A MIND IN FLIGHT

JUST A TINY COSMIC DANCER

2009-02-21T12:22:00.000-08:00

Long after western sun has set
I smoke the day’s last cigarette,
I sit outdoors and watch the starlit skies.
Soon the moist air starts to drape
Around my shoulders like a cape
As Orion strikes his pose before my eyes.

And in those moments of repose
A feeling deep inside me grows
That clears my mind of all the worldly fog.
It joins the stars in outer space
Reminds me of my humble place:
A speck of dust; a tiny cosmic cog.

And I wonder as I sit,
Trying to make some sense of it
Trying to assess the role of Man.
Souls of sages, souls of fools
Held in place by molecules;
Microscopic parts of unknown plan.

We’re forced to walk down hardship’s path;
Forced to suffer Nature’s wrath.
Compelled to look for enemies to slay.
Urged to pick a single God
From several, each with Golden Rod,
Then decide to whom we sacrifice and pray

And amid the sound and fury
Life creeps on with little hurry
Unconcerned with all the conflict and debate
Over why it is we’re here;
Living, dying on this sphere;
And what will be each person’s final fate.

And I’m tired of all the noise
And of mankind’s lack of poise
And I’ve closed my ears to what most have to say.
And I choose to meditate
Different avenues of fate
To see if I can settle on The Way.

So I seek the final answer,
Just a tiny cosmic dancer
Waltzing on this endless universal stage
Knowing as I dance the dance
There is very little chance
Of The Answer ‘til I reach my final page.

Copyright 2009 - phil cerasoli

GALLANT KNIGHTS ON DASHING STEEDS

2008-09-20T06:22:00.000-07:00

In his daydreams, dreams the deed:
A gallant knight on dashing steed.
Rescues maiden in distress,
Strokes her cheek with soft caress.

But daydreams end and life sets in.
He’s in his office once again.
Bound by walls of corporate greed,
A Don Quixote in gray tweed.
Fighting windmills, all in vain.
Every week, the same refrain.
Ethics, morals…they’re both fine
If they don’t hurt the bottom line.
And all he has, he’d gladly cede
To be a knight on dashing steed.

Back at home, his trophy wife
Daydreams of a different life:
A fair-haired maiden much in need
Of gallant knight on dashing steed,
Of being rescued from distress;
Of being touched with soft caress.

But daydreams end and life sets in
She’s in her manor once again.
Bound by wealth and all it brings:
A graceful swan without her wings.
And all she has, she’d gladly cede
For gallant knight on dashing steed.

So daydreams fill their empty life:
A burned-out man; his trophy wife.
In bed at night, it’s sleep they fake,
Their eyes are closed but they’re awake
To fantasize of dazzling deeds
By gallant knights on dashing steeds.

Copyright 2008 - phil cerasoli

STUPID SHOULD BE GREEN (So long, G.W.B.)

2008-09-10T10:49:00.000-07:00

Wouldn’t it be neat if
When we all turned, say, thirteen,
Every stupid thing we did
Caused our skin to turn to green?

Not all at once, for all of us
Do a stupid thing or two,
So the first few times our skin would be
Just a slightly different hue.

But as the years went by
With Stupid by our side,
The greener that our skin would get,
Impossible to hide.

So think how easy it would be,
When elections hit the scene,
To keep Stupid out of office
If his face was vibrant green.

If only this had been the case
Eight years ago or so,
This country that I dearly love
Would not have sunk so low.

PEACE AT LAST

2008-09-09T16:17:00.000-07:00

Tonight he sits beside his tent,
His weapon by his side.
He knows that with the morning light
The fight will turn the tide.

And he feels that mankind’s had its fill
Of a cruel and pointless fight.
And now he sits beside his tent
On this peaceful, starry night.

Content in knowing that the world
Will soon in peace reside,
With no more need to shed a tear
For soldiers who have died.

And then, a few hours later,
The sun arose to see
The battle of Cannai begin
In 216 B.C.

copyright 2008 - phil cerasoli

THE ABSENT SOUND OF THUNDER (To G.W.B.)

2008-09-08T12:46:00.001-07:00

Have you ever viewed the dark clouds
Approaching from the east
While the wind picked up and made the branches sway?
And you heard the sound of thunder,
Ominous and rolling thunder,
That let you know a storm was on the way?

Well, the thunder was a warning
Which allowed you to adjust
The plans you had for your upcoming day,
So that when the storm arrived,
You weathered all it brought
And when it passed, you went along your way.

So you saw the dark clouds gather
Above the Middle East
And you adjusted, sending troops to join the fray,
Adding to the sound of thunder,
Ominous and rolling thunder,
And now years have passed but still the storm clouds stay.

And although I’ve always hated
Watching nations go to war,
I understand that there are reasons one should fight:
If he feels his freedom

Or the causes he holds dear
Are jeopardized by villains in the night.

So if you feel that that’s the case,
Then where’s your uniform?
Why aren’t you beside the ones ‘neath Eastern sun?
You may not be as young
As those you sent to fight and die,
But you’re young enough to aim and fire a gun.

Didn’t Alexander lead his troops,
Teddy Roosevelt lead the charge?
Didn’t Napoleon and Castro do the same?
Are you loathe to face the fight
For the cause you think is just,
Are you afraid to die in freedom’s name?

