DOUBT

We foolish all fall victims to the Truths that we hold dear
And they become our beacon in the sea.
We let our Truths become entrenched firmly in our brains
Then lock our minds and throw away the key

And tunnel vision blinds us to opposing points of view;
Won’t let us probe the things they have to say.
For all we fools have found the Truth and so we simply scoff
And send those inane people on their way.

So gods are worshiped; demons feared, and wars are often fought.
When battle’s done we find it’s been in vain
For, win or lose, we carry on espousing our beliefs
And the Truths that each held dear all still remain.

Do you think it might be better if we questioned our beliefs
Or at least let just an ounce of doubt be seen?
That maybe if we understood the other’s point of view
We’d find the Truth lies somewhere in between?

For doubt can foster winds of change that make a better world.
Remember we once thought the world was flat.
But Columbus and Magellan both let the doubt creep in;
Set sail and promptly put an end to that.

So keep your faith in your own God or believe there’s none at all
And, if you must, trust all the ones who lead.
But, every now and then, just open up your mind
And let Doubt begin to plant its fertile seed.

Copyright 2009 - phil cerasoli

KILIMANJARO

I feel the wind caress me
As it rushes down my slopes
Towards the Serengeti plain that sprawls below.
I hear its whispered stories
Of centuries of hopes
Reflecting tales that I already know.

I am Kil’manjaro
Rising high above it all
Watching countless generations come and go.
Bearing silent witness
To each one’s clarion call,
Without judgment, watching each one’s ebb and flow.

I have witnessed endless herds of beasts,
The hunters and their prey,
Roam the vastness of the Tanzanian plain.
I have watched the herds of Man
Live their lives then pass away,
Each one but a single drop of rain.

And all my other brothers:
The mountains of the world,
Sit in silence as the tales of time unwind.
Watching empires be created;
Watch their tenets be unfurled;
Watch them fall but leave their legacies behind.

Which give birth to other empires
And so the cycle goes
In a never-ending synergistic war
Of Wisdom battling Ignorance
Exchanging bloody blows
To see who’ll open history’s next door.

To me it hardly matters
Which side has lost or won
Or which side had to suffer all the pain.
For I am Kil’manjaro
And when it’s said and done,
It is I and I alone who shall remain

To feel the wind caress me
As it rushes down my slopes
Towards the Serengeti plain that sprawls below;
To listen to its stories
Of centuries of hopes
Relating tales that I already know.

Copyright 2009 - phil cerasoli

THE THREE FACES OF PARIS

I was once like Paris Hilton, I was young and wild and free,
My life was one long party filled with fun.
I was self-absorbed with inane thoughts concerning only me;
When one fling died, a new one had begun.

By the time that I reached forty, I was more like Paris, France:
A sophisticated man that oozed with charm.
A man who was synonymous with intrigue and romance,
But now I see with horror and alarm…

That I’m now like Paris, Texas, just a small dot on the map,
As this high-tech world has seemed to pass me by.
And the highlight of my day is my early-evening nap
And, laying there, I sometimes start to sigh…

Recalling days of Paris Hilton and the times of Paris, France
And all the different people that I’ve met
And realize that I’m about to dance my final dance
As the Paris, Texas sun begins to set.

Copyright 2008 - phil cerasoli

THE LUCK OF THE DRAW

Ten ugly flies…those things we despise,
Are all hanging out on a wall,
And there’s only one guy with swatter in hand
And he knows that he can’t swat them all.

So which nine of ten will fly off again
While the tenth gets his brains beaten raw?
Well, around those tables where poker is played
They call that the luck of the draw.

The freeway’s a lure for ten cars, all a blur,
Exceeding the max: sixty-five.
But there’s only one cop so which nine out of ten
Will he allow to continue their drive?

Well, you’re the tenth schmuck who’s run out of luck
And you feel the strong arm of the law.
And around those tables where poker is played
They call that the luck of the draw.

And ain’t that the way it goes day to day?
That your life keeps on hitting new lows?
That nine out of ten are catching the breaks
Leaving you to ward off the blows.

And some call it Fate, and they will relate
That it’s karma redeeming a flaw.
But around those tables where poker is played
They call it the luck of the draw.

So you’re looking to blame who’s in charge of the game
In this universe governed by chance;
That if the luck of the draw determines our fate,
Then why even bother to dance?

So you drown in self-pity, singing sad little ditty,
With resentment stuck deep in your craw.
Looking at others that you could have been
Except for the luck of the draw.

But take it from me, this I guarantee
That somewhere are hundreds of those
Who are looking at you, saying “That could be me
If I was the one fortune chose.”

Now I’ve often felt: Play the hand that you’re dealt
No matter the bad cards you’ve got,
‘Cause a new hand is coming that maybe, when dealt,
Will be the best cards that you’ve ever caught.

And while at the table, play the best that you’re able
With flair and a firmly set jaw.
And when you rake in the chips, the losers will shrug
And say, “It was simply the luck of the draw.”

Copyright 2008 - phil cerasoli

THE OUTLAW AND THE MAIDEN

He was born and raised by outlaws
And an outlaw he became.
By the time that he reached twenty
He had earned an outlaw's fame.

And people dubbed him ‘Double Bad’
Because he was so cruel
And no-one dared confront him
In a western fast-draw duel.

Because he owned the fastest gun,
And it was often used
To seal the deal in holdups
Or on people he abused.

And on the ‘Wanted’ posters
The reward kept on the rise,
‘Til twenty thousand dollars
Was the bounty hunters’ prize.

And fifteen bounty hunters
Went searching for his head,
And fifteen bounty hunters
Were all found cold and dead.

And the only place of refuge
Where he often sought relief,
Was a remote mountain cabin
Owned by widow Maude O’Keefe.

A dainty, fragile maiden
With quiet, demure charms,
And when Double Bad would visit
She’d open up her arms…

And give the bandit comfort
Until he had to go
To rob another bank or two
And make his legend grow,

And then one foggy morning,
Eluding posse’s chase,
He rode back to the cabin
Exhausted from the race.

And as he calmly entered
The widow’s cabin door,
She aimed and shot the rifle
And the outlaw hit the floor.

And Maude sighed, "Bad, I’m sorry,
I didn’t want to break your heart.
But twenty thousand dollars
Gives me a brand new start.

I can be a part of city life
‘Cause it’s there that I belong,
Not in this rundown cabin,
And I know I did you wrong.

But I weighed all of my options
And this one seemed to fit.
I know that, of all people,
You can make some sense of it.”

And as he died, he proved the point
That Kipling’s words prevail:
‘That the female of the species
Is more deadly than the male.'

Copyright 2008 - phil cerasoli

CHASING THE DRAGON

It’s nighttime in the city and no-one’s giving pity
To Joey Franco’s frantic quest for twenty dollars more.
He’s got days of unshaved stubble; people think he looks like trouble,
So they turn away and leave him be to wage his private war.

A war that he can win for only twenty dollars more.

Joey’s brow begins to sweat and it’s an even bet
That he’ll never last the night if he can’t land another score
From his dealer down the street who could make his night complete
If only he could get his hands on twenty dollars more.

(A lousy twenty dollars, only this and nothing more).

Joey’s sure tonight could be, one of soaring ecstasy,
Even higher than the high that he had reached the night before,
Where he’d finally caught the sight of the dragon and its might,
The beast who had eluded him for fifty highs or more.

But tonight he'll catch the dragon if he has twenty dollars more.

For Joey knows for sure that a higher dose will cure
His driving, fevered need to reach the highest of plateaus.
And he found the needed cash; from the dealer bought the stash,
And where he got the twenty bucks, nobody really knows.

And it doesn't really matter, doesn't matter any more.

For Joey died last night, overdosed on heroin’s bite,

While the dragon hovered, laughing, as he claimed another soul.
For the dragon can’t be caught, all the efforts go for naught
And, in the end, the dragon always seems to take his toll.

And Joey's just the latest tally in the dragon's score.

But tonight, out on the street, the odds are that you’ll meet
Someone living in conditions that most people would deplore.
Who’s given up his pride for that grand E-ticket ride
And to get it he needs money, only twenty dollars more.

Just a lousy twenty dollars, only this and nothing more.

If he gets it, true to code, a bit further down the road,
He’ll become a cold statistic; just a dot upon a graph.
And among the fallen tears, as has been the case for years,
The dragon will be there again to taunt us with his laugh,

Leaving in his wake frustration, only this and nothing more.

Copyright 2008 - phil cerasoli

THE MOST DANGEROUS RACIST OF ALL

It’s easy to spot and then to react
To a hard-line bigot’s loud call.
But it’s not quite as easy to cull from our midst
The most dangerous racist of all.

During the course of everyday life
He is the one you might miss.
But just listen to his conversation
That usually goes something like this:

“Rodney King whined, ‘Can’t we just get along?’
And, of course, the answer’s ‘No way!’
I could never be friends with a violent man
Who beat up forty cops on that day.

But, except for him, I’ve no bias.
To me all black people are dear.
It’s just that I get a bit nervous
When two or more of them near.

And some of my best friends are Negroes.
They represent a fine, noble race.
The reason I don’t ask them over
Is, well, they’d probably feel out of place.

Now a lot of people shun Asians.
The words sound so strange when they speak.
But I do my part in helping them out
By eating Chinese once a week.

And some of my best friends are Asians.
They represent a fine, noble race.
The reason I don’t ask them over
Is, well, they’d probably feel out of place.

But that’s not the case with Latinos,
To be a good host isn’t hard.
I tell them, ‘Mi casa’s su casa’
As they do housework and clean up my yard.

