Today, I met an old friend for the first time.

No, not those fellow travelers on a smoky Saturday night at the Dew Drop Inn.

And certainly not those fervent, hopeful worshipers the next morning at Saint Pat’s across town.

Not even that writer’s blank page which became home for dreams unrealized and life unfulfilled.

No, this friend was one who existed only in my mind (or was it my heart?).

I believe her name was Faith.

Faith, the friend who would hale me as the current love affair went south; no words, just a smile and a caring hand to a slumped shoulder.

When the excited dream of the next business venture or failed novel dissolved into a puddle of bounced checks and cancelled hopes, my friend would pick me up with a firm gaze and determined jaw, pointing me, without words, to the next opportunity and with a tender but firm touch, nudge me toward tomorrow.

Faith believed in me when I had precious little reason to believe in myself. And I loved her for it.

And then came Eliza. And as quick as that, my friend was gone.

And, foolish me, I didn’t lament Faith’s passing. Faith was a shadow and the sun that shone from Eliza dispelled it.

Faith was a belief in things unseen and Eliza was real, more real than my hopes and certainly my fears.

I believed in Li and she in me.

And because of Eliza, I could write.

For years and years, I could write.

I’ll never forget that first couplet inspired by Li .

“She was a dreamer and a schemer...

And my one last chance redeemer”

And so she was.

And as those years passed and the words seemed to flow. That 1st magazine article was completed (and accepted)!

The novel that lived as a hermit in my desk drawer pushed its way back to life - the same characters now alive because I now knew life.

So busy, so happy, so distracted, so surprised.

Surprised that I didn’t hear the quiet cough that seemed to linger

Or smiling eyes that seemed to sleep a bit too much.

The garden of our life grew such splendid flowers that I never noticed the choking weeds spreading at its base.

And the day came, that winter day, with its killing frost.

And as quickly as it sprouted, the garden was still and the flower, my flower, was gone.

And as I left our garden behind, and wiped the last of the dirt from my hands, my tears cleansed them of the risk of ever being left behind again.

We have precious little in this life and what we have we don’t own.

But I can own solitude and it’s constant companion, despair.

I thought of and longed for my long distant friend, for Faith, to return, but she was nowhere to be found.

And so I beat a weary retreat to that seaside bunker that had been ours - Zanzibar Street.

Not many friends, new or otherwise, on Zanzibar Street.

One last time, before my words breathed their last, I put pen to paper and wrote...

The statue stood there, white with dust,

Abject in the abbey square

And all who came to worship, wondered

Just how it came to be thus, there.

The question, quiet, on the lips

Of parishioners, as in they came.

For solace and solemnity

To seek their God, to call His name.

The priests, in all their finery

Could not say from whence it came

Just a statue - nothing more, they said,

And thus it shall remain.

And opening the desk drawer sepulcher, I buried my words as I had Eliza.

And the winter days turned to months, then to years.

I am now that man, that old man who I feared as a child. A silent mystery behind a locked door, peeling paint and a neglected lawn.

I’m staring at the wrong side of a window - thinking about a door that I can’t close.

Three years - three years of what promises to be a life sentence.

I hear her speak at times. Praising me for what only she could see, or scolding me for settling for less.

Or reading... today I heard her reading, reading a piece written for her as our life together was just beginning.

Reading on the other side of that dusty window pane.

And I heard the line...

“Fly, little bird, fly...”

Can it be?

“Fly, little bird, fly...”

Dare I look...?

“Fly, little bird, fly...”

And I drew back the curtain.

A young girl, knees resting on the cold soil of the abandoned garden.

A deep sorrow over her hopeful face. Sorrow not for herself but for that which lay in her trembling hands...

“Fly, little bird, fly...”

Her hopeful hands formed a cradle... or was it a manger?... for the object of her now-falling tears

She held this thing, this small sparrow, not in fear nor despair but in hope, in faith for that thing unseen.

And I saw my old friend that cold morning as her tears fell upon the still form in her hopeful hands.

Her hopes and my hopes, her prayers and my future held in those tiny, fragile, mighty hands...

And then.... a stir.

And rolling away the stone of lost time and wasted life

I opened the drawer of that neglected, dusty desk...

I sat and I wrote...

The statue stood and gathered dust

As years and decades rolled away.

Until one cold, dark winter’s eve,

An angel’s voice was heard to pray.

An angel may be anyone

About the task of God’s sweet grace.

This angel - a child - knelt in the snow

A single tear ran down her face.

For in her hand she held the life

Of one so weak, so cold, so small.

A sparrow fallen to the ground,

Her prayer breathed out, this angel’s call.

The child could hold her tears no more,

This angel’s cry - a sad refrain.

Her heart now burst - a reservoir

Of loving tears - a heart’s pure rain.

And as she cried, a song began

From far away - both sweet and still.

The statue’s face - now Glory-shown

Reflects the young child’s love until...

The statue’s eyes were filled with tears

It’s voice was raised in plaintive shouts.

And as the teardrops fell to earth

That parched dry place that gave it birth,

A single blade of grass did sprout.

More tears fell and more grass grew

And not just grass but flowers bloomed.

T’was winter’s end that came that day.

A young child’s loving heart held sway

As Springtime chased cruel death away.

The young child’s eyes began to clear

As the tiny bird moved in her hand

And taking wing, rejoined the air,

With skyward eyes, relieved the care

Of one so small, so pure, so fair.

And still it reigns, this living Spring,

It lives within the hearts of all

Who care more for the needs of those

Whose hopes and dreams lay in repose

Deadened by the world’s cruel pose.

