LITTLE BROWN JUG
My father had three sons
and taught them all
how to tie a grain sack, how to cut a calf
how to talk to a horse you walked up behind
so you wouldn’t get kicked or killed
Good things to know
but none of us are working cattle now
He played a mean harmonica
would that he would have taught us that
LEONARD COHEN AT EIGHTY
There is a crack in everything
that’s how the light gets in
Anthem
Growing old does not dim
the magic that you hold
for you were always old
That women want
to sleep with their fathers
Freud would not consider odd
(though nuns may call it God)
but no matter how many cracks
you or the light might see
growing old is still
not all it’s cracked up to be
so you’ve fought
depression all your life
and perhaps you always will
but for mere boys who must compete
it’s more depressing still
ON THAT NOTE
Classical music fills the car
as we home from the airport in traffic
Our host is from Bulgaria
he plays the trombone, his wife the violin
sometimes they tour, sometimes he drives cab
He loves Austin, he loves his wife
Ahead and around
drivers speed and weave
I wonder what they’re listening to
REMEMBERING VALDY
Play me a rock and roll song
or don’t play me no song at all
I might not remember your name
but I know you’re a friend all the same
when you put the needle down
on that record by the bed
Everything that still moves moves
and memories come flooding back
Girls and cars and beer
as every year becomes that year
Thank you dear
MISSING LEONARD
Leonard Cohen is gone
He doesn’t call, he doesn’t write
Huddle with me now
round the poem and the song and listen for the breadcrumb and the hint of old perfume
that speak
of other ways to God
than Jesus and the goddess
BACH IN IRAQ
I should have seen it coming
All the songs are machine guns now
It is not so far from rock, to rap
to rat-a-tat-tat
the beats getting harder and harder
and closer and closer together
Sitting at an Austin stop sign
cars filled with soldiers on each side
In a cross-fire of decibels, I think
“No one is playing Bach in Iraq”
as all three cars shudder and shake
I lift my hands in surrender
they keep firing
SALVADOR DALI AS ROCK STAR
Fails because of melting guitar
BILL
lives at the top of the hill
four bulging disks rack his back
music and love still flow through
IN HAARLAM
In Haarlam
ten streets converge
on the huge Grote Markt
A church with a 130 foot high tower
one of the finest organs in the world
pipes as long as thirty three feet
Played by Handel and by Mozart too
resting place of Hals and de Key
But its always been a market square
old guild houses and fine shops
carved stone in a dozen colours
centuries and centuries old
In the corner, red and white
and as plastic as tomorrow
the twin dikes of McDonalds
MOSSBANK II
Valve trombone and trumpet
Ernie and I
poisoning the air with practice