It’s the summer of 1937  
Gertrude is only fourteen  
She and her older sister sneak out of the house  
And Gertrude’s eyes have that certain gleam  
  
She’s mesmerized by the big city lights  
It’s something they’ve never seen  
They go into a club to see Benny Goodman  
As the big jazz band plays Sing, Sing, Sing  
  
-      -      -  
  
Henry has just turned twenty-five  
He and his friends go to see Cab Calloway  
They dance having the time of their lives  
Jumping and jiving celebrating his birthday  
  
Drinks and libations, it’s a celebration  
Henry and his friends are enjoying the show  
Cab on stage sings “hidee, hidee, hidee, hi”  
And everyone replies “hidee, hidee, hidee **”  
  
It’s the fall of ‘51  
  
-      -      -  
  
Sylvia lowers the needle on to the record  
Seeing Duke’s name go around and around  
And the piano starts with a pretty rhythm  
Then the band joins with a big wall of sound  
  
The records starts with it don’t mean a thing  
Sylvia is dancing by herself in the living room  
The eighteen-year-old gives it a good swing  
Sylvia is dancing by herself with a broom  
  
Spring 1946  
  
-      -      -  
  
Roger and his friends have a free weekend  
They hear Glenn Miller is in the neighborhood  
So they take a cab to a jazz club downtown  
And you guessed it, they were in the mood  
  
Inside the club Roger sees a beautiful brunette  
He knew he’d remember this for the rest of his life  
Summoning some courage he asks her to dance  
That was the night Roger met his wife  
  
May 1st, 1944  
A week later he went off to fight in the war  
  
-      -      -  
  
Oh to dance  
To romance  
To take a chance and be young forever  
To have those moments frozen in time  
To have them resurface from the darkness  
To have them move and groove again,
it’s divine…  
  
Henry cries remembering that night  
Sylvia recalls dancing all alone  
Gertrude’s eyes gleam, lucid once again  
And Roger knew he’d make it back home  
  
The nurse smiles as she plays another song  
The iPods are filled with a big jazz catalog
Memories seems to come flooding back  
Temporarily lifting dementia’s fog  
.  
.  
.  
That’s the power of music

On the day of all souls in the fall
as leaves lose luster to winter’s bane
my father’s shade returns to call
while I walk along a splintered lane:

His memory murmurs in a darkened nook
of years of yearning and wasted days,
as the distance that filled up the book
of our lives still grows as I turn to grey.

The care he’d showed I did not feel
as the pillars of our bridge began to crack.
Too late, I turned back to heal
the fallen span that we now lacked.

By then his old mind’s lantern had failed;
the new light I’d shone back went unseen
and broken arches into a chasm trailed
where once a golden bridge had briefly been.

Across the valley, dark, deep, and wide,
a spectral stretch of stones appears
to shine as a silvery coach now rides
across, to bring two sundered shadows near.

Now on this day of all souls missed
by those who find themselves left behind,
one faithful departed returns to kiss
the forehead of a son’s reopened mind.

The visitors help

her search, can anyone find --


her as she once was?

I've never saw such vibrant waterfall before,
Took off my clothes, left to dive in,
Ventured the silky blue till the bleak red,
Watched the paints washed together, before
Bask myself beneath the glowing yellow.
Only this time I had hurted my gaze,
I saw no more silky and bleak hues,
No more fluids, or glowing light.
I blinked once, then twice,
Through my eyes,
The pitch black waterfall became,
Nothing I could recall,
As the girl looked at me,
Like the empty space I saw.

Where do I end up?

Didn't I steer well or am I --


being pushed away?

I play by the rules day in and day out,
Showing my class, wielding my clout.
I take the hard blows time and again,
Knowing my patience shan't be in vain.

Joe's on the ropes, all by himself,
Waiting around to be dumped on the shelf,
Restraint is my friend, as I pull back and watch,
Those flailing wild jabs I so easily dodge.

There's one rule to fighting, it's Biding your time,
Showing him up, using his dime,
Keeping ones cool, letting him dance,
Then all in one motion - destructively prance.

There's rhyme to the reason for the 12
Rounds to be,
So everyone knows, all clearly can see,
The prowess of one, the demise of the other,
An abject defeat, no spin as a buffer.

The guys just a has been yet I'm giving him grace,
Watching him flail, not setting the pace,
The fun's in the waiting, a matter of time,
For him to fall over, his crown to be mine.

It’s a slow slide to somewhere else...

He shuffles, stumbles stammers and he sleeps.

He knows I am his brother.
I help him go for a wee in a bowl,
we’re standing by the commode.

He shuffles back to his comfy chair

but only with my help.

“Are you my brother?”
“I am,” I say.

Six years is a biggish gap between siblings.

‘Our Brian’ tolerated me...

”Take Chris to the pictures”...
”Aw Mum, I’m 18... he’s only 12!!!”

He headed on out with his mates, smirking,
waving a *** and a ciggie.

But, when he needed a whizzo batsman for his cricket team,
who knew?
 I was strangely unavailable...
But, I capitulated and said “OK I’ll play for you!” We won!
At 81 he shuffles, he stammers, stumbles and he sleeps.

He employed 300 people in factories overseas,

spoke with authority, negotiating with emperors -
always with total ease.
Today he talks in whispers, his larynx squeaks;

clatters like a broken pipe, every time he speaks...

He shuffles, he stammers, stumbles and he sleeps
...for most of every day.
“
I am your brother aren’t I?”

“You certainly are”, I say.

He was the head of magistrates handing down the law...
I joked... I called him ‘hang ‘em high Bri’,

him judging slightly to the right of Atilla the ***.

I remind him of his past... We smile ...
(because of course it wasn’t true)....

The last thing to die will be his sense of fun.
He shuffles, stammers, stumbles and he sleeps.

He played prop forward for Birmingham Moseley’s first team, maybe his problems started way back when...

too many head clashes, line outs, scrum downs...

That’s the last thing you’d think about back then.
But there’s long term damage you might do...by just ‘being’.
He stumbles, stammers, shuffles, 
dummies
and scores in his dreams...as he sleeps.

He even went to garden parties at the Queen’s Equery’s behest
as well as, whilst in India, often - he’d be a Maharajah’s guest.
And, when you mention it, he just smiles wryly

and stares, with rictus grin. He IS in there!
That’s the trouble though... he sometimes IS locked IN!
He stumbles, stammers, shuffles, smiles -
and he does love to rest.
But sometimes he will rally with a string of memories
all lucid and true... and, if there’s food involved
he’ll be at the table way ahead of you.
That’s the quick shuffle!

He makes good progress 
through all his favourite stuff,
Then he’ll lie in his reclining chair 
and enjoy that customary nap

You watch him closely - making sure he’s still breathing
- thank heavens for that!

He stumbles, wheezes when he talks -

and shuffles when he walks...
He shuffles, stumbles...then he sleeps!
“You are my brother aren’t you?”
“You know I am - for keeps!
Love you Bri!”

I like to think I'm

alone all morning, drowning --


in a sea of tea.

What keeps me awake

is something I want to know --


and have forgotten.