Or is it just a case
Of domestic politics
That require your presence on the Ship of State
That keeps you from the thunder,
Ominous and rolling thunder,
That’s dictating to our troops their random fate.

So when it’s said and done
And one side ends up on top
And we tally all of those we had to slay,
Will the absent sound of thunder
Even make you wonder
How it came and went while you were worlds away?

ON THE CREST OF DESTINY'S SEA

2008-09-01T22:12:00.000-07:00

The First Law of Thermodynamics
States that energy can’t be destroyed.
You can transform it in multiple fashions
And then the new form is deployed.

So, in essence, what Science is saying,
On that day that I take my last breath
Is that the energy that once fueled my body
Will escape our definition of death.

And, of course, that raises the question
Of what shape will my energy form?
And, to be sure, everyone has their answers
As to which line of thought to conform.

The theologians, the atheists, and cynics,
The prophets and seers as well,
All paint their preconceived landscapes
Of nothingness, heaven or hell.

Now I don’t presume to have answers.
Whatever will be’s going to be.
But, in a weird sort of way, I’m eager to view
That new energy form known as “Me”.

Will I retain human shape with senses intact?
Or be a glimmering, shimmering orb?
Or just a low level strip of white noise
With no thought or no dream to absorb?

Whatever the answer, it’s waiting to sail
On the crest of Destiny’s sea;
To start a new round of adventures
For that energy form known as “Me”.

Copyright 2008 - phil cerasoli

ONCE UPON A PLANET, ONCE UPON A TIME

2008-08-24T12:21:00.001-07:00

Once upon a planet
Where free enterprise was felt,
Was a microscopic country
Where only seven people dwelt.

Where given names weren’t needed,
Single letters took their place
And it was fairly easy
To match the letter with the face.

Now C through F all worked for firms
Owned by A and B,
And lived a fairly decent life;
Earned a fairly decent fee.

But G was slightly different.
His life was awfully grim.
A lonely, dirty homeless guy
So who gives a damn for him.

Now A and B were Upper Class
In social structure’s slot.
While C through F earned Middle Class,
And G, the cellar’s spot.

So C through F had high-priced homes
With gadgets really neat
Always replaced by versions
That made the older obsolete.

And each one had a car or two;
Accessories to the brim,
Except, of course, the homeless guy
But who gives a damn for him.

One day A and B decided
To send their work off-shore.
When C through F woke up they found
Their old jobs were no more.

Then C through F looked in dismay
At max’d out credit cards
And at those high-priced autos
All parked in their front yards.

And when they could no longer meet
Their mortgage monthly fee
They all sank as one to share
The Lower Class with G.

And because of cheaper labor
A and B were richer than before,
And that place once known as Middle Class
Was a place of bygone lore.

And now on those occasions
When tourists wander through,
They ask about the Middle Class
That they had come to view.

Either A or B will tell them,
He’d decided to condemn
Them all to join that homeless guy
And who gives a damn for them.

And so we leave this fairy tale
Of a cruel, egregious crime
That happened once upon a planet,
Once upon a time.

MY PAL LEO

2008-08-23T11:27:00.000-07:00

Tolstoy wrote:
“Condemn me and not the path. If I know the road home, and if I go along it drunk and staggering, does that prove that the road is not the right one? If I stagger and wander, come to my help....You are also human beings, and you are also going home."

Tolstoy was my kind of guy,
The nonconformist of his day,
Who chose to lead the Spartan life
And not let fame get in the way.

For even after ‘War & Peace’
Brought him much acclaim,
He shunned the glitz and glamour
That comes along with fame.

And he was soundly criticized
For bearing hardship’s load.
But Leo shrugged off all the barbs
And kept on down his road.

I suppose he had the wisdom
To know that all roads somehow tend
To ultimately converge as one
At that point where our lives end.

And Leo made his feelings known
In that quote I’ve placed above,
In essence, asking when he erred,
To treat his plight with love.

Now I’ve never been that famous
Nor really led a Spartan life
So I can’t compare to Tolstoy
But I have known joy and strife.

And I damn sure did it my way
Since I was seventeen,
And I think that Leo would be proud
Of those things I’ve done and seen.

And, of course, I often stumbled
While heading down Life’s street,
And I want to thank those few who stopped
To help me to my feet.

And acknowledged I was who I was
Knowing, as they watched me roam,
That they were also human beings
And they were also going home.

Copyright 2008 - phil cerasoli

RIPTIDES

2008-08-21T12:36:00.000-07:00

So many times while fighting Life's currents,
I let the best of my friends drift away.
And so many times, when sitting alone,
I wonder how they are today.

And the one in that group that I miss most of all
Is the most unique man I called friend,
Who came here from Greece and soon became rich
By working himself to no end.

His name was (and is) Peter and the two of us vied,
Competed in every which way;
Racquetball, tennis, and even ping pong,
We fiercely went at it each day.

Attempting to outdo each other’s best,
Even racing in GoKarts’ small cars,
Or to see which of us caught the attention
Of beautiful ladies in bars.

But weekly we’d shelve our competitive side
And, under a blanket of stars,
We’d get a bit high and sing dozens of songs
While we strummed on our Spanish guitars.

And Pete thought that I was the world’s funniest guy,
My humor brought tears to his eyes.
While I would admire the way he stayed focused
By keeping his eye on the prize.

