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Flight Plan

       SUNDAY

Photo by Bob Gentry ©2001 Stanyan Entertainment

A Thought for Today

Genius in the use of energy wins the race.

 

Rod's hard at work in the studio today and will be back with you tomorrow. 

Details of Rod's upcoming concerts and appearances can be obtained via the link below:

Rod McKuen Concerts & Appearances

notable birthdays Conrad Bain o Michael Beck o Clint Black o David Brenner o Nigel Bruce o Gary Conway o Alice Cooper o Robert Coote o Oscar De La Hoya o Lisa Eichhorn o Ludwig Erhard o Eddie Foy, Jr. o Pamela Franklin o Betty Friedan o Natalie Imbruglia o Erich Leinsdorf o Charles A. Lindbergh o Ida Lupino o Rosa Parks o Isabel Peron o Jacques Prevert o Dan Quayle o Gary Smith o Lawrence Taylor o Clyde W. Tombaugh o Norman Wisdom
Rod's random thoughts Eat your heart out - and you’ve nothing to give the next lover.

Help is always on the way, but most of us keep our eyes closed.

Fear gets lost in understanding.

CLOUD VALLEY
for John & Caroline Laws

Clouds like crumpled handkerchiefs
Expand, retract, and then again expand
                              within a crowded sky.
Trees are younger here, roads longer.
Even telephone lines seem more finely tuned.
Their hum is not unlike
bellbirds at the downfield gate.

The deer run free.
They trot in herds,
         all shapes and sizes
lingering and malingering
at the edge of rain forests,
where Spanish moss rides up
                              the tree trunks
and leaps from limb to limb.
At night and every morning
there are rainbows
that erase themselves
even as I run to fetch a camera.

Birds of every colour
hang in the air at breakfast feeders,
later slipping through the trees
to fill their feathered bellies
with a dozen unsuspecting dessert bugs.

I sleep well here
and Gabriel has come down
                    for the weekend.
Caroline and John seem happy -
she of the slow melodious voice
and languid afternoon naps,
he astride his tractor turning earth,
fixing fences with the aid of Link
or feeding endless sugar cubes to Casanova.
We meet at mealtime
to laugh at nothing
or offer never-ending toasts
                  to one another
with South Australian wine.

This turquoise world
feels more like South America
                  than New South Wales.
It is altogether too civilized
                                to be civilized.

Gabriel is always smiling
a sly half-European smile.
I think she longs to go back home
                                 to Florence
and some only hinted at
tanned and sleek Italian lover.
I long for her to stay.
Link, Cloud Valley’s clever clown,
addresses all his jokes to her.

This is like some idyll, being idle,
trying hard to pressure John
to do more writing,
Utopia crumbles at the edges
whenever I forget to remember
                          to forget.
At night, we all play Willie Nelson records,
and make the overseas operators crazy
trying to track down Roger Miller.
( When all of us are famous
who’ll be left to clap ? )


Last night and far into the morning
I played for them
the newest version of Black Eagle,
filling in the story between the tracks.
All day today,
with Casanova neighing
softing in the pasture,
John whistled Flying Free.
I have never felt more bound,
          not by circumstance
but by another summer coming in;
I will not let it carbon one just past.

If time were not a trumpet
always sounding out assembly
                           and formation
I would let the work go whistling
and send out obligations with the garbage,
then sink down into pillows
and find that dozen years of sleep
I’ve somehow lost,
or go to work for John,
building, tearing down,
then putting fences up again -
marooned in sweet monotony
of motion physical without emotion.
I am marking time or wasting time
or trapped by time or something.

Just now, the only sound I hear
is the pealing of Australian bellbirds.
Someone’s at the downfield gate.

                                - from "The Sound of Solitude", 1983

© 1977, 1983, 1984, 1999, 2001 by Stanyan Music Group & Rod McKuen. All Rights Reserved
Birthday research by Wade Alexander o Poetry from the collection of Jay Hagan o Coordinated by Melinda Smith
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