Singing to Myself
Songs and Poems
by
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Upon Waking (Pg.XX) Thin dawn, And the sighing of the world without. I roll from my pallet, worn from rest, Beset by a murmur of incoherent dreams, And in my breast a dull unease. Outside the day, and on the hills The first soft blush of spring; Within, a single changeless season, Endless measured hours, And monotonous count of days. Here abides the ungrasped hope, The high suspense of verging— Of drawing ever near but never to— Of being, at this waking, dreamed, And far, so far, from you.
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About the Book
This book is a slim volume of songs and poems that I composed between 1978 and 2013, give or take. I am not sure when I began it or when I put the final touches to it, but the songs and the poems contained herein have been my most constant companions in many a dark and lonely hour.
About the Author
To begin, I have no credentials. I am not famous, nor have I ever known anyone who was more than notorious. Neither am I educated; it took me five years to achieve a two-year degree. I still believe that had I shown a bit more hustle, I should have done it in three. I came to secondary education after a four-year hitch in the Marine Corps and years of manual labor. In other words, I was at a point in my life when the thought of more school had a certain charm. It was the first and only time, by the way, that I felt that way. So I write, therefore, without credential or qualification. But I have experience; and that counts for something.