If someone says that freedom's free
Then, they don't have a clue
Of the things they take for granted
And the cost to me and you

Freedom has a price tag
And it's measured out in lives
of sons and missing daughters
In husbands and in wives

The cost of freedom's heavy
No dollar value can be set
Think of those who gave their life
When you next go thank a vet

Freedom is expected
But, freedom isn't free
Sacrifices must be made
If freedom we will see

The choice to fight is simple
It's something someone has to do
A soldier is a hero
He made his choice for you

Next time you hear somebody
Say they deserve all that they get
Take them down to the town legion
And let them say thank you to a vet

Daily walks would lead me down

The tourist laden streets

Where people from all walks of life

Would congregate and meet

Buskers, singers, ne'er do wells

Would work throughout the throngs

But in back of Giannis restaurant

Sat an old man sharing songs

He didn't sing so much as talk

His voice was hoarse with age

But a milk box and an orange crate

Were his table, chair and stage

His instrument, an old guitar

Scarred, battle worn and black

His guitar strap was as old as he

An old potato sack

He sat and played to nobody

He just let the words be there

His audience could be a hundred deep

Sometimes it could be air

His music was his lifes blood

It was everything he had

So he shared it with the people

And the people....they were glad

The tourists, stayed away though

They were more attracted by the flair

Of the buskers and the jugglers

Not this man who wasn't there

He never left to join the crowd

And to sell his songs to those

Who really wanted nothing more

Than to hear some manufactured prose

The people who he played to

Were just others from the street

They worked the bars and restaurants

And at night they'd find a seat

In front of this old bluesman

Sitting by his orange box

Playing his guitar by candle light

Taking in his songs and talks

He sang songs from the heart, I guess

About those who'd he'd met

He'd sing about a dozen songs

That would constitue a set

Then he'd open up his silver flask

And ******* two gulps down

"This here's just my medicine"

"My past lives just to drown"

He sang of Truck Stop Beauty Queens

And of Walks out in the park

He sang of people living life

Not just hiding in the dark

He sang of things so real you'd see

Their pictures in your mind

He'd sing of places and of things

That others would not find

But tourists, they just stayed away

Near the buskers blowing fire

While yards away this old man sat

Just like an old town cryer

His audience would leave a bit

of change for their free show

He never asked for anything

For this was his row to ***

At two though when the street shut down

He closed his show down too

But he always had an extra song

A special one for you

His music came from in his heart

He shared it without fear

For once it left his throat it was

A sound that was so dear

The tourists went to hotels

Once the buskers all went home

But he just moved his crate and box

He slept out here alone

He sang his songs of characters

Who helped make us his life

His words were sometimes gentle

While others cut you like a knife

His world was just that orange crate

And his music helped unfurl

The melodies in this mans mind

It helped him share his world

He knew some things and people that

Would take rather than give

He sang about the street people

Because among them he did live

His home was just a cardboard box

Behind Giannis bar

And if you want to see a real good show

You don't have to go far

It's just a little beaten path

Away from tourist fare

Where this little, old, shy

Bluesman sings to hundreds or the air..

If I were watching you now
sat at your lap
desk bare and clinical
like your sharp eyes,
if I were watching you now
I think I would look right into you
and I would see the war scars
that you buried in orderly dysfunction
and raging fits of tidiness,
I don't think you walked away
from those burning screaming
German towns bearing your name.
You ran. you ran hard.
back to your horses and simple fields,
back to a life that was entirely too chaotic
in its gentleness.

