Monday, July 30, 2012

The Song Of Songs

When David came
To the darkened tent of Saul
To soothe his troubled mind
To sing him those sweet songs
That wasn't wrong
No that wasn't wrong

When David and Jonathan
Went off together
To the desert's edge
And camped alone beneath the stars
That wasn't wrong
No that wasn't wrong

And when Solomon sang
To his beloved
Loud and proud
In the Song of Songs
That wasn't wrong
No that wasn't wrong

Ooh, you made me
(yeah when you)
Ooh, you made me
(yeah when I saw you)
Ooh, you made me
You made me
You made me
(wanna wanna ooh)

I am
(that's just the way that)
I am
(I have to be who)
I am

I am
The way that
You made me
(uh huh)
My lord
I am the way that you made me
Sweet lord
Oh Lord I am the way that you made me

Friday, July 27, 2012


Except for being unable to tell her right from her left
Mom had an excellent sense of direction
So she would drive and Dad would navigate
His eyes buried in the atlas across his knees
Saying things like
"Take the next left onto 194th Street"
And Mom would say
"Yes dear"
And then pull a u-turn across four lanes
Of Riverside Drive

As a native New Yorker
The city was Mom's special domain
In her mind was a perfectly detailed image
Of every aspect of her girlhood
A spy satellite map
Circa 1963

So there was always room to park
In the alley behind the florist's
That the florist was long gone
Didn't faze her in the least
(And in all those years of parking there
We never did get a ticket)

Aunt Mary is long dead
And the house is long sold
And the Irish shops have all turned into
Hispanic bodegas
But I always know when I've reached my destination
Even if I'm not precisely sure of exactly how we got here
And there's always an empty space for us to park
In that alley behind the florist's
Circa 1963

Tuesday, July 24, 2012

The Further Adventures of an Irish Sea Captain

Women and children and soldiers and sailors
And even the rats have all gone
But the captain remains alone on his deck
Admiring the work that was done.

Now the ship has gone down to its final rest
I'm afloat on a raft with a sad makeshift mast
A barrel of water and a barrel of tack
A watch and a sextant to plot out my course
And to mark off the days for how long I must last.

The Polynesians did it in open canoes
And if they could do it, well so can you
Lash the sheet to the tiller
And yourself to the bow
Hide in the water by day
And by night, you row.

The stars are correct
And the current was true
There's the dark mass of land
Above the ocean's bright blue

I'm washed on the shore
Of an island unknown
And go looking for signs
Of natives or home

Not one do I find
The land is stony and dead
But there are clearings and platforms
And on the ground, great stone heads

The captain must always go down with his ship
Sounded so great way back in the day
But what does that mean for us here today
I'm alone in the middle of a big empty room
Working for six
Starting at five
And wondering why the captain
Never gets out alive.