So I guess you can see I’m a color-blind guy
Who treats all of my brothers the same.
And when I see a racial injustice go down
I’m thankful that I’m not to blame!”

So there it all is but it’s hardly the end,
It’s not just us whiteys at fault.
It’s not like we own all the bias
And keep it locked safe in a vault.

There are segments of all different cultures
Who share the same subtle view
As that well-meaning, ignorant bigot
Who’s blind to the harm he can do.

And I can envision the heavenly scene
Where St. Peter’s explaining to God
Why he wants to deny them all access
To dwell upon heavenly sod.

St. Peter will say, “God, these people
Were a debit to humanity’s race.
And the reason I don’t ask them over
Is, well, they’d probably feel out of place.”

Copyright 2008 - phil cerasoli

APACHE ODYSSEY

A million stars were glowing underneath a poet's moon
And the desert's shadows watched as I drove by.
A gypsy wind was blowing a relentless feral tune
As it swept the thunderheads across the sky.

I had overtaken midnight; I was in my car alone
While driving through the Arizona night.
Across the lonely flatlands, no other headlights shone.
My speeding car: the desert's only sight.

Then the gypsy wind stopped blowing, as though turned off by a switch,
And I got this eerie feeling deep inside.
Then, from my car, I heard a sound that squealed with alien pitch
And the engine in my car just simply died.

The Firebird coasted to a stop; I mouthed a silent curse
And knew that I was stranded and alone
Some eighty miles from nowhere and, to make the matter worse,
No way that I could get there on my own.

I stepped outside and listened to the silence of the night
And wondered why the wind had ceased to blow.
Then I saw this cloud formation touch the ground off to my right
And approach me with an iridescent glow.

Rolling towards me like a wave, its billows tossed and turned,
I watched it near while I stood full of awe.
It stopped a hundred yards from me; the cloud no longer churned
And emerging from the wispy haze, I saw

A band of Indian horsemen with warpaint on their face
And feathered lances pointing at the sky.
They rode their unshod ponies toward me at a furious pace
As I prayed to God and then prepared to die.

Their leader stopped in front of me and locked onto my gaze
For what seemed to be a full eternity;
And in his steely eyes I saw a fire begin to blaze
And then the man began to speak to me:

"I am Cochise, the leader of the proud Apache clan
And I tell you there's no reason for alarm.
My body's but a spirit now as are those of my men.
We will not, cannot cause you any harm.

We were once on reservations; subjected to abuse;
You took away our land; our liberty.
You sent us off to places that you thought were of no use
And we had to die to set our proud souls free.

And now we fly the gypsy wind and search the nighttime sky
For cosmic plain and starlit grassy glade;
And now and then we land on earth to ride instead of fly
And check on all the progress that you've made.

You took our virgin country; took our sacred burial plots;
Took the trails that we once rode before you came
And replaced them all with shopping malls and concrete parking lots
And, in so doing, chased away the game.

You've introduced an acid rain that kills the fish it meets;
The lakes and streams now have a sickly stench.
The way of life for people living in your ghettos' streets
Makes our very souls and stomachs start to wrench.

And, in any given village, there's a freeway clogged with cars
And spots where all who walk had best beware.
In any given village, there's a dozen topless bars
And a plant releasing toxins in the air.

And, in my savage ignorance, I have to shake my head
And wonder why you've done the things I've seen.
Have your tribes' ideals and morals all simply fallen dead?
Has respect for man and earth now turned obscene?"

Then, one hundred yards behind him, the cloud began to glow
And that was when the conversation ceased.
The band of Indian horsemen knew that it was time to go
And from their cosmic spell I was released.

They turned as one and disappeared into the veil of light.
And I pondered all the questions that they'd brought;
And as the cloud was lifted up and disappeared from sight
I sent my answer to them with this thought:

I wish that I could ride with you upon the gypsy wind
And let your vibrant history fill my mind.
And I agree with what you said; that many men have sinned
And tainted up the land you left behind.

And there's no justifying the things that some men do
Or those who simply turn the other way.
But you can't crucify us all for sins of just a few.
You can only hope that Justice comes one day.

And some of us have learned that even sinning has its worth
If the lessons learned can serve to make you strong.
And some of us still cling to a dream for planet Earth:
A world where there's more right than there is wrong.

So I shed my tears for what our fathers' fathers did to you
And I wish that I could undo what's been done.
But I can only forge ahead and keep my ideals true
And if I can then it's the battle won.

And maybe one day I'll be there to ride the wind with you
And maybe you and I will be good friends.
And maybe we'll reflect on all the history we've been through
And how the saga never really ends.

And maybe when we visit earth upon our ghostly steeds
To check on all the progress that they've made,
We'll find a world filled to the brim with men's heroic deeds.
Then the dues of history finally will be paid.

Copyright 2001 - Phil Cerasoli

APACHE ODYSSEY VIDEO narrated by Jim Pinto

OLD PILOTS, BOLD PILOTS

There’s a very old adage I’ve heard several times
And it’s one I don’t think’s very sound:
“There are old pilots and there are bold pilots,
But there are no old, bold pilots around.”

That adage implies we’ve two choices:
Spend your life staying out of the race,
Or go out on a limb and take chances
While setting your daredevil’s pace.

Well, I’ve spent my whole life taking chances
And, as I write this, I’m seventy-three.
Then, by definition, I’m an old, bold pilot
Still flying 'cross turbulent sea.

So as an old and bold pilot, here’s my advice
You can follow or turn a deaf ear:
Every day find a way to take chances;
Every day find a way to face fear.

And beware of leading the vicarious life
Until you are feeble and old,
Only to wish you had been one of those
Pilots the world knew as bold.

Copyright 2008 - phil cerasoli

COLLATERAL DAMAGE

Forget who was right; forget who was wrong,
In Oklahoma that ill-fated day,
When Timothy McVey planted that bomb
And blew nineteen children away.

Forget who was right; forget who was wrong
In that whole Branch Dravidian affair.
Just remember that standoff in Waco
And the twenty-five kids who died there.

Forget who was right; forget who was wrong
In Jonestown when the cult was at bay
And two-hundred-sixty small children
Drank Kool-Aid and died on that day.

Forget who was right; forget who was wrong
In the closing days of The War,
When two atom bombs were dropped on Japan
And thousands of kids were no more.

And the madmen, fanatics, and generals,
And politicians, while safe in their lairs,
Call this “collateral damage”
Just an unavoidable state of affairs.

Well, I’ll wish you all well as you’re roasting in Hell,
I know you’re not pleased with your fate.
Just consider yourself collateral damage
In God’s efforts to set the world straight.

Copyright 2008 - phil cerasoli

ARE YOU EVER GOING TO LISTEN?

When I was only six years old
Two older kids came by
With a jar of angry bees that they had caught.
And the taller of the two
Told me that, for just a dime,
They would sell one to me on the spot.

That the bee would make a perfect pet
If cared for properly;
That it’d be there morning, noon and night.
That I would be the coolest kid
In the whole darn neighborhood.
Just reach inside and pick the bee that’s right.

But then this voice inside my head
Said, “Are you really dumb as that?
If you do this thing you’re stupid to the core.”
Ignoring that advice,
I reached inside the jar
And was promptly stung a dozen times or more.

Years later, now a married man,
And talking with my friend
About my business trip to San Antone,
And how I was concerned
About my beautiful young wife
And leaving her for two whole weeks alone.

“Don’t worry ‘bout a single thing,”
My best friend reassured,
“I’ll look in on your wife most every day.
So rest your troubled mind
Because you can count on me
To monitor her that time while you’re away.”

But then this voice inside my head,
Said, “You stupid little jerk,
I can’t believe how gullible you are.”
I ignored the voice, went on the trip
And when I got back home
Found my wife and friend had fled in my new car.

Years later, as a single man,
While walking down the street
A man in gray silk suit I chanced to meet.
He gives my hand a hearty shake
And with smooth, beguiling voice
Says he’s running for the open Senate seat.

And if I cast my vote for him,
And if he wins the race,
My life will be much better than before.
He say’s he’ll cut my taxes,
Bring our budget back in line
And says he’ll bring our troops home from the war.

And I tell this wondrous candidate
How great his rhetoric sounds
And I’d be proud as hell to vote for him.

But then this voice inside my head…

Copyright 2008 - phil cerasoli

REVENGE: Spaghetti-Western Style

It’s a slow night at Pablo’s cantina.
A vaquero or two at the bar
Are nursing their shots of tequila
While a third shines his deputy’s star.

When the cantina’s two swinging doors both fly open
And this odd-looking dog limps on in,
With his right foot swathed in a bandage
And the bandage is bloody as sin.

And the dog strangely resembles Clint Eastwood
When he was a big western star,
‘Cause there’s revenge in his eyes and a curl on his lips
As he slowly limps up to the bar.

And those other vaqueros who were playing it cool
Gulp their drinks and, wide-eyed with fright,
Bolt madly from Pablo’s cantina
And disappear in the Mexican night.

Leaving only Pablo to whisper,
“Perro, dogs can’t come in here, by law.”
And the dog softly snarls, “I’m here looking
For the lowlife who just shot my paw.”

Copyright 2008 - phil cerasoli

THE TIME HAS COME, THE WALRUS SAID

We’re sitting on a boulder
At the edge of tranquil sea,
Watching eastern sun ascend,
My walrus friend and me.

He says the time has finally come
To talk of many things,
Especially of technology
And what tomorrow brings.

He sends me off to round up
All the world’s best engineers
And bring them here tomorrow
And he’ll regale their ears…

With glorious plans for gadgetry
Like mobile phones and TV sets
And holographic video games
And cars with turbo-jets.

