A thousand shouting calvary
Raise arms and tails
They surround me
On all sides
No where to run
No where to hide
But as the guitar slides
My dreaming becomes
Alive.
Thru the meadows of metal
Luscious as laced lasses
Eyes green as the greenest grasses
With big ol'
...
Glasses, of wine-for-the-soul,
The beats move my control
From hot to cold
Im frank,
Your bold
Hold strong
It won't be too long now
Till we dance and sing
Vow
He died for you too
"dah de by o"
Yes, YOU too!

Jerry Singing at his Lathe

Slim and mustached
Jerry sang his heart out
in overalls at his lathe –
the Mario Lanza of Kent-Moore Tools.

Curled metal gathered at his feet
as he cut hard steel into usable parts.
He glanced at the prints,
reset the turret to take a second pass
and belted out another chorus.

Jerry retro-dreamed of New York,
of lessons, certificates, Juilliard
and arias finished with outstretched arms –
visions derailed but unforgotten.

Global madness sent him to France.
With a pack and an M1 in place of scores.
Jerry helped set Paris free
yet never left a song on its stages.

Kent-Moore paid him well
and masked by din of colliding metal
Jerry sang and sang and sang all day
for rivet guns and turret lathes.
His voice would melt your heart.

*July, 2006

Their melodies
sing soft and sweet
bringing forth their light.

They never rest,
or fade away,
working all the night.

They sing and sing,
without a stop,
and give their wings some flight.

And if their tune,
did ever die,
I would not be all right.

For their lovely song,
I sing with them,
and I keep my light.

Watching her sing along
She knew all the words
And it was easy to tell
She felt them
I fell in love
All over again

The

parlour empties after the third song.
You tell me

you need a cigarette and dump the accordion on my lap.
The fog seeps in as you

open the front door
and I worry because you’re wearing black.

I worry because you’ve never offered me a cigarette
or asked

to go for a walk at midnight.
The champagne sticks to my fingers
and I wished I’d grabbed your hand
and said
“I’ll go with you.”

The music wrapped itself around us as
we sang and forgot.
The room had left us.
The paper copies danced away
and we forgot.
Simply perfect music flowed from us,
we were all there together
completely focused and completely mesmerized
and it happened again.

your voice flows like
warm honey, smoothing
all the pain away
other times it has
lemon undertones,
an elusive something on
the tip of your tongue

the musician on stage in front of a

rack of shoes looks like you,
although it may be

the fog of the free beer.
It smells like the 70s and even though I
never experienced it firsthand,

the red velvet pants on the rack next to me
take me back in time.
Surrounded by a trio of girls in striped shirts –
the three blind mice –
**** on lollipops
and there are too many jean jackets to count.

I can’t stop thinking about my arms around your neck
on a park bench

let’s go to Niagara Falls, or Pompeii

there are some soaps in the shape of fingers at the store next door
and I can wrap them around your arms
while we listen to Born Ruffians
and they’ll sing:

It ***** when you find someone
but they don’t find you.