Nobody Knows But Thee

NOBODY KNOWS BUT THEE

just how long will you sit and wait
while hours drip upon the earth
with loneliness your only mate
as your tears stain the dusty ground
and you call this your painful fate
how long beneath this willow tree
i guess nobody knows but thee

is life so lonely cold and mean
you said once that you had a dream
you said “friend” on you to lean yet
you’re still alone this i can see
this unjust world’s a master scheme
how long beneath this willow tree
i guess nobody knows but thee

is it a plan i’m confused it’s
not what you have but what you choose
this human world of hurt and pain is
is not some blissful paradise
heed the earth moan her troubled blues
how long beneath this willow tree
i guess nobody knows but thee

Dennis John Ferado Copyright 2013

 

No One Calls Me Sweetheart Anymore (Dad)

Christmas with dad, 1979.
A couple of years after this photo was taken my dad passed away. The doctors had told us on March 25th that it would be impossible for him to make it through the day, much less the night. He could barely speak but we were still able to communicate with him right up to the end. We held his hands and sat with him the entire day. The doctors couldn’t understand what was keeping him alive and Eileen and I were so confused we didn’t know what day it was. But my father soon let us know why he waited to die, the following day, on March 26th.

No One Calls Me Sweetheart Anymore
(Dad)

His bony hands on my
two cheeks caused a
numbness to rise in my spine.
He gazed into my eyes with
his beautiful baby-blues
and they caressed my spirit.
He pulled me closer with
a start,

his chapped lips brushed my
cheek with a soft kiss.
His cracked and tired voice
had a sudden surge of
tender strength.

He whispered
in my ear as his two hands
haloed my face,
“Happy birthday sweetheart.”
The next day he was gone.

Copyright 2013 Dennis John Ferado

 

Spirits Entwined

Summertime it was the summertime
my spirit soared so high when I looked at you
with your flashing eyes your smile a big surprise
you took my heart that night
when you said to me
beneath the full moon
as spirits entwined

“New love old love now I can see
that it’s all free,
blue love, bold love right from the start, love,
now you’re in my heart”

A burning comet flew into my life
an endless ocean bound in silent night
I tried to leave your memory behind
but what remains are spirits entwined.

Seventeen you were so sweet and lean
the words of love we spoke as our hands touched
our shadows danced along the water’s edge
you were a living dream.
Then you touched my soul
when you said to me
as Spirits ran free.

“New love old love now I can see
that it’s all free,
blue love, bold love right from the start, love,
now you’re in my heart”

 

Advice from Grandma (Ragamuffin)

My Grandma was Irish, her name was Catherine (Kitty) Kelly and she arrived in NYC in 1902 when she was sixteen--all alone. She had that inbred Irish wisdom many of the Irish have and a wonderful way of communicating it. I remember her vividly as if she were still with me. My memory of the many pearls of wisdom she told me, during the few years I had her, all came in short sentences. I’ve tried to gather them into a sort of poem to the best of my remembrance

I never found out what a ragamuffin was until long after Grandma was gone.

Advice from Grandma
(Ragamuffin)

 

Beware of those with their heads below their shoulders,
watch out for the ones with them up in the clouds,
mind those who flatter and disguise what they are about,
keep clear of all deplorable rogues of deception,
you’ll recognize them when they open their mouths.
Trust no one and fear the worst that can happen,
beware of lingering louts over your left shoulder,
find the object of your flame of passion,
hold on tight and continue to grow bolder.

If you’re a painter go after that masterpiece
a dancer? then tango across your map of life
or sing your song whatever it be, loud and clear
let it ring all the way to down-under from here.
When you’ve married sometime off in the future
and committed yourself to the one you’ll call dear
your children shall be your grandest gifts from nature
They’re yours for a moment keep them from fear
cherish their lives encourage and nurture

Try not to splinter when the thunder claps,
banish your shyness don’t cut with your rage
or get drowned in the tide of fanciful traps
but play your music and fill up your page.

Some things are precious don’t take them lightly
empathy and love are paramount for the soul
keep your heart open let it shine brightly
without these things the spirit will wither and fold
bestow of them freely beginning today
love is the most difficult to give away
if you do these things the most scrumptious passions
will all come rumbling and tumbling your way
and you will be fine my little ragamuffin.

“What’s a ragamuffin, Grandma?”

Copyright 2012 Dennis John Ferado

The Ones Left Behind

There’s a slow burning river of
sadness rolling through my heart.
There are no fish, no urchins, not a
living thing in its waters but the pain of
the ones left alive
.
There are no trees along these
blasted river banks, no birds fly
its fiery air, no creatures come to
drink its scalding waters but
the ones left alive.

Bubbling whirlpools swirl inside my eyes,
powdery grit fills up my nostrils, sticks
to my lungs, makes me move with
the slowest motions and I don’t
know if I’m alive.

Black river of tears flowing through
my veins, roaring in my ears,
making me insane. There are
no words, no reason, nothing to
say to ease the hurt for
the ones left alive

Too horrendous to conceive,
too ghastly to relive, too
monstrous to believe for
the ones left alive.

Copyright 9/11/01--2013 Dennis John Ferado