And I could go on and mention his love
Of competitive racing and such.
But, I guess, to the casual reader of poems,
Those things just don’t matter that much.

So I guess that the point that I’m making,
The one thing that I want to say,
Is beware of the riptides that enter your life
And whose currents can pull friends away.

FALSE POETS; FALSE PROPHETS

2008-08-19T13:32:00.000-07:00

One man’s mission is another man’s migraine.
This you can count on as true.
A misguided person can string you along
To do things you don’t want to do.

He can lure you with words that lull you to sleep;
Mesmerize you with message sublime.
And when finished, he’ll leave you dumbfounded,
Realizing you’ve wasted your time.

Take, for example, this dumb little poem,
Which rambles all over the track.
Well, the time that it took you to read it
Is time that you’ll never get back.

Life is too short, so stop reading my poems
And start living some poems of your own.
And stop listening to poets and prophets
And let your own feelings be known.

This is your life so live it your way,
And then when it’s over and done,
You’ll remember the day when you stood up to say,
“I now rule in the kingdom of One.”

Copyright 2008 - phil cerasoli

ON THE STREET, THEY CALL HIM 'SLOW'

2008-08-18T19:10:00.000-07:00

His real name’s Jamar,
But that’s not how it works.
‘Cause on the street a real name’s
Only used by nerds and jerks.

So on the street, he’s ‘Slow Down’,
But I just call him ‘Slow’
And how or why he got that name,
You just don’t need to know.

And this young man has some reasons
Where he’d be justified,
In raising middle finger
At the world he’s been denied.

But ‘Slow’ has got this attitude
That borders on serene,
And I‘ve never seen him bothered
And I’ve never seen him mean.

And when the street turns nasty,
As it does from time to time,
It seems that ‘Slow’ is always there
To turn the scene sublime.

His voice is soft and calming
As he soothes his angry peers,
Dispensing out pure wisdom
That goes beyond his years.

So in this rapid transit world
Where we’re always on the go,
I wish there were more people
Who would be a bit more ‘Slow’.

Copyright 2008 - phil cerasoli

APOCALYPSE: YEAR UNDETERMINED

2008-08-17T16:48:00.000-07:00

Through empty city’s concrete canyons

Where all the stores now go unmanned,
Comes the once-proud Appaloosa,
Now the last to walk the land.

Atop, in casual bareback fashion,
In every sense, the loner’s role,
Rides the world’s last weary traveler;
Rides the world’s last living soul.

Global warming; shrinking ozone;
All capped off by nuclear war,
Destroying all the population;
Flora; fauna now no more.

But, being told by dying elder
Of a place out to the west,
Up in snow-capped high Sierras
Where the eagles go to nest.

A place where Mother Nature had
Survived this deathly scene,
Refusing to cede or relinquish
The world’s last patch of vibrant green.

Now, in the lower,rolling foothills
Below Sierras’ steeper slope,
His Appaloosa breathes his last breath
The traveler tries his best to cope.

Struggling upwards, ever climbing,
At last arrives at mountain’s crest
And then looks down and sees the view
He feels is truly heaven-blessed:

A valley green with verdant flora;
Running stream with water clear,
And lapping at the bubbling water
He sees a regal, antlered deer.

That’s the last thing he remembers.
Exhausted,feels his tired eyes close,
And how long he lays there in this coma
There's no-one there who really knows.

But now his eyes are fluttered open
And he thinks that he has died,
For there’s a lithe and lovely maiden
Sitting, smiling, by his side,

Wiping at his dirt-stained forehead
With a cloth that’s cool and damp.
She tells him she just can’t believe it,
That someone's finally found her camp.

That she thought there were no others
Who escaped the nuclear wrath.
And how she thought that she was destined
To forever walk a lonely path.

Then, finally, after he’s been rested
And after he’s been fully fed.
She takes his hand and gently leads him
To the comfort of her bed.

And, nestled in each others arms,
He whispers softly in her ear,
“I can’t believe the luck involved
For me to come and find you here.”

“And it dawns on me that you don’t know
My name, so by your leave,
My given name is Adam.”
And she answers, “Mine is Eve.”

A MADDENING PARADOX

2008-08-14T16:09:00.000-07:00

My mother, God bless her, lived ninety-four years,

And the last few were riddled with pain.

Immobile; dependent on continual care,

And each day there was nothing to gain.

And I've told all those who would listen

There's no way I'll end up like that.

That I want to die a more dignified death

Long before I am helpless and flat.

But that concept creates contradictions;

A paradox that won't go away.

'Cause each morning I'm praying, "Don't let me grow old,

But don't let me die on this day.

And, of course, every day my prayer's answered,

Is a day I've continued to age.

Then, inexorably, I'll become helpless

And my body will then disengage.

And I'll end up just like my mother.

A role I'm not willing to play.

So, God, please don't let me end up like that,

Just don't let me die on this day.

LEAVING LAS VEGAS

2008-08-10T21:23:00.000-07:00

I’m sure that you’ve all seen ‘Casino’
Or ‘Goodfellas’ or ‘Godfather II’.
Well, that was the way that Las Vegas was
When I had just turned twenty-two.

An always-awake town of intrigue
Ostensibly run by The Mob,
And a strong undercurrent of tension
Was the heartbeat that made Vegas throb.

