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If hindsight is 20/20

I am afraid that I won’t even glance.

I would rather believe that the blurring and blending

should be allowed to swirl and twirl

in the same baffling but not entirely benign sign of things

that thankfully never came to pass. 

Without knowing where or how you are,

I know that we each has done better separately

Than we could have/would have together.

Our best selves never really met each other. 

You had not even met your own best self,

And I had not yet met my best self.

Yet you still have my record collection.

Some things you can never get back.

I think the songwriters I really like

are merely poets who can carry a tune.

That is, sing on key.

I’m okay with that.

But I concede that I am a poet by default.

When cornered by a question when I was a featured poet,

I stumbled to name my favorite poets.

Out poured the names Mary Oliver, Wendell Berry, Walt Whitman and Langston Hughes.

Before I was able to breathe, I was asked to name more woman poets.

I panicked. I said Joni Mitchell, Rickie Lee Jones, and Laura Nyro.

I had been found out.

The cat was fully out of the bag.

I stammered, and for men, I love Dylan, John Prine, Kris Kristofferson, Guy Clark…(dot, dot, dot)

And I could’ve gone on and on and on.

But I didn’t because I was interrupted by a hilarious heckler,

“What’s the matter? Can’t you sing?”

NOPE

I hope I don’t die

now

that I have finally got my shit together

after having to consider another ten or fifteen years

of living through this aging slog.

I never saw it coming until

now 

that I have outlived

my self-determined life expectancy,

and I figure I’d better get well

before I get ill.

I had been fit enough for a quick end,

but my maintenance schedule was not built to last. 

But now that the road is apparently longer, 

I have to get stronger.

Still,

before I get ill.

Don’t wonder what you’ll miss when it or they are gone.

Buy the ticket,

See the game,

Go to the concert,

Eat at the greasy spoon

And find a greasier spoon.

Call that friend,

Take that flight,

Even if you stay only two days,

Make the trip.

Do not make the end of your life sentence

A list of regrets

And coulda beens.

Make your own bucket list,

Call it your own damn fuck it list.

Open up the checkbook,

The kids want but don’t need your money.

They need you to be the younger you

Until the older you is gone.

With all that you’ve seen you’d think thought you’d learn

To hold your end up before it collapses.

All that you have could just crash and burn

But what would arise from the ashes.

When you look at him

It’s easy to forget

Just what you should be doing.

You talk much too long

You’re late getting home

Just who do you think that you’re fooling?

When I arrived I knew you’d be there

I told my companion I must beware

As I stood surveying the Quincy Marketplace

Looking for your face.

A face that accompanies me no more

In a place we’d so often been before

We first French kissed in that outside bar

We had gone so far.

You were with a young man that I knew well

And how you were feeling it was too hard to tell

You turned the corner I could not walk a way

Neither of us knew what to say.

I’ll never forget the day we met face to face

In the Quincy Marketplace.

What is wrong with myself today,

Why can’t I think of something clever to say,

Why do I feel so ill at ease,

Why do I feel I have to beg you pretty please?

Pretty Please

What happened to my self confidence,

Why is what I’m saying not making sense,

What does my stomach turn and ache,

What do I feel like something’s gonna break?

Who can tell when they look at me,

When they do, what do they see,

Why do I feel so ill at ease,

Why do I feel I have to beg you pretty please?

Pretty Please

Am I wearing my heart on my sleeve,

Am I someone that you can believe,

Do you see the hurt in my eyes,

Is there something I should realize?

Do you know what I should do,

Is there something I can ask from you,

Why do I feel so ill at ease,

Why do I feel I have to beg you pretty please?

Pretty Please

I won’t need to marble casket

To sleep well when I pass away.

I won’t need no pretty cushions

Just a plain wooden box will be ok.

It doesn’t have to be polished or varnished or such.

Just a plain wooden box will make my day.

Bury me in a wooden box,

That’s all I ask you for,

I like the smell of maple,

But I love mahogany more.

A flat rock will do for my gravestone,

Just so you can read my name,

Shiny, dull, big or small,

Reckon there all the same,

And do this under any accords,

Even if I reach fortune and fame.

Bury me in a wooden box,

That’s all I ask you for,

I like the smell of maple,

But I love mahogany more.

And the darling little children,

Need not come to my grave.

For they’ll not understand what it’s all about.

You know there gonna misbehave.

And you’ll get impatient but be careful,

They’ll walk in the footsteps you pave.

Bury me in a wooden box,

That’s all I ask you for,

I like the smell of maple,

But I love mahogany more.

We have crossed the Rubicon

And you know we must go on.

There can be no flight.

We have made that big mistake.

It’s in the chances we take.

That lead us to our fight.

            A bridge that we’ve crossed,

            A bridge that might burn,

            A road off of which there is no turn.

            We have crossed the Rubicon

We don’t know but this faux pas,

Could take us very far,

Where we’ve never been.

And for all the worries we entertain,

Think of all that we might gain.

Please think again my friend.

A bridge that we’ve crossed,

            A bridge that might burn,

            A road off of which there is no turn.

            We have crossed the Rubicon

Why do I write these songs for you?

They don’t impress you anyway.

I mean so little to you now,

You could forget me anyday.

And though the words come easy.

The feelings hit so hard.

And for me to cry while writing them.

Is not so very odd.

You’re the only woman who can cut me this deeply.

And this often.

But stab wounds are dangerous, they make people cautious.

And not want to walk done certain streets.

They make people scared.

And they kill.

Yes if too much blood gets spilt,

They kill.

Why do I write these songs for you?

They don’t impress you anyway.

I mean so little to you now,

You could forget me anyday.

And though the words come easy.

The feelings hit so hard.

And for me to cry while writing them.

Is not so very odd.