I’ve written stories in song.

Brief Tales

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She’s sitting in her bedroom – her scissors in her hand –
     she’s measuring her fabric – it’s a red woolen plaid
though her eyesight is failing and her fingers are tight
     with just one thought of her daughter, she works into the night
     with just one thought of her daughter, she works into the night

Waking from a bad dream – i can’t go back to sleep – 
     i slip into her bedroom and i lie at her feet
i can see in her grin – there’s a pin between her lips
     then she pats me on my shoulder, humming softly “sha schtil.” 
     then she pats me on my shoulder, humming softly “sha schtil.”

These memories will stay with me the rest of my life
     i’ll treasure their pleasure ‘til the day that i die
     i’ll honor my mother – a fountain of wisdom
     and i’ll try to be the same for my children

My mother lifts my head up and says “gibn mir a hant”
     i thread for her a needle and a length of red thread
and in an instant we share — a “bissel” joy, a “bissel” pride
     i am helping my mother – she is thanking her child
     i am helping my mother – she is thanking her child

My father’s in his office — my sister’s fast asleep
     my brother’s ‘neath his covers — with a flashlight – he reads
our apartment is quiet — precious moments fly by 
     i’m alone with my mother – she’s alone with her child
     i’m in love with my mother – she’s in love with her child

These memories will always be like blood through my veins
     they wire me – inspire me – day after day
     i’ll honor my mother – and her years of sacrifice
     and i’ll try to do the same with my life

Rare are the chances we connect with our parents 
     with love, appreciation –– comfort and pride –– 
So cherish those moments —— precious and golden ——
     for life —— ever fleeting —— diverts and beguiles
unless we open our eyes 
               unless we open our eyes

watch the river closely

To the east of the Blue Ridge Mountains … on the mighty Rappahannock River shore … there’s a place where the fallen are remembered … for their courage in the Civil War. Seasoned soldiers were waiting in darkness … anticipating a battle at dawn. At their small campfires – that stretched out for miles – they listened as their Captains warned …

“Watch the river closely boys … and hold your positions well. And when you see them come … fire your guns … and send them straight to Hell!”

Among the Yanks was the Fifth Wisconsin … With the Sixth Volunteers from Maine … brave survivors of Gettysburg and Bristoe … bruised and battered, but few complained. But the Rebels had the Louisiana Tigers … fearsome fighters from New Orleans. By their firesides — on that fateful night –– They were told – once again – to take heed …

“Watch the river closely boys … and hold your positions well. And when you see them come … fire your guns … and send them straight to Hell!”

There were sounds from the trees … you could hear in the breeze … for the night hid two thousand troops. Who could say who shot first or who first hit the dirt? But soon … all Hell broke loose …

First the Yanks struck at Rappahannock Station … with a second force at Kelly’s Ford. Then they seized the high ground over the river … and pounded Johnny Reb with cannon fire. All day long the battles raged along the River … until at dusk, the Union staged their main attack. Yelling “Forward, double-quick,” the Yankees stormed upon the bridge … while the Rebels, in defiance, shouted back …

“Let’s watch the river closely boys … and hold your positions well. And when you see them come … fire your guns … and send them straight to Hell!”

And before the battle’s end, men were fighting hand-to-hand, while the sky filled with shot and shell. The Tigers counter-attacked, but the Yanks drove ‘em back … until … the bridgehead fell …

By early morning, the battle was over. And the Rebels in complete retreat. Over sixteen hundred prisoners were taken in one of the fiercest fights of 1863. Now the histories will long remember … those serving under Russell, Sedgwick and French. And we’ll remember still … Generals Early and Hill … and the men who died obeying their command …

To “watch the river closely boys … and hold your positions well. And when you see them come … fire your guns … and send them straight to Hell!”

There are ghosts along the Rappahannock River. You might see them on a moonless night. And when the air is still … from a distant hill … you might hear … their mournful cries …

“Watch the river closely boys … and hold your positions well. And when you see them come … fire your guns … and send them straight to Hell!”

KELLY FORGIVE ME

Kelly, my darling, I know it’s been a while, but this’ll be the very last letter I’ll send. Sell my possessions. I’m going off to hide. And I won’t be coming home again.

The white mountain peaks glow like silver at dusk as the sun paints the clouds pink, red, and blue. I’ve gathered some wood for a small pot of tea, and with sadness and shame I write this to you.

Kelly, forgive me. Kelly, forget me. I set you free of the promise you made. Tear up my picture. Burn all my letters. I have caused so much pain. Now I won’t be coming home again.

My father was a soldier — my brother was another. To fight for my country, was the duty I swore. I carried my weapons with pride and with courage. But what did I know about going to war?

The fife and the drum … the shiny brass band. We marched to applause — the crowds waving the flags. But somewhere I heard a child cry: “Will they be coming … coming back home?”

The days soon exploded. The nights were on fire. We hardly could tell where the enemy was. We fought without mercy. We killed out of fear — afraid one mistake … would cause the death of our friends.

I try to forget the flames and the smell — the screaming that haunts me and turns my blood cold. But there’s something dark — deep down inside me – that’s damaged … damaged my soul.

Kelly forgive me — Kelly forget me — I can’t come home — I can’t even try. Burn all my writings … my drawings … my songs. I’ve caused too much pain in my life. I’ve caused too much pain in my life.

Words can’t express all my anger and fear. Any sound that’s too loud … and I’m ready to kill. And every dark narrow street makes me shiver and cower. I’m ashamed of my past … and afraid of tomorrow.

So I hide in these hills … where the bird-songs abound. Where the stars are my blanket — and I can sleep through the night. And my tears go unheard, and my fears can subside. And the ghosts of the fallen … allow me some peace of mind.

todos los amigos

There’s a quiet saloon in the country — just a mile or two out of town — where the jukebox is old, the cerveza is cold, and the salsa’s the hottest around. Every night of the week it is peaceful — and Old Pablo can nap in his chair. But the place comes alive when it’s Saturday Night and Todos Los Amigos are there.