I’d visit my haunts about six times a year
And find me a fast-moving game.
Pit men and dealers and a few high-priced hookers
All knew me and called me by name.

And I never lost more than I could afford,
I was young but was nobody’s fool.
But win, lose, or draw didn’t matter that much
‘Cause the whole goddamn town was just cool!

But now Vegas is no longer Vegas,
It’s Disneyland gone horribly wrong.
The Strip's full of gaudy and phony facades
And the guests bring their children along.

And there’s nothing as calming in the midst of bad luck,
When Lady Luck’s made your bankroll kaput,
Than to step out on the street and the first thing you meet
Is four hundred kids underfoot!

So now Vegas and I are just strangers;
Removed from my ‘Favorite Towns’ list.
But those days when I was a young gamblin’ man
Are times that will always be missed.

And I’m sure, if informed of my feeling,
Las Vegas would hardly care less,
‘Cause their change to a ‘whole family’ image
Will continue to be a success.

As for me, I’ll watch reruns of ‘Casino’
Or ‘Godfather II’ on TV.
And fondly remember those free-wheeling days
When Vegas was heaven to me.

THE EMPEROR'S NEW CLOTHES

2008-08-10T06:26:00.001-07:00

Are you old enough to recall the tale
Of an emperor so extremely vain
Who thought that a new wardrobe upgrade
Would add spark to his tired,tepid reign?

So he issued a wild proclamation
To be read throughout the whole realm
Promising fortune to those who'd provide
New attire that would then overwhelm.

Hearing that, two conniving shrewd con men
Saw their chance to make a huge score
So they gained the emperor’s audience
And then produced a bizzare scam galore.

They then “dressed” this idiot emperor
In imaginary, make-believe clothes
While heaping praise after praise upon this poor jerk
Who, while naked, struck a quite regal pose.

And the fairy tale then goes on to say,
As the emperor walked each village street,
As naked and bare as a jaybird,
He’d ask every person he’d meet

How much they liked all of his brand new attire
And, probably out of sheer fear,
The peasants oohed and aahed and unanimously voiced
The words he was longing to hear:

“Sire, your clothes are incredibly marvelous!
And their style should start a new trend.”
Which made the emperor quite happy,
And that’s where this old story ends.

Now I’m watching those wanna-be emperors
Spouting rhetoric on cable TV
Promising, that if they're elected,
What a wonderful world it will be.

And these politicos pile on the promises
And turn to us when their speech is done
And ask for our honest opinion
On how their campaign's being run.

And we answer, “Sire, your speech truly was great.
And most certainly you are the one
Who’ll treat all of your vows as true gospel
When all of the voting is done.”

“And we know that all of your grand words are true
And not just some politico’s prose.
And, by the way, we very much want to say,
How we love your exquisite new clothes.”

Copyright 2008 - phil cerasoli

SAGA OF THE CRAZY DOG BAND

2008-08-09T21:44:00.000-07:00

In the midst of that pointless and terrible war,
During that time Vietnam was on fire,
Lived three Asian youths who had a small band
And they played in conditions quite dire.

It was Thon who played bass; Nang pounded the drums,
And Nghia on electric guitar.
And the name of their group was The Crazy Dog Band
Which was very well known near and far.

One night they were playing for U.S. Marines
In a camp somewhere up to the north,
When the Viet Cong attacked without warning
And the sounds of Hell’s thunder burst forth.

And amid chaos and shooting and shouting,

Amid mortars and rockets’ red glare,
The Crazy Dog Band knew deep in their hearts
On this night they would die in despair.

Outnumbered, the Marines had no choice but retreat

And with the Crazy Dog Band at their rear,
They somehow managed a scary escape;
Then events are a little unclear.

But the band somehow managed to get on a boat
Only much later to find
They were well on their way to The Land Of The Free
With family and friends left behind.

And, in fact, they alit on America’s shore
Without a friend or a dime to their name.
And it’s a mysterious, intriguing story
How, into my life, these three came.

But I’ll forego that tale; suffice it to say
That the four of us all became friends,
And we all had a deep love of music,
Well aware of the message it sends.

So I wrote a few songs and I added
My voice and guitar to the fare.
We recorded a couple of multi-track tapes
And the radio gave us some air.

And we even had a cool concert
Where we rocked and we rolled through the night,
But, musically speaking, that was pretty much it
And Fame’s fifteen minutes took flight.

But we kept in touch for the next several years
Until circumstance pried us apart.
But the memory of what these three overcame
Will always remain in my heart.

Because it’s a long way to freedom from Ho Chi Minh City.
It’s a long way from Saigon to California’s white sand.
And I’m proud to have been a small part of the saga
Of Vietnam’s Crazy Dog Band.

A POET OF DENSE PROPORTION

2008-08-07T21:37:00.000-07:00

Today, they challenged me to write
A rhyming poem that gave insight
To places south of Mexico;
Sites where I would like to go.
I took the bet and started in
But then I found, to my chagrin,

I’d found that, much to my dismay,
There is no rhyme for Paraguay.

And without success, I tried to choose
A word that rhymed with Santa Cruz.

And when I tried to rhyme Peru,
I couldn’t find a word, could you?

And, even though it may sound silly,
Couldn’t find a rhyme for Chile.

