Old Words, Old Songs
By Joe Pegasus

Copyright  2013

Hugo and I sat silently

upon a beach near Troy.

He alone with secret thoughts

and I alone with joy.

The wind blew soft as does moonlight

tossing the ocean ahoy.

While Hugo and I sat silent

upon a beach near Troy.

Within the twilight we did see

three ships go sailing by.

With huge white canvas slapping up

against a grayish sky.

And I turned to Hugo then

but battered not an eye.

For I knew what to answer him

as Hugo knows to I.

Days have numbered, nights were cast

since our meeting there.

And Hugo and I do carry on,

meetings are seldom and rare.

But we will pocket that lone beach

and use it as a fare.

When Peter turns to Hugo

and I will not be there.

Hugo Calderara, Buried in Mt. Hope Cemetery, Vermont, 1973.
Hugo was my mentor in the art of Graphic Design.

I have a seed now

 upon the earth,

blooming as God sees now,

until its birth.

I won a deed now

unwonted by mirth.

Yellow finches my child shall see,

Turtles,

Frogs that live in our trees.

God,

Nature in the raw, she shall see.

I have a seed now

 upon the earth,

Nestled in my wife

until its birth.

I won a deed now,

I must give it mirth.

My daughter, Yvonne was born 1970.

Somehow within I am compelled to write,

To issue a pen to my hand and begin to write.

Somewhere within I yearn for the delight

To beckon small words into my sight.

Just a small prayer becomes my ballad.

Just a small tale becomes my novel.

Not to baffle the kings or leave all in awe,

Nor to conquer verse or lead literature to another door,

Not to seek a living or have the public's implore,

Nor to free the dying from the dead forever more.

Just a small prayer becomes my ballad.

Just a small tale becomes my novel.

Somehow within time I am forced to place

Letters on paper that form my face.

Somewhere within, my soul seems to speak out

Words for only paper, whether whimper or shout.

Why, Dear God, choose such as me?

Neither words of knowledge nor songs follow me

Why must I write when none will be told?

Why must my own phrases turn me so cold?

Just a small prayer becomes my ballad.

Just a small tale becomes all my novels.

Some say life is but a cherry,

Some say it's but nothing at all.

Some find life in all that's buried;

Others hang them on the wall.

All the rooms which we have walked through,

All the halls where we do stall

Count the times that we did run through,

Count the times when we had to fall.

And the way that we are merry,

And the way we forgot to share

All those play toys on the ferry,

All the ones left at the fair.

They say the soul is pure  constancy,

Others speak but get nowhere.

Others say there is no such constancy,

Others speak but get no wear.

But I'm sure there is a pathway

Leading from here up to the stars.

But I'll wonder when we're halfway,

What of all the wasteful scars?

All those people who dreamed of wonders,

All those who dreamed at all-

Some have lived only in blunder,

Others lived not at all.

And the scars which man does carry,

When they're laid down at last-

Will one face reflect the marry

Of the present to the past?

A Letter to my brother Frank

We're all going to meet in the bar,

to drink and forget some things as they are,

to see the bad things from out afar.

Beads of a dark world beckon us in,

Dreams of a past world growing so dim,

True to our joy world, be it not sin.

We're off to see our friendly foe,

to you, Frank; to me, Joe.

Frank, my youngest brother, 1953 - 1988. Died in a car accident
along with his wife and daughter, one daughter survived.

This the door, beyond the walls, beyond the end.

Not a used one, not a fad, not a way, not a trend.

One door appears for one person and then meets its end.

One opportunity just once.

One mistake, that's all it takes.

One mistake, just one misjudgment,

and the door will never open,

yet was never closed.

Toast to You

May you live to hear the cries

of life from your great grandchildren,

and to die before they understand death.

May all men of words know sighs

that have grown within your being,

and to die before they understand death.

To run the tender scales of vehemence

that does know all future paths,

and to die before dear future understands death.

May the glorious heaven from whence you fell

be to where your senses will return,

and tell them what it is to die.

His gleaming eyes reached out for me

and likewise did his soul,

As jetsam darting from the sea

when it is just off shore.