So it took a major effort
But at morning’s breaking light,
I brought the world’s best engineers
But no walrus was in sight.

But there was a shabby family,
A large and hungry crew,
Wolfing down a dish that smelled
A lot like walrus stew.

“What have you done?”, I screamed at them.
“You’re eating up the one
Who had the secrets, when revealed,
Would make our life more fun!”

The elder of the family
Looked at me and said,
“I don’t have a problem
With moving technology ahead.

But during your frantic hi-tech search,
You chose to turn your back
On all us hungry people
And resources that we lack.

So we’re just trying to last the day,
So that puts us at fault?
Well, I’m tired of hi-tech lingo
So shut up and pass the salt!”

Copyright 2008 - phil cerasoli

ONE MAN; ONE SONG

Luciano Pavarotti (1935-2007)

I’ve never been much for the opera
Although there are some arias I love.
But, basically, I’m just a Rock & Roll guy
‘Cause the beat fits my soul like a glove.

And I guess I can take or leave tenors
Although Bocelli can make my heart sing.
But I’d much rather listen to Rhythm & Blues
While I’m playing my beat-up six-string.

But I have to tell you in candor
There’s a piece that brings tears to my eyes.
When Pavarotti sings ‘Nessun Dorma’
I sit there in awe, mesmerized.

I’ve heard the man sing it, like, two hundred times
So you'd think I’d be used to its charms.
But whenever he reaches those ending high notes
The goose-bumps run wild on my arms.

So watch the video at the end of this poem
And watch the man’s passions arise.
And when the song’s over, keep watching
The fire burning deep in his eyes.

Then tell me that that’s not a God-given fit
The one meant to sing that one song.
If you do, there are hundreds of angels above
Who’ll respectfully tell you you’re wrong.

Copyright 2008 - phil cerasoli


I

WHEN 'NO SWEAT' HELPED THE CAUSE

Being land-locked in Biloxi
Wasn’t what I had in mind,
‘Cause they told me I’d be flying jets
When the Air Force pledge I signed.

But there I was at Keesler's base
Where discipline was loose.
A fact not lost on airmen
Who put it to good use.

For example, my pal, Charlie,
Had smuggled in a pet.
A little Cocker Spaniel
That he gave the name No Sweat.

Now Charlie was a ‘Negro’
(The term they used back then),
And, because we two were buddies,
He was with me that day when…

One afternoon we walked along
A drowsy downtown street.
Chuck and I, in uniform,
And No Sweat at our feet.

Remember, in the Fifties,
It was a common sight
To see signs that barred the ‘Negro’
From claiming what was right.

Along with that, Biloxi shunned
All those in uniform.
An odd and biased ethos
For a town to all conform.

But when we passed a small café,
A sign taped to the door,
Gave an elevated insult
And hurt us to the core:

NO DOGS
NO AIRMEN
NO NEGROES

So I looked down at my uniform;
Looked at Charlie’s dark brown skin;
Looked down at little No Sweat,
And broke into a grin.

And Charlie must have read my mind
For he was grinning even more,
He picked the puppy up and we
All meandered through the door.

The diners and the waitress
Struck an instant, frozen pose,
Then No Sweat began barking
But not a single patron rose.

I looked at the dazed waitress
And over No Sweat’s barking fits,
I said, “I know it’s afternoon
But can we get some eggs and grits?”

It was then the angry cook came out;
Yelled at us to go away.
And we complied, while laughing,
Feeling we had won the day.

We’ve come a long way from the Fifties,
With a long way yet to go.
But, at least, there are no signs designed
To keep minorities in tow.

And somewhere in dog heaven,
Draped in small angelic gown,
A spaniel feels he had a part
In bringing those signs down.

Copyright 2008 - phil cerasoli

The Greyhound, The Vixen, The Indian, and I

So I’m on a Greyhound heading west
And my eyes are badly glazed;
And my mind is numb from boredom,
And my thoughts are turning crazed.

Then the bus pulls into Gallup
To let people come on board.
Then, down the aisle, a vision flows
And I’m no longer bored.

A woman in her twenties
With full and pouting lips,
With a vixen’s face and body
And gently swaying hips.

She picks the seat in front of mine
And turns, with toss of hair,
But not before her eyes meet mine
And I feel there’s something there.

Later on, the bus is dark,
For day has turned to night.
We’re crossing through the desert
When I’m stunned to see the sight

Of slender fingers slipping through
The space beside her seat,
And come to rest upon my knee
As though promising me a treat.

Now a young man’s raging hormones
At times can’t be controlled.
And this was one occasion
That called for action bold.

I moved to sit beside her
And without a single word,
We let our passion run its course
Aroused and fully stirred.

And you might think that this is where
I end this lengthy tale,
But events that soon would follow
Caused our previous ones to pale.

For unbeknownst to both of us
Our Passion Play was seen
By an older man across the aisle
Who took in every scene.

Now the old guy was an Indian,
A Navajo, I’d guess.
And I think that our gyrations
Induced his horniness.

‘Cause he stood up on drunken legs
And, in manner far from meek,
He reached into the seat ahead
And stroked a woman’s cheek.

From the woman came a banshee’s wail.
Greyhound squealed to sliding stop.
The lights came on; the driver cursed;
Started acting like a cop.

He took reports from all aboard
And that included us.
And when we reached a truck stop;
Threw the Indian off the bus.

And with the truck stop’s neons
Splashed like war paint ‘cross his face,
He staggered through the parking lot
In a state of fallen grace.

And when the bus had pulled away
The girl and I resumed
Our trip through burning passion
With which we were consumed.

Then somewhere near the border
With passion nearly spent
I took some time to dwell upon
That poor old Indian gent.

And I saw it as another case,
As Injustice sat and laughed,
Where the white man got the gravy,
While the Indian got the shaft.

Copyright 2008 - phil cerasoli

A LETTER TO MY BROTHER

You and I, my brother, were born ten years apart,
And I’ve often viewed that chasm with a heavy, aching heart.
‘Cause, in a way, that ten year span was difficult to breach
When you were eight, I’d turned eighteen with other goals to reach.

The next four years, away from home, I wore the Air Force blue,
When I returned, you’d just turned twelve, and I was twenty-two.
But despite all that we’ve managed to form some memories,
Shared the warm air of Borrego; felt Idlewild’s cool breeze.

We tried to write a book of poems, our niche we tried to carve,
Which was a naïve venture, ‘cause poets always starve.
We’ve walked the streets of London during its early morning rains;
Had drinks aboard a party boat while sailing down the Thames.

We’ve wined and dined in restaurants, reliving all the tales
Of youthful misadventures whose re-telling never pales.
But more than all these memories, are the times you went beyond
To pull me out of darkness to the light of brother’s bond.

For there were times when Failure was preparing his attack
And I knew, before I saw you, you were there to have my back.
So how can I put into words, this love I have inside,
For you, my younger brother, for whom I have such pride.

You know, the time is nearing when my spirit will move on
To whatever form that Destiny has deemed that I should don.
So, in advance, undying thanks for helping share my load,
And Mom and I will catch you a bit further down the road.

SO THIS GUY WALKS INTO A BAR...

There’s this joke wherein this businessman
Sees a very sexy lass.
He approaches her and clears his throat,
Then, with total lack of class,

He asks if she will sleep with him
For a million dollars cash.
She answers that , of course, she would,
And she doesn’t bat a lash.

So then the guy just nods his head
And, hoping for some luck,
Asks if she will sleep with him
For just a lousy buck.

The girl, in indignation, snaps,
“Do you think that I’m a whore?”
He says, “That’s already been established,
It’s the price we need explore.”

Now I asked a country’s leader
If he’d send his troops to war,
If another hostile nation
Sent their troops upon his shore.

“Of course,” the leader answers,
“We would kill in self defense,
Because ignoring an invasion
Doesn’t make a bit of sense.”

So then I asked him his approach,
Asked him what he’d choose to do,
If another foreign country
Didn’t share his point of view.

Would he send in troops to bully them?
Would he bomb and kill and maim
And cause untold civilians
To die in freedom’s name?

“Of course not,” was the answer,
“Do you think that we love war?”
I said, “That’s already been established.
It’s the price we need explore.”

Copyright 2008 - phil cerasoli

WHEN LINES ARE DRAWN UPON THE SAND

A line was drawn on Texas sand
By Travis at the Alamo,
While challenging his gallant men
To fight the troops of Mexico.

Another line upon the sand,
Drawn by Bush with boastful roar,
Claiming that the line was crossed
And, ergo, the Iraqi War.

And if you travel history’s path,
Just seek and you shall find,
The countless lines drawn in the sand
By men with axe to grind.

And, based on that, I’m thinking,
That it truly would be grand,
If, on this fragile planet,
There was no such thing as sand.

Copyright 2008 - phil cerasoli

SHADOWLAND: TAMARA'S SONG

In the ancient land of Doric, then a part of Camelot,
Lived a beautiful young maiden who was pampered quite a lot.
But the maiden craved excitement, more than Camelot could give
And she longed to find another, more exciting place to live.

Then a dark knight named Rebellion arrived on fiery steed
And promised her excitement if she would simply cede
The life she lived in Camelot and ride away with him
To the place that they called Shadowland on Hell’s most southern rim.

And Rebellion coaxed the maiden to climb aboard his steed,
And, together, they rode off as one and headed at great speed,
To that sunless land of shadows where there’s no-one to preside,
That lawless land of darkness where only fools reside.

