Hi Again, The challenge a few weeks back to write a poem to win some support for the charity really got me thinking. I wrote the maximum eight lines for them in hopes it would both tell something about our mission as well as impress the onlookers enough so that The Los Lonely Boys will help co-write a song to really get our word out. I tend to fantasize about the big prize and I spent several idle moments daydreaming about what that would be like. I started to create some poems that I thought could be the song, and I realized I wasn’t really getting very deep with my thoughts. I spent more time putting this one together. The song is called The Smell of Streets in Spring, and let me tell you why. When my mom had developed cancer, my five siblings and I went to live with my Aunt and Uncle and their family in Tonawanda, NY. They lived on a fairly busy street, but there was an empty lot next to their home, and I would go out there alone and punt the football. I’d walk, get it, turn around and punt it again. I think I did this for hours. My mom died in April during which time there is a very distinct smell to the streets in the north when the frost and the oils from the road start to resurface. That smell is a distinct reminder of some pretty rough days of feeling empty, and it really does still make me cry to this day. So here’s my song…
When I was ten I kicked the football high,
While the trucks of Tonawanda all drove by.
There were people all surrounding me,
But the ball was all that I could see.
The smell of streets in spring still makes me cry.
When I was forty my best friend Michael died.
Another casket with children by it’s side.
I wondered if they’d have a scent,
Reminding how those next days were spent.
The smell of streets in spring still makes me cry.
When I was forty five I thought I’d try,
To help kids like me and Michael’s clarify,
Who those parents were that left so fast,
From the folks that knew about their past,
So listen up, and give this plan a try.
Write letters for the kids that cry,
Don’t let your memories pass them by,
Their curiosity is often shy.
Write stories about the time you spent,
The what you loved, the where you went.
They’ll be reasons to smile and look up high.
A man that knew my mom gave it a try.
Five pages of his memories had arrived.
I’m forty nine and I’m full grown,
But the boy with the ball was no longer alone.
Suddenly, it felt good when I cried.
Write letters for the kids that cry,
Don’t let your memories pass them by,
Their curiosity is often shy.
Write stories about the time you spent,
The what you loved, the where you went.
They’ll be reasons to smile and look up high.
So anyway, there it is. My guess is Los Lonely Boys could make it even better. Regardless, wouldn’t it be great if it did become a song someday.