Large dreaming eyes scattered upon me

as seeds carelessly sown.

Smiling more than wearing a sad frown

and likewise was his soul,

as driftwood finally back on ground

when it's down upon the shore.

Large dreaming eyes scattered all around

as seeds clumsily sown.

No matter tho what the eyes may say

or that which they may cry,

I've work to do, and every day

to save up and live before I die.

Large dreaming eyes can go on

until they fall out of their common head.

Said Ken to me,

"I'd like to be, where younger waters flow.”

Said I to he,

"We could never be, where younger seed is sown.”

But could it be,

that he, and I could have aged thus as so?

When we did see

those still to be, our years and our know,

He turned to me

in order to see, that I was sadly, longingly

and pitifully watching too.

Kenneth Lucas, decorated Vietnam soldier. We enlisted on the Buddy Plan but I got rejected. Ken set himself on fire after years of mental struggles due to the war.

Your heart, my friend, is full of greed;

you seem to smile in a farfetched key.

And visions you see must all be bad;

'cause you're convinced life is ‘ready had.

I believe you could reach into man's deepest part.

I know you can remove the good from man's best of hearts -

A devil riding upon a silver-laced cart.

Satan so evil, Satan so bad,

Goodness is something you never had.

Go with the winds and sing with the dead,

and show your skin as a deep lusty red.

Set your fires about your throne,

set your fires in the midst of our homes.

Alight your flames upon your lonely sea.

Alight your flames,

sit,

and wait for me.

Loneliness

White curtains on the window to decorate the

over-tolerated outer scene. The chair before

the window that has been sat in too much

and too long. One person dwindling behind the

voice of another. And both knowing they are

each alive.

One, is all but two

Captain homeward pays his way

in token dream words of the day.

Believe it not but walk that way,

in token dream words of the day.

Captain homeward hears no rhyme

in broken lyrics lost in time.

Believe it not nor its ancient chime,

the broken lyrics due to time.

Silent memories come his way

breathing into yesterday

Silent memories come his way.

The floating driftwood lost at sea.

Dreaming of what use to be.

The flying sails above the sea

from the streamer's majesty.

The wrecked ship upon the waves,

singing back his sailing days.

The visions forever stay

crying back his sailing days.

Silent memories come his way

breathing into yesterday

Silent memories come his way.

Years after I wrote this, my closest of friends, Artie Turco (1949-1996) and I put it to music. It met some local success, as did Going Away From Here and Sweet Young Girl of Yesterday.

Pick up the pail. Johnny,

you'll be milking the cows from now on.

Pick up the pail and carry it with a song.

Your father is giving up the milking, Johnny,

and I am leaving the job up to you.

So hurry, son, while I ready a bite and stew.

The job is a rough one, offspring,

when one does not know the ropes.

Pick up the pail, Johnny.

You would have too,

whether someone else was doing it or not.

There was a death in the family today.

Into an eternal life one went to stay.

A death, the inevitable event, came today.

A death in our family came for real.

Now the one is but a memorable ghost and of a great deal.

A ghost that we can't see or talk to, only feel.

A death in our family happened today.

But no one has died, or for that matter

even gone away.

This was written when my brother Mike (1950-1976) first fell to drug abuse during a battle for his life after a motorcycle accident.

One foot in the grave,

Nothing earned and nothing saved.

My body is light and seems so free;

everyone who is happy is smiling with me.

Two feet in my grave,

nothing earned and nothing saved.

My body, to me, is aged but at its prime.

No need to worry about people or time.

Three feet within my grave,

nothing earned and nothing saved.

My mind is discovering flesh and joy.

I feel only me, a craving boy.

Four feet within my grave,

nothing earned and nothing saved.

My mind is awaking to the facts of life.

I feel my past as a suicidal knife.

Five feet within my grave,

nothing earned and nothing saved.

My body is old my hair is all gray.

I know all my faults and count them every day.

Six feet within my grave,

Nothing earned and nothing saved.

Nothing lost and nothing gained.

How does the whistle of an old man prey

the memories gone

day by day.