Today I saw a man
He was sitting by the road
I couldn't see his face
But, his feelings...well, they showed

All of his belongings
Were beside him in a cart
I wanted to approach
But, my feet just wouldn't start

Today I saw a man
Picking butts up from the street
I crossed the road to pass him
And our paths, they didn't meet

He was searching in the gutter
For tobacco for a smoke
I didn't venture near him
Just in case he spoke

Today I saw a man
Sleeping in the park
It was early in the morning
It wasn't even dark

He was covered with a jacket
With a paper by his head
He slept just like a child
He looked like he was dead

Today I saw a man
In fatigues and baseball cap
Saluting at the cenotaph
I felt my heart fall to my lap

He saluted ramrod perfect
As just a soldier can
today, I learned a lesson
Today...I saw a Man

My old friend is unsettling
Looking, watching, listening
Waiting for me behind every corner
On every dark road
At the end of every knock
Behind every door.

Why can't I just go to the store?
I need to be armed.
Just in case someone means harm
You never know, you never know
How can you know?
What's waiting behind that door.

I hear you've been worried I'm here again, with more
Looking, watching, listening.
Don't you know I'm your only friend?
I've been here from the start.
You try to ignore my calls,
My breath on your neck

You're playing against a stacked deck.
My friend, don't you see?
I've never left
I'm here, I'm here,
I'm always here.
My hand is on the door.

You aren't a friend; you weren't here before
Looking, watching, listening.
But now you're coiled like a belt
Closing around my neck
Tied to the railing
Hung for all to see.

My friend? You're my worst enemy.
My friend would let me sleep.
My friend would say stop to eat.
My friend would give me space.
You aren't my friend.
I'm not opening that door.

I'll slide in, quiet, like death on the floor,
Looking, watching, listening.
I'll keep your eyes fixed and dilated
So you won't miss a thing
We'll stop that noisy wheezing
So you can appreciate me.

I am your friend
Your only friend that answers your calls
Your only friend that sees your pain
Your only friend.
Your only friend.
Your only friend, opening the door.

My friends are gone, lost in the war.
Looking, watching, listening,
You've kept me company,
Kept me warm.
You've fed my hate
Starved my love.
Kept me inside, never late

For my scheduled anxiety,
Which fills every second.
Every minute.
Every hour.
Every day.
I'm too busy to answer the door.

I'll let myself in, it isn't a chore.
Looking, watching, listening
I'll keep you company
While you work on your schedule.
We don't need to talk;
I already know.

I promise it won't interrupt
Or alter your rigid plans.
Staying inside is hard work
Without an old friend.
Let's get up.
Open this door.

I'd shut you up, if it weren't for your
Looking, watching, listening.
I have a friend made of steel and fire
Willing to have a chat with you
His voice is colossal with thunder
He'll stop your talk.

He'll stop your talk in a heartbeat.
He'll –

I’d jump at the chance to ride shotgun
on Henry’s medicine wagon
rolling from city to village
hawking 'Stickin’ Salve' and 'Oil of Gladness'.

We’d ride into Elmira’s County Fair
and set up over by the lake.
I’d fix old Diamond a pail of oats
and draw her a bucket of water.
while great, great grandpa
squeezed on his Union coat
and arranged his potions on the shelves.

Henry’s voice would boom
across the water like a megaphone
and people would gather close -
lured in by the old codger's
hypnotic banter of miracle cures -
and perilous Civil War battles.
  
He’d swear on his mother’s lumbago
that 'Stickin’ Salve' works just as fine
as the lead and powder
he’d fired at Cedar Mountain.

The folks would shake with mirth
whenever he bellowed,
“I’m Henry Howard from Bunker Hill -
Never worked and never will."
Women would tug their husband's sleeves
and they’d bring me pennies and dimes.

After dusk we’d tally the coins
and latch down the wagon for the night
then sleep side by side on the grass
beneath the New England stars.

At sunrise I'd wipe his brow -
to ease him gently back
from the thunder of enemy shells
still firing in his restless sleep.

We'd cook up some bacon and biscuits,
hitch Diamond up to the wagon
then head south through the rolling hills
along the Tioga valley.
We’d breathe in the fresh country air
and tip our caps to the farmers.

If Henry would come to tap my shoulder
some promising morning in spring
and whisper "the wagon's hitched outside,"
I’d go in a Tioga minute.

*December,  2006