sick

In Memoriam

Fare you well, my honey.
Fare you well, my only true one.
All the birds that were singing
Are flown except you alone.

Going to leave this Broke-down Palace.
On my hands and my knees I will roll, roll, roll.
Make myself a bed by the waterside.
In my time - in my time - I will roll roll roll.

In a bed, in a bed
By the waterside I will lay my head.
Listen to the river sing sweet songs
To rock my soul.

River going to take me
Sing me sweet and sleepy.
Sing me sweet and sleepy
All the way back back home.
It's a far gone lullaby
Sung many years ago.
Mama, Mama, many worlds I've come
Since I first left home.

Goin' home, goin' home,
By the waterside I will rest my bones.
Listen to the river sing sweet songs
To rock my soul,

Goin' to plant a weeping willow.
On the banks green edge it will grow, grow, grow.
Sing a lullaby beside the water.
Lovers come and go - the river roll, roll, roll.

Fare you well, fare you well
I love you more than words can tell.
Listen to the river sing sweet songs
To rock my soul.

-- "Brokedown Palace"


It's now been ten years, Jerry. Ten years, and there's somewhere deep inside us where the wounds never healed, but are still raw and bleeding; on days like today these tear asunder in a cataclysm of agony.

Your words glowed with the gold of sunshine; your tunes were played on the harp unstrung, but we heard your voice come through the music, and we held it near as it were our own. Now other dancers call the tune, and we - the Dead who live - have nowhere to go for the song.

The singer has gone. We cannot follow.

Now you know the way; will you take us home?

-- Me


Jerry, my friend, you've done it again.
Even in your silence
The familiar pressure comes to bear,
Demanding I pull words from the air
With only this morning
And part of the afternoon
To compose an ode worthy
Of one so particular
About every turn of phrase,
Demanding it hit home in a thousand ways
Before making it his own,
And this I can't do alone.
Now that the singer is gone
Where shall I go for the song?

Without your melody and taste
To lend an attitude of grace
A lyric is an orphan thing,
A hive with neither honey's taste
Nor power to truly sting.

What choice have I but to dare
And call your muse you thought to wrest
Out of the thin blue air,
That out of the field of shared time
A line or two might chance to shine --

As ever when we called,
In hope if not in words,
The muse descends.

How should she desert us now?
Scars of battle on her brow,
Bedraggled feathers on her wings,
And yet she sings, she sings!

May she bear thee to thy rest,
The ancient bower of flowers
Beyond the solitude of days,
The tyranny of hours --
The wreath of shining laurel lies
Upon your shaggy head,
Bestowing power to play the lyre
To legions of the dead.

If some part of that music
Is heard in deepest dream,
Or on some breeze of Summer
A snatch of golden theme,
We'll know you live inside us
With love that never parts --
Our good old Jack O' Diamonds
Become the King of Hearts.

I feel your silent laughter
At sentiments so bold
That dare to step across the line
To tell what must be told,
So I'll just say I love you
Which I never said before,
And let it go at that old friend.
The rest you may ignore.

-- Robert Hunter, "An Elegy for Jerry"






That's all; good morning, everyone. Time for bed.