No matter how despicable the mire
in which we find ourselves, there’s always hope.
Just raise your eyes – a sunny upper slope
is beckoning. We hanker. We aspire.
Caruso, Bluto, Joe Dimaggio –
then, afternoons were easy. Men were men.
Those certainties will never come again.
We’re exiled from the dear, dead long ago.
Forever prancing forward, harking back,
we don’t suppose This Moment will be missed.
But life is Monitor or Merrimack:
trajectories seem smooth, but have a twist.
The train is what’s important, not the track:
the Present’s where we happen to exist.
The King of Rock n Roll
Met the King of kings
The Queen of Soul
Met the King of kings
The Prince of Pop
Met the King of kings
Tuff Gong
Met the King of kings
Road Test Ronnie
Met the King of kings
The Big Man
Met the King of kings
The Sky Dog
Met the King of king
The Mozart of Rock Guitar
Met the King of kings
The Hardest Working Man in Showbusiness
Met the King of kings
The Lizard King
Met the King of kings
Bonzo and the Ox
Met the King of kings
The Man in Black
Met the Kings of kings
Moon the Loon
Met the King of kings
The Professor
Met the King of kings
The Purple One
Met the King of kings
The Genuis
Met the King of kings
The Caruso of Rock
Met the King of kings
The Queen of Rock n Roll
Met the King of kings
The Gambler
Met the King of kings
The First lady of Country
Met the King of kings
The Prince of Darkness
Met the King of kings
One day I hope to meet
The King of kings
have you ever grappled with despair
not in imagery, symbolism or portrayal.
I mean, have you ever felt the elevator drop
the watery weakness that extenuates breath
a depth of fatigue that makes lying on the floor a burden
an aching pounding in your chest,
the broken-glass dryness in your throat
the gritty ache in your eyes
that makes you want to close them forever?
Struggle no more, leaden limbs,
free the weary weight.
Eyes that struggle, release the light.
The body begs to no more fight.
In a blur of sluggish thought,
I whisper sleep's sweet name.
The will has dropped.
The yearning stopped.
I’ll rest on that distant shore.
.
.
Songs for this:
Nessun Dorma by Sarah Brightman
Caruso (Live at "Pavarotti International" Charity Gala Concert, Modena 1992) by Luciano Pavarotti, Aldo Sisilli
Pie Jesu by Andrew Lloyd Webber, Sarah Brightman & Paul Miles-Kingston
IN NOVEMBER'S CHILL
When red leaves from sleeping trees draped in snow
rest easy on the rock hard icy ground
I wait and plead,
please hurry and appear to me
So I can love you
to warm you like a wool blanket from the Pampas
to make your toes curl up with joy
to smell your hair the odor of evergreen Christmas pine
And like an opera singer hitting the high notes in Caruso
my heart opens up to unimagined highs hoping
You have come. I rejoice, you are here with me
a teenager could not be as excited as I feel
You bring beauty to my life
with the subtleties of your expressed love
your caresses write volumes to my desires
expression of my love seems dismal for the love you shower on me
But time is cruel, time oh time,
allow me to stay before the morrow comes
let me live what’s left of my eternity here in her arms
before you compel me to leave her holy place
In which the fervor of her embrace takes my chill away
the wetness of her kisses unfold my strength
the kindness in her love melts my anxiety
and her compassion lays me to rest
And casts me to the icy earthen hole in November's chill.
Writers often wander far
amidst their words – weeds
as well can have beautiful
blossoms...sneezes and watery
eyes, can be a hazard with all
fond images, those prized and
common. Sometimes I wonder
what you saw in me, certainly
no exceptional rose nor orchid?
No Caruso! Maybe a croak or
two above a pond and its frogs:
Lord knows how many times
I have been awakened by my
own swamp echo. I guess, love
will always be somewhat of a
mystery – a bit outside all sound
and visions; somewhere, not quite
the core of a heart, and just
beyond the outer rings of a
mind. Planets apart, while
each of us affected by the
other's distance and dizzying
orbit –
MY CANARY
I had a sweet yellow canary,
who'd cheerful whistle all day long.
A tuneful happy little bird,
singing to me the sweetest song.
I named him after the great singer
Caruso; for the talent that he had.
His aria's like the tenor,
Were bright, not mournful dull or sad.
His home was a roomy cage,
With a ladder, perch and bell.
Contented with his lot in life,
while singing his tunes so well.
Caruso would like to go outside
having a day to sing in the sun.
Enjoyed the warmth and fresh air,
Back inside when day was done.
Although he was only young,
he died at an early age,
one day I was upset to find him
lying dead within his cage.
I'd forgot to bring him inside,
he caught cold, and to my shame
dying through my carelessness,
and I was entirely to blame.
I'd like to think of my canary,
Continues singing his sweet songs,
joining in some heavenly chorus,
happy where he now belongs.
Maybe he will meet his namesake,
they could sing duets together,
In a place where there's no night,
and it's always perfect weather.
Copyright © Vivien Wade March 2014
Caruso blaring on the radio Heavenly smells throughout the house Old men smoking cigars outside Babies crying for their mothers Aunt Rose playing the piano out of key My Uncles drinking whiskey and talking loudly My Grandmother smiling and humming an old song My cousins outside at the swing Television always on full volume Sunday afternoon`s at Gana`s I remember how much it meant to her All the family under one roof Now I understand why she always smiled On Sunday
so,
how important is it,
media fear mongers of the world,
that Julian Assange has
“silver hair”---
you seem to include it in every
description of what is happening
to him,
what he has done in his life thus
far &
somehow you squeeze it into
every possible story
that has anything to do with him---
WE
****ING
GET
IT.
if the man had been born with a
dreamy
Johnny Depp dark brown,
would he still be depicted as some
kind of crazy madman character
from a blockbuster that comes out
in the summer,
bearing the need for some hero to come &
wipe the world clean of him?
maybe if he had
passionate
David Caruso red & a pair of Ray Bans
always on,
he’d be seen as a tough coppish type who
never takes off his suit jacket,
no matter how hot it is in Miami &
the world would fall in love with him
every time they see his picture?
we are talking about a man who has
dealt a wonderful blow into the stomach
of the policeman who runs the world,
someone who’s organization continues to
allow whistleblowers to expose vital truths
in a world full of lies &
all that you can find worthy of description is
the man’s
silver hair?
Goodbye, Luciano,
easing through death's door,
no more thy voice shall soar.
Farewell, Luciano,
no longer croon ‘O Sole Mio’
to take thee back to Sorrento.
Adios, Luciano,
unto a peaceful slumber deep,
from the world's travails escape.
Hark! Enrico Caruso,
bid the angels welcome Luciano
into the heavenly choir in the sky.
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