Rolling it is now, and that is so nice,
think back on your first home; sunshine and rice.
Crouched in the shade gloom just out of the heat,
watermelon sliced red, salt on the sweet.
Chapped lips in winter, coal dust and ice,
bitter smiles cracking, slow bleeding hot spice.
The crunching of small bones, owls dining on mice,
the deaths of our mammas, those debts we pay twice.
Sex in a hammock, fights on the ground.
Thankful hosannas – palm sundaes abound.
Where is it all going? Where haven’t we been?
Before the song dwindles, Son, sing it again.
Sounded good (to me ) a few years ago when sung and played (impromptu) at Amsterdam’s Bavaria Hoek by Son McGauley, blues singer and piano, and David Brown, clarinet.
Every now and then I do feel Irish.
Every now and then I am alive.
I think of the music called Irish.
I think of celestial jive.
And I dance my small own roundelay – oh –
I dance then my own celebration.
‘At the time it seemed important.’
‘I’m sure it was.’
‘Her song. Grace Slick. Search for that sly white rabbit.’
‘A Lewis Carroll stroll. Updated Oz.’
‘Our lines, like then, keep rhyming.’
‘An old habit.’
Their conversation pauses. Pops.
Songs bridge the gaps between the two old friends.
Remembering Grace and remembered grace entwine.
They keep on, keeping time.
The music ends.
Weepy’s good. It is.
Cries rinse regrets away
and drown them in the sound
of Chuck’s ‘Deep Feeling’ blues
while friends from school days play
with might-have-been’s and wont-be’s
until the landlord’s cry
of ‘Time’ wakes them to lives
they really had and have
and the blues are only blues
and no need to be sad.
Chuck Berry playing his ‘Deep Feeling’ can be heard here:
And here, perhaps even more appropriately for this poem, is the same song with a video of old 45-rpm record playing tinnily and with scratches: