Editor's note: The following editorial appeared in the Thursday, May 5, edition of the Echoes-Sentinel.
The death of Osama Bin Laden on Sunday, May 1, came not in some cave in the rugged Afghanistan-Pakistan border region, living the life of a fake monastic mendicant, but rather in a fortified, walled-in $1 million compound in Abbottabad, Pakistan, a suburb of Islamabad. And so, the long, frustrating search for the world’s Public Enemy Number 1 is finally over.
Thank goodness.
Now comes the aftermath, the dealing with the half-life of the hatred he spun. We must live with the hatred breaking down like a particularly foul quantity of spent nuclear fuel rods, destined to lose their destructive potency over years, decades, and even longer.
Still, there is a truth that we can all hold onto and nurture, like an aloe vera plant for the body, mind and spirit. It is a steel stronger than fear. It is goodness.
It is the faith, the hope and the love we pay forward, we spread every day by doing the simple things of civil society, the simple things that taken together nurture life as it ought to be lived, life as it was meant to be lived. We defeat Bin Laden over and over again every day when we live as individuals contributing to a collective.
This year, both Warren Township and Watchung will receive portions of the steel from the World Trade Center, which each town will fashion into 911 monuments of remembrance. Volunteers from both towns are designing attractive monuments so that all generations can honor the steel that was stronger than fear.
The steel symbolizes the strength that was exhibited by the innocents on 911. They are the office workers, the coffee shop and restaurant cooks, the cleaning service personnel, the administrative assistants as well as the corporate executives, and of course the firefighters, the police and the emergency medical technicians who died at the World Trade Center. It is their spirit that is a steel stronger than fear.
For years, folks have been visiting the Tower of Remembrance at the Shrine of St. Joseph in Long Hill Township. The tower is fashioned from World Trade Center steel.As folks will come to see in Warren and Watchung, the steel will have a way of attracting folks to come and honor the victims of 911 each in their own way. They’ll honor the folks who died in New York, at the Pentagon, and in a farm field in Pennsylvania.
They will also be honoring those who lived on after 911, families of victims, and the rest of well-meaning Americans and friends of Americans around the country and around the world, who know all about a steel stronger than fear.
It’s a steel also found in classrooms every school day and in after-school programs when a teacher reaches a student’s mind and gives insight to a truth that will be a part of their value system for the rest of their lives.
It’s a steel when folks hold doors for one another going into the convenience store, when folks visit loved ones in nursing homes, when folks organize garage sales, church bazaars, cookie and cupcake sales for good causes, and when folks go to the fireworks displays at the Warren Lions Expo and the Christmas Tree lightings at the Watchung Circle and the Meyersville Circle.
It’s a steel in a the late, great Watchung Firefighter Claude “Red” Ford, 91, who died on Tuesday, March 29, 2011, and whose memorial service will be held at 11:30 a.m., this Saturday, May 7, at Wilson Memorial Church, Watchung.
Mr. Ford was a steel stronger than fear if ever there was one. Watchung Councilman Steven Black, owner of Gray’s Florist, Route 22 East, Watchung, said every spring around this time, Mr. Ford would come in, without fanfare, without any awareness that anyone was noticing, to buy bunches of loose flowers, and place them on the graves of fallen Watchung firefighters. Anonymously, like a true mendicant, with a generosity of spirit more valuable than gold, and with faith, hope and love in his heart, he was just doing what he would do naturally. He was just doing what was right. He was remembering those who had done before what he was doing now.
He was showing us all what it means to be a steel stronger than fear.
For Essays And Editorials
Denis J. Kelly
May 5, 2011
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Fanfare for the Common Teacher
Editor's note: The following editorial appeared in the Thursdat, April 21 edition of the Echoes-Sentinel.
Aaron Copland’s iconic piece, “Fanfare for the Common Man,” all French horns, trumpets, tubas, trombones, timpanis, gongs and base drums, sounds like it should be emanating from the morning fog of Arlington Cemetery, or at sunset over the cornfields of Iowa, or at the change of shifts at the mills of Woonsocket and Lowell, and the factories of Detroit and Cleveland.
Let’s imagine a previously unheard Copland composition, “Fanfare for the Common Teacher,” was just found in some time capsule. It would be just as heroic, just as stoic, and just as grounded in what it means to be the builder of the great American dream.
Let’s play it with children’s toy pianos, primary tambourines and Suzuki violins, Saturday afternoon piano lessons, and Sunday-go-to-Grandma’s car radio sessions with sons and daughters, listening to Dad tell about the late great Duane Allman playing slide guitar and guitar genius Eric Clapton “bending strings” on “Layla,” turning the family van into Carnegie Hall.
Fast forward from that kernel of learning to sophomore high school instrumental music class. It is long about April, and the teacher has had a year-long obsession to reach beyond a student’s malaise to tap into a creativity she, herself, has witnessed everywhere else but the music room, and in other ways. Maybe it was on the way to and from class, on a class trip, in the cafeteria, even in town when she’d see him at a church event or in the Little League parade years earlier. Anyway, that learning project just got through. Something clicked. Maybe it was a stray comment about bent strings and ‘Layla,” and the student says, “You know Layla? You know about bent strings? I know about bent strings, too. Want to hear? I’ll bring in my guitar.”
Fast forward to the high school Hall of Fame induction ceremony for that student who had since gone onto a career as a church organist emeritus, bringing a dynamic sound to a church in the inner city and leading student trips all over the world in search of international and cultural variations of bent strings.
That music teacher never won a Teacher of the Year award. But, boy could she teach. She had a thirst for learning and an even bigger thirst for teaching, and she lived for that moment with not just this one student, but scores of students taught over years in the classroom. Yes, she had been able to see them learn, and at her retirement, she would say she had had “the honor and the privilege to witness” learning moment kernels grow into national monuments, fields of dreams, hard-working American factories, immigrant-supported mills, and family learning vans.
Last Saturday afternoon, at the Hall of Fame Induction ceremony at Watchung Hills Regional High School, nine former students, now leaders in their fields and chosen areas of expertise, got up and remembered classroom teachers of all kinds and from all subject areas at Watchung Hills, and in their Warren, Watchung and Long Hill elementary and middle schools.
They remembered how they found ways to germinate kernels of learning that flowered into successful careers for them, their families, and their communities. They remembered and thanked these teachers by name, along with their classmates, their coaches, their guidance counselors, their school nurses, and their families.
Meanwhile, sitting in the audience, it didn’t take much to imagine variations of Aaron Copland coming whispering down the hallways from the classrooms, the gyms, the cafeterias, the libraries, the student lockers. There were French horns, trumpets, tubas, trombones, timpanis, gongs and base drums, sure, but there was also guitar licks from Duane Allman and Eric Clapton, and a half-dozen first-graders on toy pianos, primary tambourines and Suzuki violins, too. They were serenading their teachers.
They were honoring all those teachers who were never picked as teachers of the year who nevertheless will be the ones remembered decades from now at their own Hall of Fame inductions. And the ensemble played, Fanfare for the Common Teacher.
Say thanks for the teacher that made a difference in your life by voting on school election day, next Wednesday, April 27.
For Essays And Editorials
Denis J. Kelly
May 5, 2011
Aaron Copland’s iconic piece, “Fanfare for the Common Man,” all French horns, trumpets, tubas, trombones, timpanis, gongs and base drums, sounds like it should be emanating from the morning fog of Arlington Cemetery, or at sunset over the cornfields of Iowa, or at the change of shifts at the mills of Woonsocket and Lowell, and the factories of Detroit and Cleveland.
Let’s imagine a previously unheard Copland composition, “Fanfare for the Common Teacher,” was just found in some time capsule. It would be just as heroic, just as stoic, and just as grounded in what it means to be the builder of the great American dream.
Let’s play it with children’s toy pianos, primary tambourines and Suzuki violins, Saturday afternoon piano lessons, and Sunday-go-to-Grandma’s car radio sessions with sons and daughters, listening to Dad tell about the late great Duane Allman playing slide guitar and guitar genius Eric Clapton “bending strings” on “Layla,” turning the family van into Carnegie Hall.
Fast forward from that kernel of learning to sophomore high school instrumental music class. It is long about April, and the teacher has had a year-long obsession to reach beyond a student’s malaise to tap into a creativity she, herself, has witnessed everywhere else but the music room, and in other ways. Maybe it was on the way to and from class, on a class trip, in the cafeteria, even in town when she’d see him at a church event or in the Little League parade years earlier. Anyway, that learning project just got through. Something clicked. Maybe it was a stray comment about bent strings and ‘Layla,” and the student says, “You know Layla? You know about bent strings? I know about bent strings, too. Want to hear? I’ll bring in my guitar.”
Fast forward to the high school Hall of Fame induction ceremony for that student who had since gone onto a career as a church organist emeritus, bringing a dynamic sound to a church in the inner city and leading student trips all over the world in search of international and cultural variations of bent strings.
That music teacher never won a Teacher of the Year award. But, boy could she teach. She had a thirst for learning and an even bigger thirst for teaching, and she lived for that moment with not just this one student, but scores of students taught over years in the classroom. Yes, she had been able to see them learn, and at her retirement, she would say she had had “the honor and the privilege to witness” learning moment kernels grow into national monuments, fields of dreams, hard-working American factories, immigrant-supported mills, and family learning vans.
Last Saturday afternoon, at the Hall of Fame Induction ceremony at Watchung Hills Regional High School, nine former students, now leaders in their fields and chosen areas of expertise, got up and remembered classroom teachers of all kinds and from all subject areas at Watchung Hills, and in their Warren, Watchung and Long Hill elementary and middle schools.
They remembered how they found ways to germinate kernels of learning that flowered into successful careers for them, their families, and their communities. They remembered and thanked these teachers by name, along with their classmates, their coaches, their guidance counselors, their school nurses, and their families.
Meanwhile, sitting in the audience, it didn’t take much to imagine variations of Aaron Copland coming whispering down the hallways from the classrooms, the gyms, the cafeterias, the libraries, the student lockers. There were French horns, trumpets, tubas, trombones, timpanis, gongs and base drums, sure, but there was also guitar licks from Duane Allman and Eric Clapton, and a half-dozen first-graders on toy pianos, primary tambourines and Suzuki violins, too. They were serenading their teachers.
They were honoring all those teachers who were never picked as teachers of the year who nevertheless will be the ones remembered decades from now at their own Hall of Fame inductions. And the ensemble played, Fanfare for the Common Teacher.
Say thanks for the teacher that made a difference in your life by voting on school election day, next Wednesday, April 27.
For Essays And Editorials
Denis J. Kelly
May 5, 2011
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Northern Route: New York To Seattle And Back By Bus Introduction
Editor's note: The following is the introduction to a compilation of poetry put together in 2002, called "Northern Route: New York To Seattle And Back By Bus." The poetry was written during a cross-country bus trip during the summer of 2002.
The following 181 compositions of verse were written during a nine-and-a-half day excursion: about three days by bus straight through from New York to Seattle, followed by about three-and-a-half-days in Seattle, and followed by about three days by bus straight through from Seattle to New York.
This trip was a reprise of one taken almost a year earlier from New York to Los Anveles and back by bus. Whereas the 2001 trip took me through St. Louis and then down through Oklahoma, Texas, New Mexico and Arizona to California going out, and then coming back through Denver, across Nebraska and Iowa to Chicago and then New York, this 2002 trip took me through the northern tier. Both ways, I passed through the states of New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Wisconsin, Minnesota, North Dakota, Montana, Idaho and Washington.
Early on in the 2002 trip, I discovered that whereas there were many similarities between trips, this second experience was as different as the first-born is from the second-born in a family. I had learned a great deal from the first trip, and applied much of it to preparing myself for the second. But still, there were unpredictable surprises.
For instance, try as I might, I couldn't stave off having that washed out feeling I had at about the half-way point, during the afternoon of the second day. I thought I had forced myself to rest enough during the first night, but still, long about Minnesota, I felt jjust as exhausted as when I crossed Missouri the year before.
Predictably, however, day three after the second night benefited during both trips from from the rush of adrenalin, knowing that come what may, by the end of the day, I would be in a bed. showered, and relieved from having completed the three-day crossing.
And again this year, the return trip, with the lure of getting home, completing the task, and seeing my loved ones made the return crossing much easier to take. Both years, the return trip seemed an after thought in the preparations, an anti-climactic part of the whole excursion. Yet both years, the return trip yielded rich veins of concepts, observations, situations, emotions and opportunities for writing. The lure of home, I should never be surprised to find out, is as powerful, if not quietly more powerful, than the wanderlust of the first part of the adventure. As Dorothy, herself, said, there's no place like home.
This year was remarkly different, too, in that I had one additional day of layover on the wet coast, and this layover was with family, in a cozy home with a restful vista, and in a city with which I was somewhat familiar. The hospitality was overflowing, and again, that seemed to nurture the opportunities for writing. Thanks, thanks, and thanks again.
Having finished two cross-country bus trips, I now feel I am a veteran, and would do others at the drop of a hat. They are one of the best travel bargains, especially if booked in advance. Greyhound Bus Lines is nothing short of remarkable. They put so many buses on the road at one time, 24-hours a day, seven days a week, all across the country. The bus divers are efficient, safety-conscious, courteous, and real professional. They take their jobs seriously, and tend to deliver on time every time. Three cheers for the bus drivers.
However, here's a hint that should help bus travelers: if at all possible, book trips with as few transfers from one route to another. Best of all: choose a route at its origin, such as New York, Los Angeles or Seattle, and choose the routes that are straight through to your destination. That way, you are given re-boarding passes at each layover, and are essentially gauranteed literally the same seat from start to finish.
Last year, I went from New York to Los Angeles on one vehicle, same seat the whole way. And I returned on one vehicle, same seat the whole way.
This year, I had to transfer in Chicago, from one bus route to another, one vehicle to another. It was fine on the way out. I got on the new bus, was in line early enough to grab essentially the same seat as the vehicle from New York to Chicago. But I ran into trouble during the return trip, when I got bumped from the first vehicle for the leg to Cleveland. I was with about a dozen passengers on the second vehicle to Cleveland, who had to sweat it out to see if we could get back on the first vehicle, when it began taking on passengers again in Cleveland. That was disconcerting to say the least, especially so close to the end of the trip, just eight hours away from New York. To Greyhound's credit, it should be noted, we all did get back on the original bus to New York, and arrived home on time. All's well that ends well.
Still, for anyone who wants to really get a taste for how broad and diverse and yet similar this great country is, corss-country but travel is a remarkable education. Sure, it is a little uncomfortable sleeping on a bus, not one night but two nights in a row. But that's a small price to pay for the experience. Essentially, the vehicle stops every two to three hours, for the driver and the passengers to take a 10 to 40 minute or more break, depending on whether it is a snack break, meal break, maintenance break, or a quirk in the schedule. So a three-day trip is really 24 to 36 little two or three-hour trips tacked back to back. It's a game, where you look forward to the breaks, and then once in the breaks, you look forward to getting back out on the road to get to the next break.
And in-between, there are people, places and situations you will see nowhere else, enough to write volumes about. And with a generous supply of CDs, books or magazines, and a bottomless curiosity about what makes America tick, cross-country bus travel is a pure delight. It is summer school for adults. It is like the summer reading lists I'd get during high school.
Of course, most of the passengers are making the trips because they have to: because they can't afford another way, or they are going part of the cross-country route, and train or air travel is less convenient and more expensive. But for me, I'm doing it for the sight-seeing, pure and simple. I'm doing it as a writing laboratory.
Next trips? I think I want to head straight down the coasts, particularly New York to Key West. Seattle to San Diego must be breathtaking, too. And New York to the Canadian Maritimes might be fun, as would going from Montreal to Vancouver. And don't forget the Hudson Valley, and through Vermont, New Hampshire and Maine to Old Quebec City.
There is also New York to San Francisco, with a chance to see Utah, northern Nevada, and the Sacramento-to-San Francisco stretch of California. I am also itching to see the Old South, down through Atlanta, Alabama, Mississippi to New Orleans. Oh, and up the Mississippi, retracing the route of the song, "City of New Orleans," to Chicago. And it might be fun to circumnavigate Texas, big enough to be its own country. And get a good healthy taste of bourbon by cutting back and fourth across Kentucky and Tennessee. Don't forget the Motor City and the Michigan peninsula, and Simon and Garfunkel's start to their legendary bus trip in the song, "America," Saginaw. And one of these days, somehow, someway, Alaska.
Still, there is also the urge to stay at home, maybe next summer, and tour good old New Jersey, use my own car and write about my own backyard. It could be something like: The Jersey Shore, Sandy Hook to Cape May. And, I'd love to hitch rides on the subways, ferries and rapid transits to explore the five boroughs of New York City.
The possibilities are endless. Don't get me started. Or rather, I can't wait to get started.
For Essays And Editorials
Denis J. Kelly
May 4, 2011
The following 181 compositions of verse were written during a nine-and-a-half day excursion: about three days by bus straight through from New York to Seattle, followed by about three-and-a-half-days in Seattle, and followed by about three days by bus straight through from Seattle to New York.
This trip was a reprise of one taken almost a year earlier from New York to Los Anveles and back by bus. Whereas the 2001 trip took me through St. Louis and then down through Oklahoma, Texas, New Mexico and Arizona to California going out, and then coming back through Denver, across Nebraska and Iowa to Chicago and then New York, this 2002 trip took me through the northern tier. Both ways, I passed through the states of New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Wisconsin, Minnesota, North Dakota, Montana, Idaho and Washington.
Early on in the 2002 trip, I discovered that whereas there were many similarities between trips, this second experience was as different as the first-born is from the second-born in a family. I had learned a great deal from the first trip, and applied much of it to preparing myself for the second. But still, there were unpredictable surprises.
For instance, try as I might, I couldn't stave off having that washed out feeling I had at about the half-way point, during the afternoon of the second day. I thought I had forced myself to rest enough during the first night, but still, long about Minnesota, I felt jjust as exhausted as when I crossed Missouri the year before.
Predictably, however, day three after the second night benefited during both trips from from the rush of adrenalin, knowing that come what may, by the end of the day, I would be in a bed. showered, and relieved from having completed the three-day crossing.
And again this year, the return trip, with the lure of getting home, completing the task, and seeing my loved ones made the return crossing much easier to take. Both years, the return trip seemed an after thought in the preparations, an anti-climactic part of the whole excursion. Yet both years, the return trip yielded rich veins of concepts, observations, situations, emotions and opportunities for writing. The lure of home, I should never be surprised to find out, is as powerful, if not quietly more powerful, than the wanderlust of the first part of the adventure. As Dorothy, herself, said, there's no place like home.
This year was remarkly different, too, in that I had one additional day of layover on the wet coast, and this layover was with family, in a cozy home with a restful vista, and in a city with which I was somewhat familiar. The hospitality was overflowing, and again, that seemed to nurture the opportunities for writing. Thanks, thanks, and thanks again.
Having finished two cross-country bus trips, I now feel I am a veteran, and would do others at the drop of a hat. They are one of the best travel bargains, especially if booked in advance. Greyhound Bus Lines is nothing short of remarkable. They put so many buses on the road at one time, 24-hours a day, seven days a week, all across the country. The bus divers are efficient, safety-conscious, courteous, and real professional. They take their jobs seriously, and tend to deliver on time every time. Three cheers for the bus drivers.
However, here's a hint that should help bus travelers: if at all possible, book trips with as few transfers from one route to another. Best of all: choose a route at its origin, such as New York, Los Angeles or Seattle, and choose the routes that are straight through to your destination. That way, you are given re-boarding passes at each layover, and are essentially gauranteed literally the same seat from start to finish.
Last year, I went from New York to Los Angeles on one vehicle, same seat the whole way. And I returned on one vehicle, same seat the whole way.
This year, I had to transfer in Chicago, from one bus route to another, one vehicle to another. It was fine on the way out. I got on the new bus, was in line early enough to grab essentially the same seat as the vehicle from New York to Chicago. But I ran into trouble during the return trip, when I got bumped from the first vehicle for the leg to Cleveland. I was with about a dozen passengers on the second vehicle to Cleveland, who had to sweat it out to see if we could get back on the first vehicle, when it began taking on passengers again in Cleveland. That was disconcerting to say the least, especially so close to the end of the trip, just eight hours away from New York. To Greyhound's credit, it should be noted, we all did get back on the original bus to New York, and arrived home on time. All's well that ends well.
Still, for anyone who wants to really get a taste for how broad and diverse and yet similar this great country is, corss-country but travel is a remarkable education. Sure, it is a little uncomfortable sleeping on a bus, not one night but two nights in a row. But that's a small price to pay for the experience. Essentially, the vehicle stops every two to three hours, for the driver and the passengers to take a 10 to 40 minute or more break, depending on whether it is a snack break, meal break, maintenance break, or a quirk in the schedule. So a three-day trip is really 24 to 36 little two or three-hour trips tacked back to back. It's a game, where you look forward to the breaks, and then once in the breaks, you look forward to getting back out on the road to get to the next break.
And in-between, there are people, places and situations you will see nowhere else, enough to write volumes about. And with a generous supply of CDs, books or magazines, and a bottomless curiosity about what makes America tick, cross-country bus travel is a pure delight. It is summer school for adults. It is like the summer reading lists I'd get during high school.
Of course, most of the passengers are making the trips because they have to: because they can't afford another way, or they are going part of the cross-country route, and train or air travel is less convenient and more expensive. But for me, I'm doing it for the sight-seeing, pure and simple. I'm doing it as a writing laboratory.
Next trips? I think I want to head straight down the coasts, particularly New York to Key West. Seattle to San Diego must be breathtaking, too. And New York to the Canadian Maritimes might be fun, as would going from Montreal to Vancouver. And don't forget the Hudson Valley, and through Vermont, New Hampshire and Maine to Old Quebec City.
There is also New York to San Francisco, with a chance to see Utah, northern Nevada, and the Sacramento-to-San Francisco stretch of California. I am also itching to see the Old South, down through Atlanta, Alabama, Mississippi to New Orleans. Oh, and up the Mississippi, retracing the route of the song, "City of New Orleans," to Chicago. And it might be fun to circumnavigate Texas, big enough to be its own country. And get a good healthy taste of bourbon by cutting back and fourth across Kentucky and Tennessee. Don't forget the Motor City and the Michigan peninsula, and Simon and Garfunkel's start to their legendary bus trip in the song, "America," Saginaw. And one of these days, somehow, someway, Alaska.
Still, there is also the urge to stay at home, maybe next summer, and tour good old New Jersey, use my own car and write about my own backyard. It could be something like: The Jersey Shore, Sandy Hook to Cape May. And, I'd love to hitch rides on the subways, ferries and rapid transits to explore the five boroughs of New York City.
The possibilities are endless. Don't get me started. Or rather, I can't wait to get started.