Then, free of Camelot’s ethics, the maiden soon began
Her reeling, downward spiral which was fueled by Satan’s fan.
And the day her descent ended was the day she looked around
At the dismal life in Shadowland and that was when she found

That this way of life was pointless and she had to get away
But quickly found that there were many dragons she must slay.
Her only weapon was Resolve but she began the fight,
Often struck and cut and wounded, but she finally caught the sight

Of the road that led from Shadowland to a much more sunny place
And though it wasn’t Camelot, it was somewhere she found grace.
A place where she found purpose, helping those in desperate need
Of love and hope and counsel, and she’s helping them succeed.

Now, despite the scars she carries; despite battles that she’s fought,
She may never find that narrow road that leads to Camelot.
But she will always wear that mantle denoting she was one
Who fought her way from Shadowland to once more find the sun.

Copyright 2008 - phil cerasoli

THE SUICIDE

(To friends, departed)

Balanced on the edge of night,
Half in darkness; half in light.
Inside his mind, there's nothing right
With no more dreams beyond tonight.

Tired of the losing fight,
Final words he starts to write,
Pen in left hand; gun in right.
No more dreams beyond tonight.

Darkness overtakes the light,
Blankets all of Reason's sight,
The gunshot proves that he was right:
There'll be no dreams beyond tonight.

I understand but can't defend
This choice to make one's lifetime end.
He failed to see, due to his plight,
The countless dreams beyond tonight.

copyright 2008 - phil cerasoli

THE TRACKS OF MY YEARS

(sung to the tune of ‘Tracks Of My Tears‘*)

People used to think my life was a party
Because of all the wild things I’d do.
But time marks its passage and youth fades away
And now I find it’s no longer true.

So take a good look at my pace,
You’ll see it’s slowed since the start of the race.
If you look closer, it’s easy to trace
The tracks of my years.

At undefined time, I widened my vision,
To write about the things that I knew,
Hoping that all those who stopped by to read them
Would leave with their own widened view.

So take a hard look at my case,
And know I tried hard to age with some grace
And leave a wide trail where young minds could trace
The tracks of my years…

And then take my thoughts from that place
And with them, their own thoughts enlace
And then leave them so others can trace
The tracks of their years.

Copyright 2008 - phil cerasoli
‘*Tracks of my Tears: Warren Moore/Smokey Robinson/Marvin Tarplin

THE RIOT

Autumn in the city and the sun is causing grief;
A fire-breathing dragon spewing heat.
The people try in vain to seek out cool relief
‘Cause the mood is turning ugly on the street.

And then the breaking point is reached when skinheads hit the scene
With a swastika emblazoned on a sheet.
And a group of Jewish youths step up to intervene
And the mood is turning violent on the street.

Then a small group of Italians take the Jewish point of view;
Racial slurs exchanged with frenzied beat.
Then pushing leads to shoving and then, as if on cue,
All hell breaks loose; there’s fighting in the street.

And when the fighting’s over; when peace has been restored,
Ten thousand angry people were involved.
With dozens laying wounded, laying beaten, stabbed or gored
And, on the street, no issue was resolved.

And as you read this tale, you’re thinking, “Just another page
Taken from Americana’s lore.
Just another chapter in our book that’s filled with rage.”
Because you’ve seen this scene played out before.

But this act of pointless violence that gave so many fits
Didn’t happen here at all, you see.
It happened in Toronto at a place called Christie Pits
In Canada in 1933.

And history books reveal that no country is immune
That Rage can devastate all those it meets.
And it respects no borders; it’s a universal tune,
That sings and takes its toll upon the streets.

And the only way that we can find a cure for this disease
Is if the world extends a helping hand
To those too dense to see the forest for the trees
And try to make these people understand.

That life’s too short to waste their time on issues that divide
Or to try to prove that their group is the best;
That life should be a journey; a wondrous, joyous ride
With universal love its only quest.

Copyright 2008 - phil cerasoli

CONNECTION

It occurs to me that as you read,
My poems become the key,
That lets me be a part of you
And you, a part of me.

Because during my time of writing;
During your time it took to read
A connection was established
And bad thoughts we failed to heed.

For while I’m scribbling down the words
And trying to find the rhyme,
I’m causing harm to no-one
‘Cause, frankly, there’s no time.

And while you’re reading all my poems
You’re causing no-one harm
Or cursing out somebody
Or causing them alarm.

And it really doesn’t matter
If my poems set your mind free,
Or if they leave you unimpressed
The important thing to see

Is during the writing and the reading,
The both of us were two
Who shelved all thoughts of malice
And , perhaps, learned something new.

So thanks, old friend, for reading.
I’m thankful I could be,
Just for a while, a part of you
And you, a part of me.

Copyright 2008 - phil cerasoli

AN AMERICAN FABLE

There’s an isolated valley
Called the Valley Of The Blind
Where everybody’s sightless
But no-one seems to mind.

And long ago, two strangers
Chanced to happen by
And both of them were sightless,
But only in one eye.

And they weren’t especially gifted
Nor especially qualified
To be anybody’s leader,
But they sensed an easy ride.

So they entered into politics
And, as they had partial sight,
The odds were overwhelming,
One won without much fight.

Thereafter, every fourth year came
Where elections caused a duel,
And the two would face each other
To see which one would rule.

Of course, the Valley had its rules
Which allowed the blind to run.
But without the sight to guide them
The sighted always won.

Now decades came and decades went
The ‘one-eyes’ played the song,
And all the sightless people
Felt compelled to dance along.

And if there’s a moral to this tale;
If it teaches us one thing,
It’s in the Valley of the Blind,
The one-eyed man is king.

Copyright 2008 - phil cerasoli

HOW TO SUCCEED WHEN YOU'RE LOUSY

I’ll let you all in on a secret
That is known by only a few.
Just find a work crew who can’t possibly do
The one thing you know how to do.

And no matter if you do it poorly
Or screw up what you’re hired to do.
Just keep carrying on, you’ll never go wrong
If the rest of them don’t have a clue.

Now I know that you don’t believe me
But keep reading this poem, for Pete’s sake,
And when you are through, I guarantee you’ll
See the point that I’m trying to make:

When I was an awkward young bachelor
Trying to act like the world’s coolest gent,
I had the chance to learn how to dance
At this place where all the girls went.

Now I had no rhythm; I owned two left feet,
But it meant I could hold a young lass.
But if it was a school, then I’d be the fool
Who was voted the last in his class.

Now fast forward to several years later
To a small town’s only large hall
Where a loud country band sang songs of the land
While we were all having a ball.

And there was this stunning young vision
With whom all of us guys tried to score.
But “Home On The Range” to her sounded strange
So our advances, she chose to ignore.

Then we watched as she walked to the bandstand
And asked the bandleader if he
And his group, with slim chances, knew some good Latin dances,
And, if so, would they play two or three.

The leader adjusted his ten-gallon hat
And then began tapping his feet.
And the band took his cue and started to do
Some songs with that hot Latin beat.

Then that beautiful girl turned to face us
Asking if anyone cared for a dance;
To hold her real tight and to dance through the night
But the group stood there in a trance.

‘Cause they only knew how to two-step,
Which has no occasion to whirl.
And I was the one who could tango
So guess who went home with the girl?

Copyright 2008 - phil cerasoli

THE LEGEND OF JOEY BALLOU

Now, I’m far from a saint,
On my soul there’s a taint
‘Cause I’ve had me a scandal or two.
But none can compare
With the flamboyant flair
Of the Cajun named Joey Ballou.

He was born on the bayou
And as far as Ballou knew
Alligators were supposed to be pets.
He had one named Fred
Who slept in his bed
And that was as good as it gets.

Now Fred was an asset
That outdid a Bassett
‘Cause when someone caused Joey to hurt,
Fred made it his goal
To eat the guy whole
And wolf down his shoes for dessert.

Not surprising to say,
That inevitable day
Came when the Lake Charles’ police said, “It’s done!”
A terse APB
Caused the whole world to see
That the Cajun was now on the run.

On a flat-bottomed boat,
Into bayou remote,
Joey and Fred made their way.
And legends still tell
It’s there they still dwell,
And the Cajuns then go on to say

That all of the ones
Who searched with their guns
In order to bring the two back,
Never returned,
But the rest never learned
And they kept on with their relentless attack.

This was decades ago,
But when the tide’s running low,
Some shoes will wash up on the dirt.
And the Cajuns say Fred
Must be really well fed
‘Cause he was too full for dessert.

Copyright 2008 - phil cerasoli

ONE MINUS TWO= ZERO

World War I was horrific
Compassion, we suffered a lack.
When it was over we tragically found
The world had just moved two steps back.

But then the League of Nations was formed
In order to maintain the peace.
We were able to take one step forward
Optimism was given release.

But then the brief peace was broken,
To the second world war we were sent
And after the holocaust and two atom bombs
Well, two steps backward we went.

But after the war, the UN was formed
A giant step forward for Man.
But then Vietnam and Iraq came along
And it was two steps backward again.

And it’s not just the wars I’m talking about.
It seems every good thing we do
Is followed by blunders that outdo the good
By a significant factor of two.

So if we keep going; if my math is correct
Then, at least from a moralist’s view,
We’ll be decked out in bear skins and living in caves
And starting world history anew.

Then we’ll re-invent vital things like the wheel,
A step forward to get back on track.
Then some brooding hulk will re-invent the spear
And we’ll all have to take two steps back.

Copyright 2008 - phil cerasoli

WHO BUT THE ATHLETES

Who but the athletes who don numbered jerseys

And battle beneath a hot sun,

Can tell of the magic of bat meeting ball

Or the thrill of a broken field run?

Or the bittersweet taste of a goal-line's white dust

Or the score that will prove one team best.

Or the pressureless touch of a tape as it meets

An on-rushing, fast moving chest.

How can they explain to those who don't know

Of the powerful feeling they get

When the ball that they've shot in a high, graceful arc

Finds its way into the net?

And of the perfume that the locker room holds

When the dust of the battle has cleared,

And all of the mem'ries of moments just passed

When the crowd rose as one voice and cheered.

No, none of the athletes can really explain

These things to those wanting to know.

But perhaps it is best that the athlete alone

Knows the rapture of sport's golden glow.

copyright 2008 - phil cerasoli

FRISCO JOE

Kansas City -12th St. & Vine - 1956

At the top of Satan's stairway,
On the brink of slipping down.
Met a tramp called Frisco Joe;
Helped me turn my life around.

Met him sitting on a corner
Right outside a downtown bar.
From inside we heard Bo Diddley
Wailing on his box guitar.

Guess he sensed I was goin' nowhere,
Full of anger and remorse.
Asked me to sit down beside him,
Then gave the words that changed my course:

Told me that nobody’s perfect;
Told me that we’ll often fall;
Said everybody’s got a story
And I should listen to them all.

And pay attention to each saga;
Learn from every single tale.
Then apply the story’s lesson
To help me walk down Wisdom’s trail.

Now Joe had nothing in his pockets
But wouldn’t take a dime from me.
Told me that “by having nothin',
Was the only way you’re free.”

Now Joe’s advice has served me well
Along my winding lifetime trip,
From the brink of Satan’s stairway
To an angel’s fingertips.

I never saw old Joe again
But he lives inside of me.
And wherever Fate has taken him
I know that Frisco Joe is free.

copyright 2008 - phil cerasoli

HELP THEM CATCH A RISING STAR

I. The Barrio
By the shores of San Diego,
City blessed with Nature’s treaty,
Stands a barrio full of culture
With tired walls of proud graffiti.

Where the sounds of mariachis,
Resound with buoyant echoes down a narrow, cluttered street.

There dwells a young musician,
Who’s a genius on guitar.
Undiscovered virtuoso,
Trying to catch his rising star.

And searches for that place
Where dreams and sought out talent can sometimes chance to meet.

II. The Ghetto
In a multi-racial ghetto
Where emotions touch despair.
Living day to day.
With angry voices everywhere.

A fairly raucous climate,
A place where tourists rarely seek a friendly place to eat.

There dwells a lovely brown-skinned girl,
With soft angelic voice;
One that reaches others’ hearts
And makes their souls rejoice.

She’s searching for that place
Where dreams and sought out talent can sometimes chance to meet.

III. America
All across this spacious country,
Land of promises untold,
Every city harbors multitudes,
Whose dreams are yet to mold.

Determined in their march,
Ignoring things that block their way and hasten a retreat.

Should you meet these youthful seekers
Reinforce their hopeful schemes.
Give your hand in strong support.
And laud them on their dreams.

And help them find that place
Where dreams and sought out talent can sometimes chance to meet.

copyright 2008 - Phil Cerasoli

AMERICA, WOUNDED

I am dying, Egypt, dying.*
Once a hero, idolized,
Now a bully, much despised
By many lands in many different climes.

I am dying, England, dying.
Your bastard son is ebbing fast;
I'm not sure if I can last
To properly atone for subtle crimes.

I am crying, Asia, crying
For my greatness, once displayed,
Only then to watch it fade
As men who were to lead led us astray.

I am sighing, neighbors, sighing
With no logical defense
For the greed and arrogance
That made my people’s visions fade away.

Is it too late for the healing?
Before it sadly dies,
Can you make the Phoenix rise
And resurrect the way that I once felt?

I am dying, people, dying.
Hurry with the proper cure
Then we can start the tour
That takes me to the place where I once dwelt.

* Marc Antony to Cleopatra: Wm. Shakespeare
Copyright 2008 - Phil Cerasoli

WILD HORSES

Back in the days when Rhythm & Blues
Was a genre of music pristine,
Heard only by few of America’s whites,
Until Elvis arrived on the scene.

Now, prior to that, America’s teens
Were a quiet, subservient sort.
Who always complied with their parents’ requests
A trend Rock & Roll would abort.

With Elvis their king and with Graceland his throne,
America’s teens finally spoke.
Rising as one in rebellious mode
Together they cast off the yoke.

Like a herd of wild horses they fled the corrals
That had kept them penned in for so long.
But while gloriously galloping down freedom’s wide road
Something went horribly wrong.

So many of them found a fork in the road
That led to heroin, coke; LSD.
Then, after a while, addiction took hold;
Once again, the wild horses weren’t free.

As one of those ponies who was lucky enough
To avoid heading down that wrong turn,
I often shed tears for those addicted young steeds
And I wish that they could return.

To the main road that we all once traveled,
Then backtrack until they can find
That path that leads back to Graceland
To a simpler, more beautiful time.

Copyright 2008 - phil cerasoli

EMILIANO, MARTIN, AND CHE

In reading through history, it’s really no mystery
How some countries rulers succeed.
They dispense death and pain through belligerent reign
Of arrogance; ignorance; greed.

And history also relates of the rebels whose fates
Called for them to ignore unjust laws,
To peacefully protest or put guns to the test
And rise up to fight for their cause.

Emiliano Zapata thought Mexico ought to
Give peasants their share of the land.
But an ambush one day blew Zapata away
And his death let his dream go unfanned.

And there’s no need to sing the praises of King
His legend is easy to trace.
With non-violent acts he forced many pacts
That furthered the cause of his race.

And he was so close, God, he was so close
To seeing his dreams all fulfilled.
Then one Memphis morn, a gun triggered the storm
And Martin was ruthlessly killed.

Che Guevara was more than Cuban folk lore
He fought the Bolivian fight.
He was wounded and caught; and the next morning shot
And, once more, Wrong won out over Right.

So, I guess, in summation and in sober elation
I’d like to express this lone view:
Thank God for all those who stand and oppose
Wrongful laws benefiting a few.

So here’s a salute to all of the fruit
That was born out of their sacrifice.
They won and they lost and met the steep cost
By paying the ultimate price.

And I’m not that wise to precisely surmise
The dues that one has to pay
To find heavenly rest, but I know three passed the test:
Emiliano and Martin and Che.

Copyright 2008 - phil cerasoli

NO SUCH THING AS A BAD POEM

Your poem may be eclectic,
Understood by just a few,
Or your words might tend to make some people mad.

Or the meter might be faulty
Or the words may be mis-rhymed
Or the spelling or the usage may be bad.

But if your words reflect
The workings of your soul
And bares what you are feeling in your heart.

Then there’s no need to defend
Your poem to them, my friend,
For your words have just become a work of art.

Copyright 2008 - phil cerasoli

VISITATION FROM VENUS

So I’m sitting on steps of a spaceship
With an extra-terrestrial crew
And they say that they’ve come here from Venus
To confirm things from their point of view.

The commander reads from his log book
And asks me if I can explain
America’s history and our interface
With those upon whom we’ve caused pain.

He begins with, “You first beat the British,
Words of victory spewed from your mouth,
Then on your way west, slew the Indians
And the Mexicans off to the south.

And now all three of these nations
Seem to regard you as friends.
All killing’s forgotten and I guess they all feel
That somehow you’ve made your amends.

Then you got involved in two global wars
With Germany, Italy, Japan.
Then years down the road, you walk arm-in-arm
And have become an inseparable clan.

Then there was this place that you call Vietnam

And we all know how that went.
Now Vietnam is your pal and they treat you as though
You are a quite civilized gent.

And now you’re at war on Afghanistan’s sands
And blowing up half of Iraq.
And I wonder if after these conflicts are done,
You’ll all pat each one on the back."

The alien commander set down his log
And his face was all taut with the strain,
And he said, “The only thing I can conclude
Is that humans are completely insane.

And that Man is the only species who kills
For reason’s we’ve not yet conceived,
And when the battle is done, you all become friends
And forget about all those who grieved.

And I’ve noticed you’ve taken the four-legged beasts
And keep them all caged for your view.
For God sake, let them out and let them run free
‘Cause it’s Man who belongs in the zoo.”

Copyright 2008 - Phil Cerasoli

JOHN LENNON EXTENDED

I'm guilty of taking 'Imagine"

And expanding on John Lennon's dream,

Imag'ning a world where only two laws

Were followed to the utmost extreme.

If "First Do No Harm" and "Do Unto Others..."

Were the only laws on the world's scene,

And if they were zealously followed

Would it be a Utopian dream?

Well, first of all, all the world's armies

Would erode and then disappear.

Then millions of people involved with defense

Would panic as bankruptcy nears.

And what would the Pentagon's high-ranking brass;

And the FBI; CIA, do?

Would they be forced to resign from their posts

And work at a Wendy's drive-thru?

And what of the judges and lawyers

And all of the cops on the beat?

What would become of all of these guys?

Would they all end up out on the street?

Man, the list of examples is endless,

But I think that the point has been made

That each item I add chips away at the dream

And thoughts of Utopia fade.

So I guess that we're stuck with the status that's quo

And it makes a grown man want to sob.

But, although it's no use, I'll expand Lennon's views

Until none of these guys have a job.

copyright 2008 - phil cerasoli

JAMAICAN JOURNEY

If you take a long trip to Jamaica
And stay at a fancy resort,
I’m sure that you’ll find, serene peace of mind
Before your cruise ship leaves port.

But there’s more to this island than beaches
Although it is hidden from view.
I’ll tell you a whale of a Jamaican tale
And I swear that this story is true:

It was late afternoon on a Sunday
I had just hitched a ride from the beach
To discover the streets; those hidden retreats
That the resorts try to keep out of reach.

So I’m walking the worn streets of Mobay,
Ending up in the town’s central square.
And I’m startled to see, (all looking at me),
The crowd that had been gathered there.

They were all dressed in their Sunday attire
Looking all proper and prim.
With a nod from a man, standing raised on a stand,
They started a beautiful hymn.

And a boy about twelve saw me watching
And waved to me, calling me in.
He gave me a book, which I gingerly took
While his mother looked on with a grin.

The book was a tattered old hymnal
And I found the appropriate page.
And while my Caucasian skin, didn’t really fit in,
With their singing I began to engage.

To be sure, I didn’t know all of the hymns
And sometimes I’d just hum away.
One lone white man in a sea full of tan
And we sang ‘til the end of the day.

The next morning I walked from my cottage
From the beach to the inn’s breakfast bar.
But, as always, the rain; that warm, summer rain
Made sure that I didn’t walk far.

I found cover inside a long hallway
That had open archways where you
Could stay comfortably dry, yet still see the sky
Sending down torrents to view.

And there in the hall was the small three-man band
I had met on my first afternoon.
One lit a cigar; handed me his guitar,
And asked me to play him a tune.

So I sang “Rivers Of Babylon” which told of the slaves
Who were conscripted and brought to this isle.
Then the others joined in; then we sang it again
And unnoticed to us all the while

A few of the waiters had stopped in their route
And joined in our Jamaican song.
Then a Rasta or two, and some young bus-boys, too,
And some maids made our chorus quite strong.

And before too long, the hallway was clogged
While the rain kept on coming on strong.
Dozens of voices in harmonic choices
And there I was leading the throng.

And that was as close to God that I’ve been
I’m positive I can’t be wrong.
The spiritual sense was so highly intense
I was sure He was singing along.

Now I know that Jamaica has problems
Like all of the world’s countries do.
But I’ve never found, a love that abounds
Like the love that Jamaica shows you.

So if you get down to Jamaica
Take a side trip to Montego Bay
You might see some people, standing next to a steeple
And they‘ll probably ask you to stay..

And you just might get lucky and have them request
That you join them in singing a song.
Then do it with flair, ‘cause God will be there
And He will be singing along.

Copyright 2008 - phil cerasoli

Video of "Rivers Of Babylon" performed by Boney M

LIFE CONDENSED

You’ve just spilled coffee in your lap,
You shout an inadvertent, “Crap!”
And watch the spreading stain upon your clothes.
And your colleague where you work
Laughs and tells you with a smirk,
“Ain’t that just the way it always goes?”

You’ve worked and saved for years,
Offered blood and sweat and tears
To build a nest egg fund that only grows.
Then one day the FBI
Says your boss has bled it dry,
And ain’t that just the way it always goes?

Now you’re dead and venting loud
Next to God upon a cloud
And He listens to your tale of countless woes.
Then with sympathetic tear,
He whispers in your ear,
Saying, “Ain’t that just the way it always goes?”

Copyright 2008 - phil cerasoli

SHADOWS

Hamlet: Act 5 - Scene 5:
Life is but a walking shadow. A poor player who
struts and frets his hour upon the stage and is heard no more.
It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
signifying nothing.

Those words, not meant to rhyme, penned by Shakespeare in his prime
Are a portrait of a painful, pointless road,
What’s worse, they form a view, from which tyrants take their cue
To spread their stifling domineering code.

No sins they need amend, ‘cause there’s no soul to transcend.
No Day of Judgment; only mindless dust.
And this justifies their need, for their arrogance and greed
So their rise to power starts with manic lust.

And while walking shadows stand, like marchers in a band,
And march away their hours upon the stage.
The tyrant makes his play; takes their civil rights away
And the shadows are enclosed within a cage.

A shadow here, a shadow there; most of them are unaware
Until the day their freedom’s up and flown;
Then all the shadows merge, with involuntary surge,
And darken up the land where light once shone.

Now life may be a tale, as Shakespeare oft would wail,
With sound and fury making life all blurred..
But my shadow follows me; I decide where it shall be,
And when I die my spirit will be heard,

Perhaps unseen, but often felt, pausing at Orion’s belt
Until some cosmic law draws me away.
So Shakespeare’s mournful lines, are nothing more than signs
Of a man who let his shadow lead the way.

Copyright 2008 - phil cerasoli

SONS OF THE PROPHET

The sons of the Prophet are valiant and bold

And quite unaccustomed to fear.*
And the man most admired for his warrior’s ways
Was a man named Abdulla Abmeer.

A fighter by trade, a man quite adept

With bayonet, rifle, or spear.
The Arabian winds spread the fame of the name
Of the man called Abdulla Abmeer.

Now America’s sons are also quite brave
Who also don’t cave in to fear.
And the bravest of all, at America’s call
Was a soldier named Jonathan Gere.

Loved family and home, but when bugle was blown
Requesting the troops to appear.
At the head of the line was the tanned, chiseled form
Of Staff Sergeant Jonathan Gere.

These two met one night in the midst of a fight
On the hot desert sand of Iraq.
Abmeer, with a sneer, turned his gun on John Gere
Saying, “Tonight you are not going back!”

In response Sergeant Gere calmly readied his gun
And spoke to Abdulla Abmeer:
“I’ve heard of your name; of your warrior’s fame
But tonight your legend dies here!”

The two shot as one; they both slumped to the ground
As their life force drained onto the sand.
Then the battle moved on, leaving both men alone
And Gere reached for Abdulla’s limp hand.

Dying, he asked, “What thing have we done
At the whim of those thinking this just?”
Abmeer nodded and sighed; then quietly died
On top of the desert’s brown crust.

Now there’s a small house in war-torn Iraq
Where a family still mourns for their son.
And back in the States a wife and her child
Weep for the loved one who’s gone.

So what have we learned from all of these wars:
Korea, Viet Nam, and Iraq?
We’ve learned that both sides send their youth to the fray
And only the lucky come back.

But even the “lucky” still carry the scars
Of the civilians who got in the way.
The millions who cried, were wounded or died
For a government's “Cause-Of-The-Day”

For there’s always a cause or a reason to kill
Or so the world’s leaders all say.
So the warriors stand ready to prove their side right
While the rest of us get in the way.

Yes, a country’s brave warriors are valiant and bold
And quite unaccustomed to fear.
So if this war were to stop, it’s then safe to say
That the next one starts early next year.

*with thanks to Percy French (1854-1920)
Copyright 2008 - Phil Cerasoli

SO LONG, ABE

George Orwell wrote a book entitled 1984
In which Big Brother ruled our world, our daily lives and more.
George Orwell wrote another book where pigs had equal voice.
But then a few pigs ruled the Farm; the rest had little choice
Abe Lincoln spoke at Gettysburg, one line that had much worth:
“A government for the people shall not perish from this earth.”

So when did we give Abe the boot and usher Orwell in
And allow the State to treat us like a stringless violin?
‘Cause I don’t remember being asked to cast my vote for war
Or if it was for public good to let gas prices soar.
I don’t remember Congress or the Senate asking me
If their two or three day work week was all OK with me.

If it were up to me I’d have each person go on-line
To vote on every issue before that bill was signed.
And depending on the outcome, those votes would become laws.
But such a plan would stick inside the politicians craws.
My plan might work, or maybe not. It may or not be sound.
But our current course has run our leaky Ship of State aground.

And to those condescending folks in Washington, D.C.
Who think they have the right to choose whatever’s best for me,
I’ve read our nation’s history and this is what I found:
You’re supposed to be our servants, not the other way around.

Copyright 2008 - phil cerasoli

IT'S RAINING IN BILOXI

“The Mississippi delta is a lousy place to be
And it sure as hell is not my port of call.
But it’s rainin’ in Biloxi and I’m stuck here in my room
Busted flat and back against the wall.

I’m standin’ here just wishing that the rain would finally end
So maybe I can hitch-hike out of town.
I’ve smoked up all my cigarettes; I’ve screamed my final curse,
While outside the rain just keeps on pourin’ down.

I’m thinkin’ back to younger days when life had offered hope,
When there were many courses to be run.
But that’s all ancient history; my bridges all are burned,
Now I’m stuck here knowin’ that my life is done.”

Now in case you missed the meaning of what I’m trying to say
Biloxi’s just a simple metaphor
For all the down-and-outs I’ve met; the hungry and the poor
Who’ve accidentally crossed my path before.

For all those distressed people whose luck has all run out
And all of those who never had a chance,
Who needed help and asked for it in many different ways
But when they did they never got a glance.

So I tip my hat to all of you who’ve made it to the top.
Your life of ease is prob’ly justified.
And I’m not knocking what you have or how you live your life.
It’s just that I am slightly mystified

At how you sit upon your couch, martini in your hand,
And watch the TV news reports that say
“It’s raining in Biloxi as it has for countless days
And apparently no help is on the way.”

And you look out through your window and see the brilliant sun,
Then turn and glance again at your TV,
And say, “Out here the sun is out so I’m supposed to care?
Biloxi’s rain is no concern to me.”

copyright 2008 - phil cerasoli

RANDOM THOUGHTS

Random thoughts, like random spots
That only few can find…
Random thoughts, like random tots,
Careening through my mind

Bringing inspiration
Setting thoughts to pen,
Writing down my visions;
Of dreams I have for Men.

I dream of people caring
For all who dwell this orb.
Dreams of universal thought
That they can all absorb.

I dream that wars will one day end,
That starvation disappears.
And dream that I can see it all
As my twilight quickly nears.

These random thoughts, like grassy plots
When placed on arid mind,
Can root; can grow; can fly away;
And leave the past behind.

And drifting skyward make their way,
Borne by restless wind,
To find a spot in someone’s mind
And help them to rescind

Their apathetic feelings
Or the thought that they’re alone.
And replace them with a feeling
They may have never known.

Random thoughts, like random dots,
Connected make us one.
And if we rise with single thought
The mission’s half-way done.

Copyright 2008 Phil Cerasoli

VOYAGER

When August's tranquil breezes are fiercely blown away
By the winds called Santa Ana from the dry Mojave's clay
And the air is thick and heavy and the sun's a ball of flame
It is then I feel the nearness of the one who has no name.

He rides the lofty currents; with the wind his trusty steed
That carries him above me at a whirling, blinding speed.
With a voice like silent thunder...a whisper, yet a roar,
I hear him as he talks to me as no-one has before.

And he tells me that he's spanned the globe at least a million times
And he's heard ten million stories and he's heard ten million rhymes.
And he tells me that he's seen it all, from Eden's time 'til now
And he says it never changes; that it stays the same, somehow.

That he's seen a thousand Hitler's bring a race close to demise;
That he's seen a thousand Gandhi's make a dormant people rise.
That he's seen a thousand Ho Chi Minh's fight to set men free,
That he's seen a thousand Castro's take away their liberty.

And through it all he tells me that the script's an endless game
While different people play the roles that always stay the same.
Then with a final gust of wind, the voyager is gone
But through the months that follow, his memory lingers on.

And often in the stillness of a crisp October night
I lay awake and think perhaps the voyager is right.
But if we are but actors; if the world is but a stage
I wonder what is on my script's redundant final page.

And if a million people have played my role before
I worry that God's watching and that He's keeping score.
'Cause I think that so damned often, my life's been off-the-cuff.
But I played the role as best I could and maybe that's enough.

Copyright 2001 - Phil Cerasoli

TIMELESS ENIGMA

Religion wages conflict
With scientific mind.
God and evolution
Confused and intertwined.

Did we first leave murky waters
To crawl upon the sand
Or breathe our first in Eden
Underneath God's loving hand?

Did we struggle through the centuries
Just to face a mindless fate
In a dark eternal vacuum
That awaits beyond death's gate?

Or does the trip have purpose?
A time to grow and learn?
A harbinger of afterlife
Where joy and passion burn?

These questions without answers
Turn us, in a way,
Into walking contradictions
As we waver day to day.

Wanting heaven's promise,
Yet so afraid to die.
And, in the end, it leaves us
To sit and wonder why.

Why is it, then, that we are here?
Why must we scale this cliff?
But no-one has the answers so
We're left to wonder if

That dark foreboding landmark
Waiting 'round the final bend
Marks the end of the beginning
Or the beginning of the end.

Copyright 2001 - Phil Cerasoli

TRANSFORMATION

I have touched the hand of Satan;
Felt the evil while I stood
So close that I could hear him while he seethed.
I have climbed the stairs to heaven
And lingered close to God;
So close that I could hear Him while He breathed.

As a child on this small planet,
Watched a world go off to war;
Watched the cloud of Hiroshima block the sun.
Watched the blood spill in Korea
Watched the rape of Viet Nam;
And wondered why some people thought they won.

I saw freedom marchers beaten;
Saw the Kent State students fall;
Saw apartheid spread a cancer 'cross a land.
Saw the brothers, John and Bobby,
And saw Martin Luther King
Swept away like tiny, windblown grains of sand.

Watched the homeless grow in numbers
Watched a nation turned to crime.
Watched disasters strike the planet every day.
Watched a younger generation
Give their youthful dreams to drugs
While an older generation turned away.

And in my daily living
Found that things were much the same.
The roads I walked were rained upon by tears.
And, in my lack of knowledge,
Focused only on myself
And played it cool to cover up my fears.

I turned my back on others
And catered to my wants
As I feasted on the pleasures of this earth.
I developed tunnel vision
And lived only for today.
Not caring if my life had any worth.

I hurt the ones that loved me
And they, in turn, hurt me
'Til I wondered of the purpose of this life:
Was it meant to have some meaning?
Was it just a pointless game
With rules designed to mete out pain and strife?

Then I stopped and looked around me;
Raised my head above the clouds;
Dropped the shroud that had me covered like a hood.
And I saw that all the evil
Things that tainted up our lives
Were balanced by an equal share of good.

I saw people helping people;
Felt the joy of joining in;
Felt the warmth of reaching out a helping hand.
Saw the beauty of a sunrise
And a starlit autumn night;
Stood in awe while fields of wheat were being fanned

By the winds of change within me
Which were altering my life
To point me down a road I'd never known.
And walking down that highway
I began to understand
That Man is simply worthless when alone.

And in that awesome journey
Which started at the point
Where I thought that all my bridges had been burned,
I acquired a touch of wisdom
Somewhere along the way.
And on the trip, then, this is what I learned:

That Life is for the learning;
That there's karma to be paid;
That Good and Bad are what it's all about.
And you're going to get a dose of both
To test your growing soul
And, down the road, it somehow evens out.

So touch the hand of Satan;
Feel the Evil as you stand
So close that you can hear him while he seethes.
And climb the stairs to heaven
And linger close to God...
So close that you can hear Him as He breathes.

And don't worry if you stumble
Or discouraged if you fall
And don't dwell upon the pain of a mistake.
Just do your best and know that,
As you travel down the road,
It's the trip that God intended you to take.

Copyright 2001 - Phil Cerasoli

POET IN A GRACELESS AGE

Every now and then I need
A place to hide away,
Away from mundane things I've come to know.
A place to clear my mind of all
The traffic in its way;
A place where other people seldom go.

'Cause sometimes I get weary of
The grind of daily life
And of this Babylon where we reside.
And there are times the things men do
Cut at me like a knife
And I can feel the rage build up inside.

I think I'd like to sit alone
On Serengeti's plain
While Nature's cycle moves before my eyes.
Or be in northern India when
The monsoons bring their rain
And watch the flooded rivers as they rise.

Or go down deep in Mexico
To Mismaloya Beach
And lay down on the sand and watch the sky,
And watch the clouds above me
As they drift beyond my reach
And watch the white-tailed gulls as they fly by.

But I guess, down deep, I realize
It's just a poet's dream
To think that there's a place where things all rhyme.
And no-one wants to hear another
Poet's naive scheme.
To them it's just a foolish waste of time.

So maybe I was born too soon
Or maybe years too late.
Or maybe I'm just on another page.
I only know I'm out of tune
And that I'm out of date.
As I struggle through this cold and graceless age.

Copyright 2001 - Phil Cerasoli

DIRTY-FACED ANGELS

So I'm somewhere south of Nowhere in this tired Texas town;
In a seedy all-night diner while I'm guzzling coffee down.
And it's me and just the waitress who pretend we're each not there,
As we share the pre-dawn silence with a sleepy, glassy stare.

And then this old drunk wanders in and staggers to my side
And I look up from my coffee at this man who's lost his pride.
He asks me for a buck or two so he can finally eat.
I shrug and tell the man to sit; that breakfast is my treat.

And while he waits upon the stool for eggs and toast and ham,
He says to me in slurring speech, "I'll tell you who I am.
I'm Jesus Christ, the Son of God, who's risen once again;
And I am here to wash away the sins of mortal men."

Then the waitress brings his breakfast and the man attacks the food,
And I guess that he's so hungry that he's lost his zealous mood.
Then, halfway through his breakfast, he nods in drunken sleep;
And the waitress frowns disgustedly at the company I keep.

It's then this thought pops in my head and I wonder if God's plan
Is to send down bands of angels disguised as dregs of Man
To see how we respond to them and how we treat their plight;
To see if we can help them through another lonely night.

That may not be His plan at all; but ever since that day
I've tried to give respect to all the ones who pass my way;
I give each one their dignity and try to judge them not
Nor chide them for their failures or goals they should have sought.

And it's made a better man of me, for whatever that is worth;
And it's helped me have a common bond with all who walk this earth.
So if I had to pick a point in time that changed my life
And helped me make some sense of all this universal strife,

It would be that night I saw this drunk and laid my money down
And bought some food for Jesus in that tired Texas town.

Copyright 2001 - Phil Cerasoli

RAINDANCE

I saw a raindance long ago around a bonfire's light
As six young braves danced 'round the flames and tried to catch the sight
Of rain to soothe their arid land and quench the desert's thirst;
But no rain was forthcoming nor no clap of thunder burst.

But now and then that memory comes floating back to me
And, in a way, I think that dance is my analogy.
Because I've raindanced all my life by taking poet's pen
And trying to bring redemption to the tribes of lonely men.

'Cause we all need redemption's rain to wash away the dust
Of all our self-indulgence and the years of our mistrust.
But despite my years of dancing, there's been no sign of rain.
I still see inhumanity and I see no loss of pain.

And quiet desperation still exists in most I know
And pieces of their shattered dreams lay at their feet below.
And each fight their own demons in prisons with no key
And no amount of poet's words can seem to set them free.

So I guess I've made no difference 'cause I haven't eased their load;
And it tempts a man to give it up and try another road.
But there's this voice inside of me that tells me that I'm right.
So I guess I'll keep on dancing and trying to catch the sight

Of rain to soothe their arid minds and quench their tired soul's thirst.
And hope that some hang onto... the words they read here first.
So if you try to find me and to tell me why you came
I'm that tired and hopeful poet dancing 'round the fire's flame.

