From Jimmy LaFave...one of MyFave...

Don't you cry, baby
Don't you weep
You know still waters
Can run so deep
You can be a lighthouse, baby
Or a stormy sea
I'll say a prayer for you
Could you say a prayer for me

With good intentions
And well worn lines
Baby, I've sang my freedom
Time after time
You can't put rhyme or a reason
To our destiny
I'll say a prayer for you
Could you say a prayer for me

Then we could fly
We could fly above the pain
And we could make every morning
New again,
Me and you again

Girl you walk so softly
With a heavy, heavy heart
Your dreams aren't over
Don't let them fall apart
You will find perfection
And harmony
I'll say a prayer for you
Could you say a prayer for me

For I have been forsaken
By the highway's call
And you've been truly blessed
By the one and all
But casting of stones
Will never set you free
I'll say a prayer for you
Could you say a prayer for me

Then we could fly
We could fly above the pain
We could wake in the morning
Make it new again
Me and you again

Don't you cry
No, don't you weep
You know still waters
Can run so deep
I can be your lighthouse, baby
Or your stormy sea
I'll say a prayer for you
Could you say a prayer for me
I'll say a prayer for you
Could you say a prayer for me

By Floyd Skloot

For depth of breath young Sinatra
like a boxer ran five morning miles.
Solo on the high school track, thin
as the stripe on a lane, he was all
ears, all bone. He was all business.

The first laps were always for love
songs, nice and easy till he found
his rhythm, drawing the urban air
in deep. The moment he became
one with wind, he knew the way
a body held in check could move
exactly like a melody. It was simple
as swimming underwater. His stride
grew smooth, fingers to shoulders
to hips to toes, graceful as a smile
across low notes as the key shifted.

That was for the long lines of lyric
no one else could hold. In time he ran
for the uptempo tunes, let go a little
to get the torso involved and bring
his thin arms into play, his gait all glissando.
Step by step he swelled from the inside
out, making himself strong enough
for song. He ran past pain, timed by
the beat of his heart because song
was not about how fast but how long.
This was his Golden Age, Jersey City
in the early Thirties, his moment to make
dreams come true. Music was in the air.
He knew he could go on like that forever
because his dream began with breath.

By Floyd Skloot

Seven pairs of swans preen
this morning near the docks.
We walk down together
searching among the rocks
for a perfect feather
to commemorate the scene.

The swans float, one foot still
tucked underneath a wing,
the other held steady
as a rudder. They seem
both unconcerned and ready
for whatever the day will
bring them as they drift past.

Soon they are swept away
in pairs where the River
Corrib surges into Galway Bay--
from here just a sliver
of jagged slate-blue glass
but fierce enough to spin
them sideways toward the sea.

Paired still, they carry on
their slow ceremonies,
adjusting with utter calm
to the currents they move in,
content, it would appear,
to end up wherever
they find themselves as long
as they are together,
each feather where it belongs,
each mate with a clear
line of sight to the other.

We have come to the docks'
end emptyhanded. I turn
back, but she stops to watch,
holding me there as one
small feather drifts to shore.