Whistle no tune or pattern at all;

Just a song for his season at fall

Every exhale brings into mind

a once forgotten lovely time

The macabre display of life gone short,

the array of battles won and fought.

How does the whistle on an old man prey?

Deep into his mind a love always to stay.

Life is this to the whistler now.

Life is all but a whistle somehow.

God Is

The tapping of the waves.

The sunlight and rays.

The moments in your pocket.

The time, when you can't stop it.

The valley between the sand and our feet.

The land where you and your mind can meet.

The guider of rain to the earth below.

The earth, man, water and this whole entire show.

Each Season Has Its Turning

has its own turning

and its yearnings

and its wanting

and its findings.

Man finds comfort in things unknown

and he adopts

and he seeks

and he finds.

Each season has its own springtime

and its mean time

and its off times

and its ides finds.

Man finds comfort in things unreal!

And he adopts

and he seeks

and he finds.

Nature is all and has nothing to find.

Man is a creature of a different kind.

Seeking is man's, until there will be nothing to find.

Each season brings comfort toward the earth

and a symbol in birth

and a meaning to mirth

and a finding jeweled with the earth.

As if infinity were

Beyond the forest, before the sea.

Here lies man's eternity.

Standing at the end, also its birth.

Standing there upon the earth?

Lonely railroad tie by tie.

Lonely roamer on and on.

Whither awhile just to rest.

Wasting awhile at the best.

Behind the shackles of recorded time,

wherein mankind must sign,

legends of lost souls gone in such haste

to a cursed land of their waste.

Bowling, my brothers, pin by pin.

Finding your scorers sin and sin.

Whither, my brothers, will we go

when eternity is moments and infinity is not

so slow.

If by chance one hears

The tune

Of nature and her spread

Or tries to reach up to the moon

And moonbeams on a web

Then never will one rest, it’s sure

Within huge city walls

Then never will one condemn a shore

Or mountains and their calls.

To see a tree rise up to God

Or watch spiders weave.

And hear the growing of the sod

Or singing of the weed.

Then never will one rest his head

And cover his eyes anymore,

Until the eyes and ears are dead

And scent is gone forever more.

Have I forgotten the Lord, Jesus, has walked thru here?

Or has it been such a lengthy time that it is hard to remember?

Rose high His hand and smiled at me.

Lifted up His head and spoke to me.

Have I forgotten that the Lord, Jesus, is not so far away?

Or is it such a distance that it is hard for me to see?

Sat on a rock and touched my hand;

removed my youth and made me a man.

No, I have not forgotten all that.

The dust of time may antique it,

and the streamers of nations somehow alter it,

and the thundering sounds of progress hide it.

But I remember.

Signed to my Sister Chickie

When first we met, you looked so small

coming into this cold, cruel world

I thought you such a cutie, big brother's little pearl.

I cuddled you close all the time

talked in woe-woe too.

Put up with your silly dolls

and saw you through a few flu’s.

When we were kids, we use to dream

and play games all day long.

I use to tell you stories, you use to sing me songs.

We had a world, just you and me

the size of Joey's room,

wherein our silly stories 

would sail us to the moon.

Remember the day we spent in bed

watching my brand new TV?

Ouch! Remember the time you cut your leg

from your ankle to your knee?

And every time I left your side

a gift I'd carry back

I wondered where you hid those toys

you must have quite a sack!

So long ago and far away

but I will never forget

for you and I are never apart
since the very first moment we met.

Chickie; Rita Auricchio D’Agostino was my kid sister. 1959-2012

A Church Description

Again the rain washed the brick wall around the old church.

It wiped the marble headstones upon which surnames perched.

It lifted the dirt from the chapel's roof of this old church.

The rain fell upon the ground and upon the stony wall.

The water sank and puddled until it finished its daily fall.

And while it fell it saw no one watch its usual crawl.

Ring the bell o' spirit within and ring it aloud.

Sing to God and beckon to the world and all its crowd.

Will no one come to the house of prayer and sing aloud?

Lord God, Creator Almighty, look down upon your home.

Try to find your many lost sheep that have left to roam.

