Anniversary

 

This is a date in my life and the Emmylou Harris song that goes with it:

Boulder To Birmingham

I don't want to hear a love song
I got on this airplane just to fly
And I know there's life below
But all that it can show me
Is the prairie and the sky

And I don't want to hear a sad story
Full of heartbreak and desire
The last time I felt like this
It was in the wilderness and the canyon was on fire
And I stood on the mountain in the night and I watched it burn
I watched it burn, I watched it burn.

I would rock my soul in the bosom of Abraham
I would hold my life in his saving grace.
I would walk all the way from Boulder to Birmingham
If I thought I could see, I could see your face.
Well you really got me this time
And the hardest part is knowing I'll survive.
I have come to listen for the sound
Of the trucks as they move down
Out on ninety five
And pretend that it's the ocean
coming down to wash me clean, to wash me clean
Baby do you know what I mean

I would rock my soul in the bosom of Abraham
I would hold my life in his saving grace.
I would walk all the way from Boulder to Birmingham
If I thought I could see, I could see your face.



Because I went to Westwood premiers, knew the lyrics to Cole Porter Songs, typed your words or added my own, watched Jim Dale sing "your song", split a sandwich and an egg cream, bought you the poppies, burgandy velvet,  and initialed gold around your neck, and have never for a second stopped loving you, here is  "Our Song" even if you hated  that it was by Neil Diamond

In A Mood

Lately, I've been looking back on my chapbook of poetry and in a mood to write again.  Outside of the two memes I do each week, you will be getting some of the poetry of the past and new things as I move into them and because I believe that life really is a musical, the music that goes with each one.  Let me know what you think.

Woodland Hills

Woodland Hills 6 A.M. even birds sleep in

heads tucked under wings - city dwellers on the high wire

waiting for a wake up call once haze burns off.

Hills are too steep to walk; they wake to talk

among themselves before taking flight.  It has been

a long night in a quilted room where a man still dozes.

I go down the long slant to smog city where sharp

and witty are the order of the day.  Warmth and quiet

lay behind artificial darkness of drapes pulled against

light heading west.  Curls that imprisoned fingers are

at rest.  The rise and fall of chest back there now as

high heels click on cement that won't hear a trace of

sound again until another hour is spent.  A time for

monologues.  To turn back and climb between sheets

would be wrong, but that's where I long to be or so

as not to disturb unbroken sleep, by the pool coffee

steaming in the cool mist as paper pages slowly turn.

There are wages to be earned away from where I

want to be where slender fingers held my hand as if

it were a source of life - fragile yet strong.  It's a

long way into town.  I have to be there before

eight.  It's not too late to head back for soft

scrambled eggs.  Instead, I totter on unwilling legs

when I would rather hear a soft, "I love you."

Dogs are still sleeping in the halls.  The phone

won't start ringing for hours.  He doesn't rise before

noon except on Wednesday, but an office waits out there

And a boss who needs attending to.  It's not a total loss

I'll bring a paycheck home.  We live at different ends

of the clock and I'm a block away.  He will later say

"Theater next week?"  It's our birthday date.  I'll get

tickets for the show and he will cover dinner.

It's a tradition you know, one small piece of history.