a poetry unit. In the course of our lessons, Mr. Nangle gave us the first two lines and the first word of the third line of a poem, then unknown to us. He sent us home with the instructions to finish the poem.

I always suspected that some of my peers may have sought out the origin of the poem, in hopes of impressing our teacher. I, slacker that I was at the time, didn't much care to know the origin of the lines. My preoccupation had long been for heavy metal lyrics, not poetry. I set myself the task of completing the job as quickly and competently as possible, and damn the consequences.

As I attempted to embody the spirit of the first two lines, I was reminded of an image from an old Disney movie, of two animated birds flying around each other with a ribbon in their beaks. Clearly the opening lines were intended to indicate the emotion of love. I decided to riff on that. But what did I know of love but affected teenage girls who would barely even look at me, let alone return the emotion. No I did not know of love. I could only dream of it. But I could not say so outright. What guy could? By and by, I set myself to bury these emotions in a poem.

Once I had turned in my paper, I was prepared to forget about it. But a week later, Mr. Nangle revealed the origin of the lines. They were the opening lines of "The Love song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T.S. Eliot. As we reviewed the poem in class, I began to believe I had gone terribly wrong. There was no "...Patient etherized upon a table" in my poem. I could not see then that I had inadvertently captured the same spirit of unrequited love, expressed by the great poet.

I sat through the class shaking with terror of what comments Mr. Nangle might have written in the margins. I also feared the revelation that I may have revealed to much in the writing of my poem. Finally, as the class was drawing towards its close, Mr. Nangle prepared to return our papers. Before he did, he made a statement. He told us that all of the papers were good. Two of the papers were exceptionally good, and that one of those was remarkably so. He said that this one paper was so good, that he believed it must be read in front of the entire class. He was staring at me the whole time he spoke, and I was sweating like a fever, but I had refused to acknowledge the possibility that he was speaking of my paper.

But then he looked at me and said, "Gavin, would you to read your poem?" My tongue crawled up into my mouth as my throat began to close. I was certain then that my sweat glands would flood the room. I shook my head "No." Mr. Nangle was also the Public Speaking teacher, which heightened the pressure. He tried several times to get me to read my poem, but I just could not. Perhaps I wasn't so tough after all. I thought I was going to die, right there in tenth grade English class. Finally, Mr. Nangle asked if I would mind his reading it for me.

Was this some kind of trick? Was everybody going to laugh at me when he had finished? He was a good teacher, a teacher I liked and respected, a teacher who had gracefully put up with my sometimes less than stellar attitude. If he was now going to exact his revenge by making a laughing stock of me in front of my entire class, it seemed like it was something that I would just have to endure. Mr. Nangle asked me again, "Would you mind if I read your poem to the class? It really is quite good."

I could not quite grasp the trick, but here were the consequences. Somehow, I managed to croak a "Yes".

As Mr. Nangle read, the attention of the class was rapt steadily on the tenor of his voice. My poem actually sounded quite good coming from him. I wished I could read it like that. When the poem was completed, Mr. Nangle reminded the class of its author, and the class erupted in spontaneous applause. They saw me! They actually saw ME! I was really there, and I had done something. I still wasn't sure what it was, but this was certainly something new. Through all the years of having parents and teachers tell me I could write, none of them had been my peers. This was the first indication to me, by someone who didn't have a vested interest in filling my head with sunshine, that maybe I really was good at something. Maybe I could write. Maybe I still can.

Despite having borrowed the opening lines from T.S. Eliot, I consider this my first poem. Before “Atrophy” could give me license as a poet, this piece showed me that I had something valuable to contribute in this realm. To all my peers, especially to those who were there that day, and to Mr. Nangle wherever he may be, this is "I Dream of Paradise"...

Let us go then, you and I

When evening is spread out against the sky

Like two Doves with kindred eye.

Let us go into the night,

Down by the dock to wake the moon

Like love birds when they swoon...

Let us sail with the wind,

Where the sea is hypnotic blue,

And there is not a soul about, save for me and you.

I wish it could be like this for all time,

But I must go and spread my wings.

Hide your tears from lover’s spies,

Beware of those who tear the bonds from souls of twain,

For Fate shall bring me back, and when I return,

Not once again shall we be parted,

To join the ranks of broken hearted.

Then, and now, again we shall sail,

Sail where the deep blue sea meets light blue sky.

When we reach this place,

When all the flowers set to bloom,

Let us take flight into the cloudless domain above,

So we might live with eternal love, where all is fair.

Alas, this land of which I dream,

This paradise so sweet can never be.

For in this land of reality,

There is more to life than living.

Together, let us Dream.