Cry to your children to see the light and turn to their true home.

No eyes gazed upon the rain, not even from within the church.

No one there to catch the rain except a country church.

Only a brick wall, and marble headstones, and an old country church.

Our hands, all both healthy and lame,

rose up to the heavens,

rising only to the end of our fingertips.

We are limited.

We are not to be hailed.

Cries that were heard by only the wind.

Sounds from a voice heard only by the trees.

Louder and louder it bellowed until finally thin.

But the louder or thinner it flew, the less the power of the carrying

Knees.

Caught in a forest, maybe forever, walking in a wonderland of nature.

Caught behind the beauty of deadly beast and sober weeds.

Screaming to the skies and looking into the mind, finding it

 naturally immature.

Captured by the mist and the grass and the wind and the

antagonizing fleas.

Forever to roam in a deep, lonely forest.

Forever doomed to explore, to implore and to live in a deep

lonely forest.

For Arlinda Willis

Here's a poem to Arlinda,

 No more than ten lines long.

Here's a present for Arlinda

in verse, or lyric for a song.

And I hail to this winner.

And glad to see her strong.

Then turn my eyes from Arlinda,

and say that it's so wrong.

Now this was to Arlinda,

Exactly ten lines long.

Back in West Babylon S.H. a favorite morning ritual for us guys became tradition when we lined up outside the Dean’s office to watch through the glass curtain wall at the girls leaning on the Dean’s counter for schedules or whatever reason. All their dresses raised too high as they leaned forward.  Arlinda (always a good friend of mine) had the best legs.

Brought Up on the Great South Bay

And He said, "Come in and go out.

Bring in a few stones and scatter them about.

Rise up to the highest point, and then roll back out.

"Come forth to bathe my heated soil.

Spring up to the sky, then fall, again: recoil.

Let all mankind see your wonder and brief toils.

So they may know me.

"Ocean of manifest you are called.

Spread yourself wide, tide out and fear not a fall.

Bring on the rains and devour all lands of tall.”

So they may know me.

For that is their way.

And as beautiful as it may be,

more so is the ocean, sea, river and bay.

The Flea Tree

Nowhere but in this garden can one find a flea tree.

Nowhere but on a flea tree can one find a reed leave.

Or leaf, if you like.

Never but on a reed leave can one smell oriental haze.

Never but in a smell of haze will one vision a cantering cars.

Or car, if you desire.

Nowhere but on a cantering cars can one find a garden.

And only in this garden do flea trees ripen and become harden.

Or hard, if you hate grammar.

Gain or Lost?

What does it profit a man when he gains the world?

Sound filled seas with waves that curl.

Bright golden sunsets on beaches and sands.

Towering mountains and green farming lands.

Gold of the utmost and silver galore.

Streamed restaurants and all chains of stores.

Miracle medicines, chemicals, women and all double chins.

All the film festivals and museums and Disney lands.

Glasses, dishes, pots and pans.

People of wisdom and people of hate.

Sore throats, stomach pains and headaches

Lust to no ends and rapes every night.

Anxious excitement and terrifying fright.

Death at many doorsteps and corpses in slum streets.

Leopard fingers and frostbitten feet.

Going away from here,

Leaving without a tear.

Things may seem so gray,

until another day.

So I will journey from here

leaving without a tear.

My bags are packed for good

to stay? I never would.

The days, they seem so long,

the nights, they seem so wrong.

My bags are packed for good,

to stay? I never would.

Mary, I'm leaving you.

John, he won't make you blue.

No more dances to attend.

No more jobs to mend.

Mary, I'm leaving now;

you'll get along somehow.

So I got on the train

rolling on thru the rain,

then I thought of the town

leaving with engine sounds.

So I got off the train

walked back home with the rain.

Was later put to music by Artie Turco and me. Chas Evans sang this song. Link to the song is: HERE.

Nightmare

Above the cover of hud

where lay rugly a rug.

Wonder a sun from above.

Creep to the steep of the bed.

Crouched, then touched my head.

Light up the night gone as said.

Down to be sound at my feet

into the folds it did creep,

powerful yet so mightily meek.

