“The Grass is Always Greener”
Category: 2022
“The Night Before the 4th”
Years ago, when I was a wee lad, my grandfather, Alexander Ignatius Connolly, used to sit me on his knee and teach me “ditties”.
In my family, a ditty is a crude variation of a commonly known song, with lots of word interchange and improvisation.
Around this time of year he was keen on getting me to sing “The Night Before the Fourth”.
He would clap his hands, and move his index finger up and down in time with the singing. I think he had grand dreams of being the famous Alexander of the Ragtime Band.
The best part for me, was watching him laugh like hell when he got myself or my sister to repeat off-colored lyrics. It was a great victory for him, and from my experience, there is nothing cuter or funnier than a kid dropping some profanity without knowing that they are being naughty.
So, for Alexander Ignatius Connolly, this one’s for you.
Please sing the BOLDED words to yourself, using the “For He’s A Jolly Good Fellow” jingle.
The night before the fourth.
The night before the fourth.
The cat shit in the shavings.
The cat shit in the shavings.
The cat shit in the shavings, the night before the fourth.
This was usually followed up with a quick question/answer poem:
Listen! Listen!
The cat’s pissing.
Where? Where?
Under the chair.
Quick! Quick!
Get the gun.
All, hell, he’s all done.
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“Sand Thrift”
“Sand Thrift”
Sweaty seaweed merkin
Tubular carbuncular barnacle
Surf’s up
Swell roaring
Waved in, waved on
Horizon plied with UV radiation
Québécois down for holiday
Sipping seltzers while passing judgment
On body positive ‘Muricans
Every breaking wave supplying sobriety
Salt infused air blowing way by
The downward smell of tide approaches
Sand creeping into every crevice
Grinding out pearls
For shells to covet
Wetly moist wetsuits
Hiding disparities
Musty smell of musk mollusk
Creepy beach bum listening to “Goodbye Horses”
Slide the shore in parallax error
Breezy foam blowing upon dreams like birthday candles
Long cold beers quenching patch
Art among the sand denizens
A good day’s sun soon rolls on
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“Wind Phone”
“Wind Phone”
I had heard tales of a wind phone
Somewhere in Japan
Talk to your dead loved
They said
I bought a plane ticket
I flew on the wind
I found the wind phone
It was somewhere in Japan
I waited in the queue
My turn finally came
I approached the booth with trepidation
It was white
That is to say the booth was dreadful white
And there was a small neatly organized table
Organized in precision in only the way a small Japanese table could be
Upon it was a phone
Black and dull
What was once shiny glossy
Passed through thousands upon thousands of hands
Hand to ear
Mouth to word
Word to air
Not ears…
Wind phone!
Talk to your dead loved
They said
Only, I chose differently
I didn’t talk to my Father
Dead these eight years
I didn’t talk to my Mother
Dead these twelve years
I didn’t even speak to the baby we lost between my first son and my first daughter
Perhaps, his name was Hieronymus
No, I spoke to no dead loved
But, I put my words into the wind phone
Hoping the wind would find the ears of my second son, Paul
He is minimally verbal
But, luckily for us, more verbal than most
I try to persuade the wind with my silver tongue
Persuade it to unlock the mystery of my second son
Who often releases words on the wind,
Hoping those words unlock some type of understanding between us
As I look out over a Japanese valley
The wind carries my words away
Not to be heard,
Nor understood
The wind phone holds me silent
As I wait for a connection
Whether my second son was there
Or ten thousand miles away,
Our words are carried over the wind
And, pass us by.
Blowing fierce into the stratosphere
Carrying our DNA back to the stars that we came from
Out to somewhere where our dead loved
Are rejoined in a Big Bang connection
As I hung up the phone
I looked backward at the queue,
And felt shame for my wind blasphemy
I had to try
Before I myself become dead loved
I hope they can forgive me—
I hope Paul can forgive me—
I then thought to myself…
That maybe sometimes not being able to talk to your dead loved
Is not as bad as not being able to talk to your alive loved
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“The Burren”
“The Burren”
Returning to a barren
A land resigned to be
A coastal town
Somewhere down
Below the crashing sea
Abandoning the cairns
Picturesque pathways
A nice surprise
A full day’s drive
Roads lead unto ways
Jaunting out the country
Wind plays fair and true
A languid sigh
Beneath the sky
For all we cannot do