For Essays And Editorials
Denis J. Kelly
May 4, 2011
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Nine In Line
Nine in line,
Eight like to skate,
Seven with Kevin,
Six, he gets licks,
Five, no jive,
Four, take the door,
Three, stung by a bee,
Two, lots to do,
One, let's have fun,
And one more
Time to score.
For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. kelly
May 1, 2011
Eight like to skate,
Seven with Kevin,
Six, he gets licks,
Five, no jive,
Four, take the door,
Three, stung by a bee,
Two, lots to do,
One, let's have fun,
And one more
Time to score.
For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. kelly
May 1, 2011
Oh, You
Oh, you.
Oh, you again.
Can't you just go away?
Can't you just stay away?
Not that anything ill
Is wished on you.
Go about your business.
Flourish.
Just do it elsewhere.
Do it on someone else's beat.
Do it so you don't
Get in my face,
Wreck my day,
Ruin my fun.
Who needs it?
Oh, you.
Oh, you again.
Can't you just go away?
Can't you just stay away?
For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
May 1, 2011
Oh, you again.
Can't you just go away?
Can't you just stay away?
Not that anything ill
Is wished on you.
Go about your business.
Flourish.
Just do it elsewhere.
Do it on someone else's beat.
Do it so you don't
Get in my face,
Wreck my day,
Ruin my fun.
Who needs it?
Oh, you.
Oh, you again.
Can't you just go away?
Can't you just stay away?
For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
May 1, 2011
The Singer With The Thick Welch Accent
The singer with the thick Welch accent
Answered the radio interviewer's questions
Strightforwardly,
Matter-of-factly,
Succinctly,
With morsels of tidbits,
Inside information,
Background notes,
As thick as his voice,
A rich baritone,
Who belted out pop hits
During the raucous sixties,
Manly-man songs,
About old-fashioned masculine conquests,
Honorable against a more conservative
Set of standards,
Still courteous, full of etiquette,
Victorian bashfulness bridling back
The passion just bursting to overflow,
The songs athletically arranged,
On a compilation, a greatest hits boxed set,
Including four bonus tracks,
Previously unreleased.
And in-between the tracks,
The singer with the thick Welch accent
Answered the radio interviewer's questions.
For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
May 1, 2011
Answered the radio interviewer's questions
Strightforwardly,
Matter-of-factly,
Succinctly,
With morsels of tidbits,
Inside information,
Background notes,
As thick as his voice,
A rich baritone,
Who belted out pop hits
During the raucous sixties,
Manly-man songs,
About old-fashioned masculine conquests,
Honorable against a more conservative
Set of standards,
Still courteous, full of etiquette,
Victorian bashfulness bridling back
The passion just bursting to overflow,
The songs athletically arranged,
On a compilation, a greatest hits boxed set,
Including four bonus tracks,
Previously unreleased.
And in-between the tracks,
The singer with the thick Welch accent
Answered the radio interviewer's questions.
For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
May 1, 2011
Already It Was A Month Late
Already it was a month late,
His keeping up the routine,
His setting aside
Even the 10 minutes,
The quarter hour,
To meditate,
To stop,
To breathe,
To think,
To give thanks,
To give praise,
To pause,
To cleanse,
So simple,
So therapeutic,
So important.
And he had been careless,
Maybe he had been lazy.
He had failed to be insistent,
For his time and space.
Already it was a month late,
His keeping up the routine,
His setting aside
Even the 10 minutes,
The quarter hour.
For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
May 1, 2011
His keeping up the routine,
His setting aside
Even the 10 minutes,
The quarter hour,
To meditate,
To stop,
To breathe,
To think,
To give thanks,
To give praise,
To pause,
To cleanse,
So simple,
So therapeutic,
So important.
And he had been careless,
Maybe he had been lazy.
He had failed to be insistent,
For his time and space.
Already it was a month late,
His keeping up the routine,
His setting aside
Even the 10 minutes,
The quarter hour.
For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
May 1, 2011
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