Touch the sun, weigh its ton.

Given time and rhythm rhyme.

Always. Always, spinning around.

Falling, falling, spilling on down.

From 1956 until 2012 my family owned the house at 90 Little East Neck Road, Babylon, NY. I occupied the  second story, north bedroom and often had terrible nightmares and visions; often felt hands touching my head and neck. Most frightening I could feel hands griping me into the mattress and pulling me down and away from the entirety of the room. I made little of these experiences but asked to switch rooms with my two brothers Mike and Frankie. Years later the three of us opened up about that room being haunted. They also had visions and many strange occurrences.

We are a breed of destruction,

destruction is our aim.

See how we crave our corruption, and fancy good and evil as the

Same?

We hide in the midst of semi-parents, and cry on the shoulder of pain.

As we burn each other as we do to serpents,

we debate each man is the same.

And walls around us we can create; yet the enemy conquers.

And all that time for education's sake, all of it falls to ulcers.

Understand we are born to die, God will not rid of us.

We are here to kill and hide. And to forget justice is just.

No, Heaven will not bother with us, Her hands She will not soil.

She'll sit as we kill Earth's crust, and watch this miserable place boil.

Townspeople cry when townspeople die.

Townspeople feel alone when they lose a human tie.

Townspeople congregate and mourn the death,

which silently reminds them that they too will die.

No wonder townspeople cry when townspeople die.

Townspeople's rules are followed not by new coming fools.

Townspeople can chase a passerby using laws as their tools.

Townspeople live by their own morals made in offices,

streets and schools.

No wonder townspeople's rules are followed by all sorts of fools.

Townspeople's minds haven't stopped since the beginning of time.

Townspeople are confused, threatening, and seldom glance behind.

Townspeople only feel fine on drugs or town's made wine.

Little analysis that Townspeople's minds have strongly

entered our time.

A really difficult book to findanywhere is ‘A Virgin Stayed.’ I wrote it during my 1966-67 attendance at Nyack Prep School for Boys at Southampton on Long Island. It told a true story of my entrapment with a dissenter from the Church of Wicca. As noted in that book, the boys from the town, called Townies, were ever fighting and causing fights with us elitist boarding school brats.

Dear, Dear, Dearest

I'm off to meet my friendly foe, the one who bows

and begs, "Don't go,”

The one that whispers into my ear, coining words

that are warm and clear.

He speaks in circles to no end, then stops and starts

all over again.

He pours his tea all over me, then sits and borrows

my largest sea.

He's off to make a fool of me and sing my brain far

off key.

Oh, friend, rest your weary head; oh, con man so evil,

please drop dead!

Why this ship that moors at harbor?

Condemned by some, to some a martyr.

Why this ship which lays in the harbor?

Where is a mast to sail her onward?

In fact, why is she not built of sturdy, strong wood?

But she cries, "Onward, onward!"

A ship for centuries; a ship forever.

A place of love; and wonton endeavor.

A woman, forever, for all.

Blessed is the ship that takes me home.

May the wind fill her sail.

And the Bow and Stern, may they never moan.

May the waters form her tale.

Lovely is the clipper that sees me along.

May her captain see no storm.

And have no wind guide her wrong.

May her crew see each beautiful morn.

Let the ship that takes me home,

be proud to sail the sea.

And Neptune below God's parting foam,

Allow her course to be free.

Wladyshaw did whisper,

she whispered toward my ear.

Softly her being spoke, she spoke for only me to hear.

Wladyshaw did whisper, Lady so sure and so clear.

Around the legends of Naples, where the heart of time does beat,

somewhere absorbed in laughter is time and its grip so discreet.

Wladyshaw did whisper this, all, the legends, the beats.

Wladyshaw then touched my face, a portion so old and worn.

She kissed my ruby lips, which were sad and edging worn.

Wladyshaw, oh Lady so sure, to me all the treasures she has sworn.

Where does the smoke go

when it rises or falls?

Where does the gray blow

when its black uncurls?

Where does the wind go

with fire's subtle pearls?