And some still say, as they walk by

The churchyard where new life did grow,

That church bells peel and raise the voices

Of a long-dead soul who sang the praises

Of angel’s tears and children’s faces.

”Fly, Little Bird, Fly”…

Set wing toward the sun

Shake hands with the sky

And “Fly, little bird, fly”.

And as this miraculous new life wings toward its unbounded and limitless possibilities...

My old friend, Faith, beckons from the hopeful side of my long-shut door.

And I find the need to get my coat.

She hears my voice when I cannot speak

And touches my soul though she’s miles away.

She’s a dreamer and a schemer

And my one last chance redeemer.

She turns my endless toil into play.

Her smile is the sun that warms my heart.

Her tears are the rain that cools my need.

Her voice is the breeze that soothes my soul.

Her eyes cut the mist that hide my fears.

Her touch is a lullaby to my tears.

My rage is a fire,

The Tempest’s desire.

Born as an ember,

I scarcely remember

Being drawn to the ledge;

The volcanos edge.

This inferno’s abyss,

Whose flame is a kiss.

As I’m laid on the pyre,

My rage is a fire

A friendship is a well-aged wine

Whose elements will intertwine.

Planted in soil with trust and care,

The Vintner places us just there.

He tends and prunes

and brings to be,

An air of camaraderie.

And as our bounty starts to grow

His waters swell our spirits so.

On Harvest Day, when time’s complete,

His Sun will turn our bitter sweet.

It leaves this field to find its home

As it must, no more to roam.

So as Nature works it’s alchemy,

You’ve become a well-aged wine to me.

To some, a forest will only be

A shady floor for reverie.

But one with Heaven’s eye can see

That Beauty resides within a tree.

“They’re merely trees”, so some insist,

As if God and “merely” co-exist.

The woodworker cannot resist

To craft the miracle he so wished.

Measured twice, begins the task

And stripping bark, removes the mask

Of Creation, showing Glory’s past.

Become to be is real, at last.

So lift the veil, and quicken pace,

You’ve steeled yourself to run this race.

Your passion offers us a taste

What exists beneath a forest’s face.

Its hard to love the foreigner, comes from another place.

yes, its hard to love the foreigner; strange religion, different race.

Oh, its hard to love the foreigner, comes from another place.

It’s harder still to hate ’em

when you look ’em in the face.

Yes, It’s harder still to hate ’em

when you look ’em in the face.

It’s hard to love the refugee when ya see ’em in the news.

Yes, its hard to love the refugee who still ain’t paid no dues.

Oh, its hard to love the refugee when ya see ’em in the news.

But their path is much more friendly

When you walk it in their shoes.

Yes, their path is much more friendly

When you walk it in their shoes.

Its hard to see the good in folks no matter how ya try.

Yes, its hard to see the good in folks with all the hew and cry.

Oh, its hard to see the good in folks no matter how ya try.

It’s harder still to be so blind

When you see ’em eye to eye.

Yes, It’s harder still to be so blind

When you see ’em eye to eye.

It’s hard to forgive an enemy who treats ya so unfair.

Yes, its hard to forgive an enemy who never gives a care.

Oh, its hard to forgive an enemy who treats ya so unfair.

But the pardon we receive of God

Is the pardon that we share.

Yes, the pardon we receive of God

Is the pardon that we share.

It’s hard to be satisfied with what ya got today.

Yes, it’s hard to be satisfied with yer current rate of pay.

Oh, it’s hard to be satisfied with what ya got today.

But your treasure stored hereafter

Are those things ya give away.

Yes, your treasure stored hereafter

Are those things ya give away.

So, try hard to treat yer fellow man the way you hope to be.

And try hard to be content with life that’s offered you and me.

Yes, try hard to treat yer fellow man the way ya hope to be.

If ya do, the words we’ve sung today

Might help to set you free.

If ya do, the words we’ve sung today

Might help to set you free.

Mama shopped the bargain brands;

Beans in bulk, white-label cans.

She always found a way to just make do.

She bought school supplies by EBT

Cause that was how it had to be.

Paper, pencils, yeah but those were few.

Couldn’t afford no college rule.

My friends all did, I felt the fool.

But worst of all, hadda be the thrift store glue.

Nothin’ held together

With nothin’ made to last

Life was tricky - never sticky

Precious little holdin’ fast.

I had no grip on anything

Nothin’ more that I could do

This knave would never be a king

Undone by thrift store glue.

Was a Science fair in ’64

Diorama sat, with hopes galore

That I could finally win and earn my due.

A ceiling fan apocalypse

Churned my cardboard world and gave it fits

My project fossilized by thrift store glue.

Nothin’ held together

With nothin’ made to last

Life was tricky - never sticky

Precious little holdin’ fast.

I had no grip on anything

Nothin’ more that I could do

This knave would never be a king

Undone by thrift store glue.

I vowed to get a’loose someday

Turn on my heel and walk away

Toss off the old, be bold and make some new.

But soon as I would make a start

Would all be fine, then fall apart

Victimized again by thrift store glue.

Nothin’ held together

With nothin’ made to last

Life was tricky - never sticky

Precious little holdin’ fast.

I had no grip on anything

Nothin’ more that I could do

This knave would never be a king

Undone by thrift store glue.

Met a gal when I was twenty

Clung to her and loved her plenty

Still, I waited for the fates to turn the screw.

But she loved me back and, cant ya see

She stuck with me, and set me free

No more blaming things on thrift store glue.

Now, she holds me together

With a love that’s meant to last

Two eyes that see the best in me

And two arms that hold me fast.

So now I can face anything

Because she loves me true

She wears my ring, this man’s a king

No more blamin’ thrift store glue.