Memorial Day, East Greenwich, 1974
Remember how we used to fly down Main Street of Our Town?
Our bikes bedecked in colored crepe paper of red, white and blue, entwined in the spokes.
We waved and hollered to a sea of faces, all familiar to us (they even waved back).
We used to weave in and out, back and forth; knights on wheeled chargers.
Remember how we used to scramble to get the cartridge shells after they fired the first salute?
We always tried to find the Ghost Bugler.
I returned yesterday. It was different.
The faces are still there, but gray and wrinkled and not so familiar.
Now I am they and my son is me (with the chance to love the fragile magic of a small town).
And the cycle repeats itself,
But never is really the same again……. EVER .
My friend wept
And I wept for him.
My friend cried and I cried also.
My friend felt pain that I could plainly see.
My friend died.
So died a part of me.
A Few Worthwhile Thoughts … Maybe?
All I need is Nothing
And all I have is Now
Ask for me Tomorrow
And I’ll give you Today
Sunlight for the Future
Springs from shadows of the Past
While Truth sits on a wall-to-wall carpet
And stares at me with one eye
Across a darkened room.
– Bruce R. Mastracchio
I love throwing red
Blues to make ocean drama
Won’t you dream for me
– Marklyn Champagne