Where do the leaves go

when they wither then fall?

Where in the heavy snow

or weeds that die tall?

Where can the wind blow

the leaves of every fall?

Where does one heart go

when it has risen to fall?

Where in the lonely snow

or crowds that die tall?

Where can the currents flow

to lead on a new call?

Sweet young girl of yesterday,

dry these tears I often cry.

Fill my dreams that have long died,

touch my soul and show me a way.

Sweet young girl gone from me,

touch my soul and take me away.

Paths I walk are so long;

every step brings pains of years.

Mumbling words that are my fears,

words to an old, old song.

Sweet young girl gone with time,

touch my soul with your song.

Though my hair is so gray,

my winter days promise this:

each hour becomes a risk.

Naught is right, such a way?

Sweet young girl of memories,

touch my soul and take me away.

Artie Turco (1949-1996) Gary Smith (1950-1985), George Fitzpatrick, Greg Mallow and I formed a rock band called THE SHADES OF DESTINY We put this song to music. It met some local success, as did ‘Going Away From Here’ and ‘Captain Homeward.’

Fingers of Nature

Bring your mind fingers of Mother Nature.

Softly I will worship you with these flowers.

Hour by hour.

Floating over the valleys of your memory.

I will collect the sweet sands from your sea.

Gently I will offer you your finger-like flowers.

Hour by hour.

Flowers that softly touch with each touch one gives.

Flowers that are for our cause, our love, make it live.

Gracefully I will stretch out before you multi-colored flowers.

Hour by hour.

Bring your mind to an ocean of drifting finger-like flowers.

Float your heart between waves of overwhelming flowers.

To live is to be with you forever in multi-colored flowers. Hours upon hours.

The Lord spoke

and she was stricken from me.

Helpless limbs as branches on a tree,

one silence

and she was taken softly from me.

The needlework of younger days

fell somehow loosely apart.

And picture frames held by stays

talk some words to my heart.

A tapestry of gold and white

sigh circles around my heart.

And glorious stars of the night

remind me that we're apart.

Whose majesty can pry this way

and draft out all our lives?

What suffering is this we pay,

tribute to end our lives?

The lord spoke.

Pray death is well to meet.

Pray heaven is long and sweet.

In 2016, David Paterson covered this song. Poorly, I’m afraid. You may hear it here (at your own risk.)

The Celtic told me of stories

that may be true or false.

Of a great God and all His glory

that may be true or false.

And time, for sure, is of no essence

within eternity.

And pain has no true lasting presence

for those who do believe.

But believe I do, I told him so

yet pain is all my day.

And believe I do, I told him so

while pain was all my way.

Year and two in wedlock I was now

with dreams of Janice still.

And all this love dropping from my brow

I hid with so much risk.

It is not that bad, the Celtic said.

One falls in love with life.

But life is time which burrows ahead.

One falls in love with life?

My hands do shake, my head does hurt

and you speak of a god?

Nickel's lending, that's its worth

for those who seek the sod.

But if you find an answer for me

to wipe her from my mind,

then marriage will be peaceful for me

and I will give you my time.

Mary,

I said to myself for no reason.

And it startled me to find my blood and body freezing.

Strange, alone Mary was the reason.

Mary? I questioned whilst time left me alone.

Mary? I called out whilst the earth tensed and groaned.

Mary, Mary. I broke into earth's melody with a longing moan.

I saw tears she cried which were never there,

and desire hiding in her skin and hair.

And before I thought her to be happy and fair.

Mary? The wind spoke in circles about my ears.

Mary, the world shock in turmoil cast by fear.

Mary my being broke with oceans of tears.

Mary.

Nestled in the snow lay a freed man.

Wrestled with the cold did a freed man.

Freedom to bring

to those who share.

Freedom to ring

in mouths whose sing.

Nestled in whiteness lay a freed man.

Crystals of brightness for a freed man.

Freedom to bring

to those who share.

Freedom to ring

in mouths whose sing.

Nestled in death's cold lay a freed man

Thank you, Dear Readers

The End

Old Words, Old Songs

By Joe Pegasus

 Copyright  2013

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