Then scanned my books an hour or more
But nothing rhymed with Ecuador.

So, in defeat, I paid my debt,
Which left me awfully sad, but yet,
I’ll prob’ly try another time.
There must be two words I can rhyme!

copyright 2008 - phil cerasoli

MY PLANET; MY PEOPLE

2008-08-07T19:29:00.000-07:00

Slim-trunked aspens glowing white
Shining in the quiet night,
Shimmer ‘neath the orange moon’s light,
this is where my soul is…

Royal redwoods proudly stand
Tower high above the land;
Side by side, forever grand,
this is where my soul is…

Swimming south of heaven’s door
On Jamaica’s northern shore,
With a million fish or more,
this is where my soul is…

Vallarta’s sun, a dying flare,
Horizon red with brilliant flair
Mariachis fill the air,
this is where my soul is…

Covent Garden in the rain;
Humming a ‘Les Miz’ refrain,
As London’s sounds peal through my brain,
this is where my soul is…

Aromas, sweet and sexy, meet
With Dixie’s sounds on Bourbon Street,
Promising a sensual treat,
this is where my soul is…

Swapping poems in Rotterdam,
White wine washing down steamed clam
And, for a while, not give a damn,
this is where my soul is…

Watching crowds in frantic race,
Moving with frenetic pace,
New York cabbies lacking grace,
this is where my soul is…

Other places; other times;
Other peoples; other climes;
It’s all my planet, full of rhymes
And this is where my soul is.

THINGS MY FATHER TAUGHT ME

2008-08-06T14:09:00.000-07:00

My father, born in Italy,
Was a spiteful, vengeful man
Who thought the world around him
Was comprised of just one clan

Whose mission was to get him.
His paranoia ran so deep
It controlled his every fiber
And put his soul to sleep.

And, in terms of our conversing,
It was just a one-way street.
He'd bark out orders to me,
Then beat his dour retreat.

And he never gave encouragement;
Never talked to me of sex;
Never listened to the dreams I had;
Never let my young mind flex.

Never hugged me, even once.
Chose to spank or kick instead.
Never paid attention
To all those times I bled.

Never told me that he loved me;
Never asked if I loved him;
Just chose to rule with iron fist
And made sure his world stayed grim.

So, looking back in retrospect,
It's obvious to me,
The things my father taught me
Are those things I'd never be.

copyright 2008 - phil cerasoli

A LESSON FROM JAYME

2008-08-01T21:13:00.000-07:00

She’s only been around this earth
For fifteen years or so
But when she counsels younger kids,
Her wisdom starts to show.

And sometimes during a writer’s block
When frustration slowly grows,
She’ll set me down and scold me
And again her wisdom shows:

“Quit trying to rush perfection.
Just take your time and know
That when your mind has found the spot
Your words will start to flow.”

That’s just a small example
Of her speaking like a sage.
And who’d have thought that she could be
A teacher at her age.

You know, I’ve spent so many years
Seeking out life’s truths,
Without paying much attention
To the words of casual youths.

But the more I listen to her,
The more I understand
When it’s their turn to rule the earth
It’ll be with strong command.

And in looking back at all the pearls
I’ve set to written page.
Who’d have thought that I could be
A student at this age.

WORDS TO THE YOUNG

2008-07-20T18:02:00.000-07:00

If you can turn away from security and say,

"There's a challenge I must conquer on my own!"

Then it's you who'll light the spark that illuminates the dark

For those who were afraid to walk alone.

If you can take a dream, though unlikely it may seem,

And build upon it doggedly each day.

Then you'll be a special breed; the kind of man who'll lead

And show a million other ones the way.

If you refuse to stop when others start to drop

And you leave a hundred pitfalls in your wake.

Then, young man, you have the key that will truly set you free,

And the universe is there for you to take.

PERCEPTION

2008-07-19T11:37:00.001-07:00

Man thinks he knows Truth; he think that he's found
The secret that makes him so wise.
But Truth is a nebulous, mystical thing
That is veiled by the beholder's eyes.

Say I feed the world's millions; say I house the world's poor;
Say I've lived my whole life as a saint.
But if I have wronged you (imagined or real)
Then your vision is blurred by that taint.

Say I steal from my neighbor; say I covet his wife;
Say I've killed and been caught in the act.
But if I have helped you (imagined or real)
Then your vision is blurred by that fact.

So Truth is a phantom; it's Perception that's real
And that's what allows me to see
That I'm not what I am in the grand scheme of things,
I'm what you perceive me to be.

copyright 2001 - phil cerasoli

WASTED YOUTH

2008-07-19T08:27:00.001-07:00

If Wisdom could have counseled them

Before their dreams took form,

They could have made their journey

More prepared to fight the storm.

If they had but the patience

To wait for Wisdom's ring,

They could have ruled the world, I think,

Philosopher and king.

But pills and meth and heroin

Sang their siren's tune

And Wisdom came a day too late;

The drugs a day too soon.

I CAN REMEMBER

2008-07-14T11:54:00.000-07:00

I can remember donning a jersey
And running beneath the hot sun.
Four times round the track
And not looking back,
It was grueling, but God, it was fun.

I can remember all of the sports
Giving all ‘til the game’s final gun.
Exhausted and bent,
All energy spent,
It was grueling, but God, it was fun.

