“Storytellers and Dreamers” was written for a friend’s seventieth birthday but it seemed an appropriate ‘reshare’ today as I approach my seventy-fourth birthday.  I hope others find a bit of themselves in these lines.


I thought when I was still a child
Someday when I was old I would sit a while,
gather my grandchildren at my side
and take them back for an awesome ride,


Whatever happened, bound to fight and win
Riding my Harley into the wind
going until the road ends


No one told me Vietnam would claim friends

Some returning in boxes draped in flags

or ravaged with terrors and unwanted tags


Or predict the bends in the roads of life
Like so many becoming husband and wife
All of us struggling, some emerging alive
While others split not surviving the strife
We faced in the seventies, longing to flee
Discovering that lonely’s not quite being free


Living the stories we someday could reveal
Spinning them round to max the appeal.
Because down deep there lives the child
Who dreamed of telling stories about when he was wild
To multiple children who would sit at his knee


I imagined their clamor, their joy, their glee
Attentive to Grandpa spinning a yarn
didn’t count on Netflix, iPhones, Tweeting? well, darn!


Inside of this man lives a boy determined to win
Riding a Harley into the wind
Going, going till the road ends
Carving a life, with dreams set to song
Combatting the odds to not get it wrong


The stories we live waking or sleeping
Shape memories, vision, a life worth keeping
Our minds alive with stories some best unshared
With our wild days behind us, why do we care?
Isn’t it past time to dare?


Once we were young, thought life had no end
Stunned even now with each fallen friend
Still unable to see around the next bend. . .
But face it, we know, we comprehend.


So go buy the Harley or sail the seas, fight the waves,
Live the stories we’ve woven, go out really brave
So what if no one listens to the stories we’ve saved
Live life full of spit fire, and whistle past graves.


One thing I know as birthdays come about
Someday at our funerals without a doubt
There will be stories flying about
Granddad, or Grand mom, the secrets all out

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