The Wind Screams Mary and the Doves Cry at Themselves

50 odd years ago, a nice gentleman from Seattle, King County, Washington wrote a nice song for me. Had to think of it and him yesterday while sobering up from yesteryear's 2^nd most funny day and this year's holiday thereafter. Even had to cry a little bit remembering him. He's been dead for 47 years now.

A broom is drearily sweeping up the broken pieces of yesterday's life. Somewhere a queen is weeping, somewhere a king has no wife. And the wind, it cries Mary.

Will the wind ever remember the names it has blown in the past? And with its crutch, its old age and its wisdom it whispers "no, this will be the last". And the wind cries Mary.

Come thinking of lazy brooms another poem and song comes to mind written by the late great Itzik Manger, Chava Alberstein and the Klezmatics at very different points in time:

Shtiler ovnt, tunkl-gold, an alter groer yid davnt frum avek dem shtoyb fun dem yor-yarid. Zol khotsh a murml fun dem yid arayn tsu mir in lid...

Another guy lived a bit longer than Jimi did and had reached the ripe age of 56 when he was taken away. Did not write songs for me but only for himself and maybe 5 or 6 people around him. Many of them were real marvels though and got worldwide publication and airplay. Rightfully so. Videocraft had advanced quite a bit in the 20 years from the mid 60ties to the mid 80ies (though now in the mean time the fx look quite ridiculous), but when the guitar takes over from keyboard controlled electrosounds the guys'n'gals were still using the same old technology from the fifties.

Had a band called The Revolution that I digged especially because Wendy Melvoin played a mean rythm stick that f.e. inspired Macy Gray to become a guitarist. It also featured an always sunglass bespectacled doctor named Fink in it. That guy was cool. Altogether, in the early eighties a band with 2 niggers, 2 bitches and 2 jews in it was quite a feat.

How can you just leave me standing alone in a world that's so cold, so cold? Maybe I'm just too demanding, maybe I'm just like my father too bold. Maybe you're just like my mother, she's never satisfied, she's never satisfied. Why do we scream at each other? This is what it sounds like when the doves cry.