I can remember chasing the girls
And them chasing me on the run.
The shape of their hips,
The taste of their lips,
It was grueling, but God, it was fun.

I can remember the moves that I made
In a career that’s now over and done.
All of the high times.
The kick-me-when-I’m-down times,
It was grueling, but God, it was fun.

And now I’ve arrived at that preconceived time
When I’m supposed to just bask in the sun.
But Life says every day
That there’s karma to pay
And it’s grueling, but God, is it fun!

Copyright 2008 - phil cerasoli

ELEGY

2008-07-10T18:55:00.000-07:00

I worked and toiled and often fought
To earn my place in Camelot
Where I was hailed and treated like a king.
And all around me men would raise
Their cups of wine to me in praise,
And of my exploits, they’d begin to sing.

I was wined and dined in regal halls
With priceless paintings on the walls.
I walked in step with all of the elite.
But there were also other times
When I would have to scrounge up dimes
Until I found I had enough to eat.

So half the time Success would smile
And keep me with her for a while
Until she told me it was time to go.
It was then I had my share
Of a humble peasant’s fare
And struggled hard to overcome the blow.

So that’s the way my life was played,
Built on choices that I made,
A roller-coaster ride of lose or win.
Pain and torture; joy and bliss;
Sad good-byes; a lover’s kiss;
Sometimes holy; sometimes full of sin.

And if I could translate
These highs and lows to music’s slate
I think the song would be a symphony.
‘Cause every tone that played;
Every note that was displayed,
Would represent a road to victory.

So despite the many highs
That descended into sighs,
And despite a world so filled with constant strife.
My final line has been rehearsed;
As I die, my final verse,
Will be to whisper, “Thank You for my life.”

copyright 2008 - phil cerasoli

A BALLAD FOR WILLIE

2008-07-05T15:33:00.000-07:00

Willie O’Ree was a legend, you see,
When he skated his form was a blur.
And his game held up well in the old NHL
Causing bigots to look for a cure.

‘Cause Willie was black, and had quite a knack
For moving the puck on the ice.
The first of his race to find pro hockey’s grace
But that distinction came with high price.

“Cause this was decades ago, when blacks didn’t go
Into hockey’s exclusive white mass.
But Willie was there, ‘midst the bigots despair
And he handled the challenge with class.

I met Willie one night; I was scheduled to write
His story for my magazine.
With the sun setting low, we basked in its glow
With the scent of some flowers unseen.

And he told me his story of all of the glory
That now was beginning to fade;
That his love for the game, outweighed all the fame
And the furor his skin color made.

So I scribbled some notes, and some of his quotes
Until it was too dark to see;
Then said good-bye to a helluva guy
Named Willie-O, Willie O’Ree.

And I’ve lost track of him and the chances are slim
That I’ll ever see him again.
But Willie O’Ree’s still a legend to me
And I’m grateful I knew him back when.

Copyright 2008 - phil cerasoli

THE LAW OF AVERAGES

2008-07-01T18:21:00.000-07:00

Beware of the numbers that claim to purport
The average reflecting what’s par.
‘Cause such a report can quickly distort
The way that things actually are.

For example, if you were to put one of your arms
Into a searing, hot blaze;
While your other arm sat in a freezing cold vat
You’d think that your eyes would soon glaze.

And you’d certainly think that your anguish
Would cause screams or at least a loud whine.
But you’re imagining woes, ‘cause the math clearly shows
That, on average, you’re doing just fine.

copyright 2008 - phil cerasoli

TO ASHLEY ON TURNING 18

2008-06-27T22:30:00.000-07:00

She must have once ruled in Delphi
As an oracle playing her part,
For how else could the soul of a prophet
Reside in this teenager’s heart?

Her words, when spoken or written,
Remind me of Ancients long past.
And I’m sure that she must talk with angels
Who give her these insights to cast.

And I’m grateful that I was a part of
Molding her strong moral code.
And now it is up to her angels
To lead her down destiny’s road.

A TRIBUTE TO JIM

2008-06-21T18:22:00.000-07:00

There’s many a plan
And many a man
That can lead to a road of abuse.
But rarely a man
Connects with a plan
That people can put to good use.

Jim Pinto’s his name
And he’s gathered some fame
By spreading his words to the world.
He travels the globe
With Wisdom his robe
As truth after truth is unfurled.

He’s always upbeat.
Each moment’s a treat
He’s conquered each challenge he’s fought.
With words, acts, and deed
He’ll make you succeed
Whether you want to or not.

We’re friends, Jim and I,
And will be ‘til we die
Or perhaps even longer than that.
It’s been a grand ride
With Jim at my side
Giving hope when I’d often go flat.

So this one’s for him.
This poem is for Jim.
May the gods keep him safe, well, and warm.
And as long as his ship
Continues its trip
May he sail in the eye of the storm.

