The Bee Gees at their most lyrical and mysterious. It’s not the sort of song you think it will be from its title. It’s not that sort of song at all.
The Bee Gees at their most lyrical and mysterious. It’s not the sort of song you think it will be from its title. It’s not that sort of song at all.
Address for Donations, Complaints, Brickbats, and — oh yes — Donations
Your Say
Where the Sidewalk Ends
There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.
Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.
Yes we’ll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we’ll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.
by Shel Silverstein
My Back Pages
Search American Digest’s Back Pages
The People Yes
The steel mill sky is alive.
The fire breaks white and zigzag
shot on a gun-metal gloaming.
Man is a long time coming.
Man will yet win.
Brother may yet line up with brother:
This old anvil laughs at many broken hammers.
There are men who can’t be bought.
The fireborn are at home in fire.
The stars make no noise,
You can’t hinder the wind from blowing.
Time is a great teacher.
Who can live without hope?
In the darkness with a great bundle of grief
the people march.
In the night, and overhead a shovel of stars for keeps, the people
march:
“Where to? what next?”
— Carl Sandberg
The Vault
Real World Address for Donations, Mash Notes and Hate Mail
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Though I’m not a Bee Gees fan, I must admit they could harmonize in a most pleasing way. And you’re right, Gerard, the lyrics do have a mysterious bent to them.
“We’re all breaking promises…” I’ve broken a few; no, that’s not quite right: I’ve broken many; still not good enough: Ok then, I’ve broken them all. Every single one. I have no excuses why, other than…I broke my promises. I wish I could come up with a good reason—something, anything—to explain why my words always came with an expiration date. But there is no reason good or otherwise. I broke my promises. That is all.
And I have found it a waste of time to blame this on someone else: “But you lied to me first!” No, that does not work. A broken promise lives by itself, and belongs only to its creator—me.
I want to believe that such things are all in the past. And perhaps they are. Looking at my track record, that is a good thing. And I promise to do better—no, I’ll try to do better.
Your students were fortunate to have sat in your classes, Mike Austin. Maybe they even know it by now.
And I was fortunate to have them, the best kids on earth. They made me laugh; they made me cry; they reminded me why I was the classroom in the first place. It was the best of times.
But I neither miss them nor do I miss the profession. Everyone must move on, must let go. I have moved on; I have let go.
You were right, very different, but the same unearthly, effortless and perfect harmony.
Loved this, Gerard. Thank you for always posting
the lyrics too.