Sunday, April 5, 2015

Easter hymns

Without criticism, I do wonder how often Jesus has to be resurrected before Christians get used to it.

Whatever the case, it's a brilliant Easter morning and, rather than sing my own songs, I will borrow again the songs of others. Nothing like a nice song, a little hallelujah, to brighten the day.

The first was written by my younger son when he was nine:


The very big trees
Are in my backyard.
I visit them every day
So they won't get lonely.
They give me shade
And keep me dry from rain.
I can climb them
And get delicious fruit --
The most delicious fruit.                 -- Ives Fisher

The other, entitled "Homage to my Father," was written by Seido Ray Ronci, and, like my son's words, soars in my mind:


My father said:
Fuck Father Farrell,
what does he know, that old bastard!

Study all the religions. Learn Italian.
See Venizia, Firenze, talk
to all kinds of people
and never, never think you know more
than someone else! Unless,
unless they're full of shit.

And if they are, tell them;
and if they still don't get it, fuck it,
there's nothing you can do about it.

Learn how to bake bread.
If you can make pasta and bake bread
you can always feed your family,
you can always get a job.

Keep your house clean
and don't worry what anyone else does.
Cut your grass,
prune your fruit trees
or they'll die on you.

Don't drink too much
but don't always be sober --
it makes you nervous.

A couple glasses of wine,
some anisette now and then,
a cigar never hurt nobody.

Nervous people always got an ache here,
an ache there, they get sick,
they die --

Look at Father Farrell:
he'll be dead in a year.

Fuck him!

OK, that's my resurrection schtick for the moment ... resurrecting on someone else's dime.


  1. I'll weigh in with the first few lines of I Am Waiting Poem by Lawrence Ferlinghetti.

    I am waiting for my case to come up
    and I am waiting
    for a rebirth of wonder

    If you want the whole thing you can read it here:

  2. It was Ferlinghetti, I believe, who penned the phrase, "the Coney Island of the groin." Or maybe it was just someone using the poet's "Coney Island of the Mind" as a springboard. Anyway, I always liked it.