Copyright 2008 - phil cerasoli

SO LET ME BE AN EAGLE

2008-06-21T09:05:00.000-07:00

Failure is a vulture, circling overhead.
Mediocrity's a sparrow, willing to be led.
The vulture sits and ponders his prophesies of doom
And won't allow the sun to break his self-made veil of gloom.
And the world is filled with sparrows, aimless in their flight
And none can seem to show them the sorrow of their plight.
But the eagle soars above them all, the ruler of the skies.
And he needs no-one to guide him through the regions where he flies.
Now I have no need of sparrows, and vultures rouse my wrath
So let me be an eagle...and fly the eagle's path.

copyright 1968 - phil cerasoli

WISDOM

2008-06-21T07:21:00.000-07:00

Life's simply an adventure ...nothing less and nothing more
And it's Destiny that starts you that first day.
But though your path's been scripted, it's your choices that decide
How well you've played the game along the way.

And when the journey's over and it's time to mark your score
That chronicles the progress that you've gained.
It's not the final tally of the wealth that you've amassed
Nor all the knowledge that you have attained.

It all comes down to wisdom and what you've learned of life
And how you've used that wisdom to unlock
The doors that hold the answers to the universe and more
And let you see the truths that others mock.

And not an ounce of wisdom's gained from all the games you've won,
Nor from those times you've finished far ahead.
It's only gained from lessons learned from all the times you've lost
And all those painful moments when you bled.

Oh, I know self pity's easy when your life has been besieged
And it's easy wishing that there was a way
To rise above the turmoil and live a life of ease
And have your troubles simply melt away.

But should that wish be granted, the danger that exists
Is that your search for wisdom falls apart.
Then when your trip is over you might come to realize
You're no better off than you were at the start.

So it's not that I'm a guru or a sage of brilliant mind,
But of this life I've taken quite a slice.
I've lost enough and bled enough to make me kind of feel
I'm qualified to offer this advice:

Play the hand that's dealt you; play the cards as best you can
And rejoice in all the time Life lets you win.
And then, for all the other times when Life has cut you deep
Sit back and feel the wisdom soaking in.

Copyright 2001 - Phil Cerasoli

THE TRAVELER

2008-06-21T07:17:00.001-07:00

Born amidst the chaos that was known as World War II;
Growing up bewildered and not knowing what to do;
Groping through a childhood, his days were often spent
Seeking out the havens where no others ever went.

Wandered far from home one day when leaves were touched by frost.
When night fell with its icy cloak, he found that he was lost.
He told them when they found him laying on the frozen loam,
"I'm just a little kid who's tryin' to find his way back home".

The years went by, the young boy grew and, tired of life alone,
Made his way from town to town and set off on his own..
Following the center line of rural blacktop roads,
Seeking aim and purpose; seeking proper moral codes.

The road was long and dusty and never seemed to end.
And weariness embraced him like an old and faithful friend.
He said to all the folks he met from Wichita to Nome,
"I'm just a wayward traveler tryin' to find his way back home".

Decades passed and sundown brought the twilight of his ride.
And on an August evening, he breathed his last and died.
The one's he'd touched throughout his years all cried or lodged complaint.
Some said he was the devil; some said he was a saint.

But then the Voice of God was heard; said, "None of this is true.
The man was but a man, you see, and this I say to you:
I put him here to pass a test; I put him here to learn;
I put him here to light a fire where none had ever burned.

Knowledge, love, humility were goals sought every day.
And with all these some wisdom to be found along the way.
I put him here to seek out love and give it back in kind.
I put him here to plant a seed in someone else's mind.

I put him here to help you out and get some help from you.
I put him here to reach for dreams as dreamer's often do.
He went upon his journey; now no longer has to roam.
He was just another traveler who has found his way back home.

A worn and weary traveler who has finally come back home".

Copyright 2001 - Phil Cerasoli

SENSES

2008-06-21T07:14:00.000-07:00

Are you in touch with each of your five senses?
Do you really try to keep them all alive?
Or do you keep them caged with mental fences
And mute the very things for which they strive?

Can you stretch your senses well beyond your arm's reach;
Be receptive to the gifts that each one brings?
And appreciate the things that they can all teach
That allows a humble man to walk with kings?

Can you hear the planet waken each new morning;
Can you hear the sounds of Nature's joyous tune?
Can you hear a storm approach with little warning
Or hear a spaceman's footsteps on the moon?

Can you tastethe honeyed sweetness of a victory
Although it's someone else's battle won?
Can you taste the sad defeats throughout our history
And empathize with losers when they're done?

Can you touch the tops of rainbows during a shower?
Can your touch console a child who's thoughts are blue?
Can you touch the wilting petal of a flower
And imagine how it looked when it was new?

Can you smell the musty dampness of the forest
Even though you're tens of miles away?
And what of the aromas that you like best?
Do they stay inside your mind throughout the day?

Can you see the world that waits beyond tomorrow?
Can you see the joy that each new sunrise brings?
Can you see the lessons to be gained while sorrow
Envelops you with thoughts of mournful things?

The words I've stated here are simply meant to
Thaw your senses if they're turning cold.
So touch and taste and feel your life around you
And listen while you watch it all unfold.

Copyright 2001 - Phil Cerasoli

PRISONERS

2008-06-21T07:11:00.000-07:00

My old Italian nonna was a prisoner of her mind
As she dreamed of her Italia and the world she left behind
To come here to America and finish out her life
By rocking in her rocking chair and be a silent wife.

She'd rock and read her Bible and sometimes feed a treat
To her tired and aging half-blind dog, laying at her feet.
In feeble-voiced Italian, she'd tell me now and then,
How she longed to see Italia but never would again.