Copyright 2001 - Phil Cerasoli

THE EDGAR ALLEN POKER GAME

'Twas past midnight, damp and dreary, I in bed awake but weary
Trying vainly to establish with sound slumber a rapport,
When I heard a sound so muffled, sounded like cards being shuffled
Coming from the other side of my sturdy bedroom door.

I tossed and turned and said, “It is the wind and nothing more”.

But the sound it was remaining. With bravado in me draining
I donned my robe and tiptoed to my sturdy bedroom door.
I opened it a crack, peeked out and saw the back
Of a man who was just sitting, playing cards upon the floor.

“’Tis a nightmare of my mind,” I said, “Just this and nothing more”.

‘Twas a cloak draped ‘cross his back and a Raven, shiny black,
Was facing him and pacing in a circle on the floor.
My jaw dropped when I heard the soft voice of that huge bird
Saying, “Deal me in this card game for a couple hands or more”

.And the man tossed four chips to him; four blue chips and nothing more.

Then I must have made a sound, for he slowly turned around
And his face was pale as misty, eerie fog that hugs the shore.
Then he whispered to me low, “I’m the ghost of Allen Poe
Who has come here to play poker as I did in days of yore.

’Tis a poker game I’m craving. Only this and nothing more”.

“Won’t you sit in for a while?” he asked me with a smile,
“It will make a better card game than it was an hour before”.
And, not wanting to incite him, I slowly walked beside him
Meekly asking what the stakes were as I sat down on the floor.

“Penny-ante,” said the stranger. Quoth the Raven, “Nothing more.”

From the start I had a streak of luck that reached its peak
By my winning all the pennies that the two had owned before.
Then the man said, oh so slyly, (as the Raven grinned so wryly),
“This low stake game we’re playing I’m beginning to abhor.

“Then by all means”, said the Raven, ‘we should surely play for more”.

Then the man, with gesture bold, from his cloak withdrew some gold
In a bag that was so heavy that to move it was a chore.
His sly look I failed to heed for my soul was filled with greed
As I saw the golden coins from the sack begin to pour.

“Yes,” I whispered weakly, “We should surely play for more”.

Then he said in voice so solemn as he stacked coins in a column,
“The hour grows late; I’m weary, so we’ll play but one hand more.
If you win, my gold you’ll own. If I win then it’s your home
That will be mine to have and keep…to keep forevermore”.

Quoth the Raven: “Evermore”.

I said, “That’s fair, I feel.” Then the man began to deal
And the cards I had were aces and the aces numbered four.
I said, “My hand is pat and I’m only sorry that
The pot has been established and that we can bet no more.

”Quoth the Raven: “Bet some more!”

“He speaks true,” I then was told, and the man pulled out more gold
And tossed it with the other coins that were strewn across the floor.
“But I cannot match your bet,” I sadly said, “but, yet,
I must have something left; something you two would adore”

.Said the Raven, “You in bondage. Only this and nothing more”.

“He speaks wisely”, said the man. “If you want to bet, you can.
But lose and you’re our slave and servant now and evermore”.
I stared at my four aces, smiled and looked at my guest’s faces,
Sealed the bet and spread my aces down and out across the floor.

Said the Raven in a whisper, “I see aces numb’ring four!”

The face of Poe just glowered as his poker hand he lowered
‘Til it covered my four aces that were resting on the floor.
Then amid a quiet hush, I saw his small straight flush
And knew that I was beaten and was doomed forevermore.

Said the Raven, “You in bondage here and now and evermore”

.Now on dark nights, cold and dreary, my sore body grows so weary
As I dust and wash and clean and sweep the droppings on the floor.
While my master and his Raven live in comfort in their haven
With their slave who’s held in bondage, held in bondage

Evermore.

Copyright 2001 - Phil Cerasoli

IN THE MOMENT

You’re stepping off the paces on this treadmill we call Time,
Concerned about the faces and the places that don’t rhyme.
You’re swaying back and forth between the future and the past
And you go to bed while wondering...how the day slipped by so fast.

Then you close your eyes and fantasize ‘bout the good old days of yore
Or think about tomorrow and what it holds in store.
And your mind just won’t stop churning ‘til you fall asleep at last
And you drift away while wondering...how the night slipped by so fast.

And I guess you just don’t realize there’s only here and now,
And living in the present is sublime.
‘Cause yesterday’s a memory that’s gonna fade away
And tomorrow’s just a phantom point in time.

So carpe diem, seize the day; partake of Nature’s feast,
If the past or future block your way, then rise and slay the beast.
And latch onto each moment as though it were your last.
When day is done you’ll never ask… how it slipped by so fast.

And tell yourself when you awake there’s only here and now
And living in the moment is sublime.
‘Cause yesterday’s a memory that’s gonna fade away.
And tomorrow’s just a phantom point in time.

copyright 2008- phil cerasoli

SOME ARROGANCE AND PREJUDICE; SOME COWARDICE THROWN IN:

So I've just turned seventeen and I think I own the world
That's moving through the year of '52.
And I revel in the aura of my 'High School Hero' role
And I get the sense that all the girls do, too.

And everybody likes me and wants to be my friend
And all my teachers tell me that I'm bright.
And all the high school's coaches talk about the way I play
And how I won the game the other night.

And the San Diego papers print my picture now and then
And they write of how the team depends on me.
And I know that when I see the crowd all sitting in the stands
That I'm the guy they mostly came to see.

And I've got this kind of attitude and my hair's a bit too long
And I add to the mystique by staying cool.
And I always walk alone and I keep my distance from
The teeny-bopping mainstream of the school.

So that's pretty much the way it went in 1952
And the next two years were pretty much the same.
But then I joined the Air Force and I sadly said goodbye
To my 'High School Hero' role and all that fame.

Now the Air Force had a boot camp that would put de Sade to shame
And the higher-ups all loved to bring you down.
They shaved our heads and screamed at us and herded us like sheep
And woe to you if you had skin of brown.

'Cause our "instructor" was a bigot with a neck that was so red
That the hatred in his soul was clearly seen
Every time a black kid made an ill-timed move or two;
His eyes would turn a different shade of mean.

He'd taunt them and he'd torment them a hundred different ways
But all within the legal scope of things.
While all us white-skinned rookies kept our eyes the other way
'Cause we knew we had to earn our Airman's Wings.

And the black he hated most of all; the one who kept him spurred,
Inventing new abuses to exploit
Was a soft-voiced, handsome-featured kid whose name was Parker Brown
Who'd come here from the city of Detroit.

Now I'd not had much exposure to the dark-complexioned race
'Cause my neighborhoods and schools were white as snow.
And my dad, in Old World ignorance, would warn me now and then
That "niggers" were the lowest form of low.

But I got to liking Parker and we soon became fast friends
And he told me of his life of paying dues.
And I taught him how to play guitar and right before 'Lights Out'
Each night the two of us would play the blues.

So we had a strong alliance; a bond that only grew
As our boot camp time kept drawing to a close.
And that's when something happened that destroyed my "Hero" myth
And woke the dark side in me from repose:

The hour was late, past midnight, and our barracks slept as one
When all of us were wakened by a yell.
The lights came on and down the aisle came lumbering the form
Of our bigoted instructor straight from Hell.

We could smell the whiskey on him as he rumbled past our cots
And we knew that he had been out on the town.
As he called us to attention, he stopped his staggered walk
And stood in front of Airman Parker Brown.

The years have dimmed my mem'ry and I can't recall the words
The instructor spit at Parker on that night.
But I still recall his anger and the look on Parker's face
As his eyes were opened wide in desperate fright.

With no warning came the movement that left us shocked and stunned;
With no warning our instructor raised his hand.
With no warning he struck Parker with such a hateful zeal
That Parker found he could no longer stand.

He slumped down on his cot and sobbed; a scene so out of place
That it woke the bigot's brain from drunken sleep.
And he knew that he was history if the Chaplain would be told
Of how he struck an Airman in his keep.

But he also knew if Parker were to make the charges stick
That he'd surely need a witness; maybe two.
With the arrogance of Satan, he turned to face us all
And from his mouth the words began to spew:

"So you've think that you've got friends here," he yelled at Parker Brown.
"Let me really show you where they stand!
Did any Airman here see me strike this Airman down?
If so, step out and let me see your hand."

The barracks filled with silence save for Parker's quiet sobs
The instructor's eyes were darting angrily.
And amid the stony silence, I found to my dismay
That the one who was most silent looked like me.

And I knew that I should stand out; that I should raise my hand
'Cause, for God's sake, Parker Brown was my best friend!
But the fear I felt while looking in the bigot's devil-eyes
Was enough to seal my silence in the end.

Was it fear of his authority? Was it fear of something else?
Was it just a young man's fear of the unknown?
In retrospect, it really doesn't matter all that much.
What's important is that Parker stood alone.

Well, nothing ever came from the scenes played out that night.
And boot camp finally ended; we were free.
And everybody said goodbye and went their separate ways
And Parker even said goodbye to me.

And I guess that he forgave me like he did his other friends
For keeping quiet in his hour of need.
But that was no consolation, for I knew my silent act
Would stay inside my soul just like a weed.

Now a lot of years have come and gone since Parker said goodbye
And courage comes whenever I need call
And I've done some things, I must admit, that only brave men do
And fear's a word I do not use at all.

But all these deeds are dusty thoughts shelved deep inside my brain.
Forgotten, for the most part, in a day.
But I can't escape the mem'ry of the friend who I once had
Who needed me and I just turned away.

Copyright 2001 - Phil Cerasoli