And I'd see the corners of her eyes fill with silent tears
As her mind relived the memories of all her bygone years.
Some fifty years have come and gone since nonna passed away
But if I close my eyes and try, I see her still today

Sitting in her kitchen; her Bible in her lap;
She seals her eyes in sadness and drops off in a nap
To dream of her Italia and the world she left behind,
Forever doomed to memories; a prisoner of her mind.

And I see a lot of nonna in folks I know today
Who think about the way things were and waste another day.
'Cause an hour spent deep in reverie is an hour that could be spent
Reaching for tomorrow and the goals which God had meant

For all of us to strive for and work hard to attain.
And it hurts me when I see a man whose face is etched with pain
Of unforgotten yesterdays that have made his dreams turn blind
And I know that he's a prisoner; a prisoner of his mind.

Copyright 2001 - Phil Cerasoli

IF (KIPLING UPDATED)

2008-06-21T07:09:00.000-07:00

If you can go off in your own direction
While other men get reined in by a leash;
If you can lunch on pepperoni pizza
While men around you dine on wine and quiche;

If you can spend the evening reading Kipling
While others thumb through Penthouse magazine;
If you'd rather strum guitar or play piano
Instead of staring at a TV screen;

If you can stand up when you've made an error
And tell the world that you're the one to blame;
If a cause asks one to stand up and be counted
And you can rise and proudly speak your name;

If, when a questions asked that you can't answer,
You can simply state the fact that you don't know,
Instead of striking stance and silly posture
In an effort to impress with blust'ry show;

If there's a job to do, you simply do it
Instead of finding reasons for defeat;
Then you're the friend I want to share my life with
And show the world that we're not obsolete.

Copyright 2001 - Phil Cerasoli

THE GRASSHOPPER AND THE ANT (AESOP REVISITED)

2008-06-21T07:01:00.000-07:00

Once there was this grasshopper
Who loved to play all day,
Or lay beneath the warming sun
And dream the hours away.

While his friend...a little ant,
Would work the whole day through
To round up all the food he could;
His stockpile grew and grew.

And he would chide the grasshopper
With words of sound advice:
"The summer's almost over
And soon the snow and ice...

Will cover all the land around
And there will be no food.
You'll spend each and every day
In a cold and hungry mood".

The grasshopper just smiled at him
And kept on with his play;
Then he lay back and dreamed some more
And this went on each day.

But soon the summer faded
And snow began to fall.
Then hunger hit the grasshopper
But there was no food at all.

But he refused to panic
He didn't rave or rant.
He just hopped down the icy road
And ate his friend, the ant.

MORAL:It's nice to be methodical
'Til all the work is gone.
But, in the end, the pragmatist
Is just the dreamer's pawn.

Copyright 2001 - Phil Cerasoli

ONE MORE CHANCE AGAIN

2008-06-21T06:51:00.000-07:00

In any given gathering where two or more debate
You can hear the cynics voices in the crowd.
With variations on a theme they tell us, more or less,
Behind each silver lining there's a cloud.

And these cynics try to tell me that tomorrow never comes;
That "tomorrow's" just a word...an easy way
To define that phantom point in time that's always out of reach
And that all there is to think about's today

.But it's hard for me to swallow that hardline point of view.
'Cause to think from day-to-day's a pointless sin
And although each day's important, there's more to Life than that
Which is where Tomorrow's promise fits right in.

If the cynics minds were open, I would lead them to a place
Where they could watch a miracle unfold
As the inky blackness of the night begins to melt away
And the crest of eastern mountains turns to gold.

And there before their very eyes, the sun begins to rise,
It's rays carressing objects in their way.
And they would view the miracle I'd brought them here to see:
The promise of Tomorrow...here today.

'Cause Tomorrow's not a phantom, she's a promise sent from God
And she holds our future firmly in her hand.
And I pity the poor cynics who can't see her when she comes
Because they've got their heads stuck deep in sand.

But I can see Tomorrow for she comes for me each dawn;
She takes my hand and leads me in a dance.
Then before we leave the room, she whispers in my ear,
"Today's the day I give you one more chance...

One more chance to listen to the music that is You;
One more chance to take in Nature's sights.
One more chance to make up for the sins of yesterday;
One more chance to turn wrongs into rights.

One more chance to reaffirm the love you have inside
For friends and lovers...even strangers too.
One more chance to step a little closer to your dreams;
One more chance to make them all come true.

One more chance to stare into the universe at night
At stars that sail the skies in heaven's wake.
One more chance to ponder what it is that Life's about
And how you're so damned lucky to partake.

One more chance to reach out for the goals outside your grasp
One more chance to prove just what you're worth.
One more chance to celebrate the beauty that's been sent
By God to all of you on Mother Earth".

The day goes by too quickly and when the sun has slipped
Below the blue Pacific to the west;
It's then Tomorrow kisses me upon my cheek and says,
"The day's been long. I'll leave you to your rest...

But when the inky blackness of the night begins to melt
And the crest of eastern mountains turns to gold,
I'll come again and wake you up and sing you Morning's song
And we can watch the sunrise while I hold...

You tightly in my warm embrace until it's time to rise;
I'll whisper soft and low to you, and then,
I'll send you out to face the world to see what you can do
With my precious gift of One More Chance again".

Copyright 2001 - Phil Cerasoli