History without any dates
 
 The clouds are not the story I am
of the rocks I am
with the tide I am
in my Greek village I am
history without any dates
 
My friend is bedridden and
we speak unseen to each other
through his open window he asks
of the world beyond he wants
to give me his spear gun
the Hellenic sun falling into
the fine dark sea
 
I devour the fish but merely
sip the amber retsina
my tear-stained eyes beguile
the nightfall of amethyst and
smoky quartz
 
Don’t open that trunk of music!
My whole life is in there.
 
Bees guzzle the death of cyclamens
at odds with the olive wind
dark stars eat each other like chapels
eat the rock the candles the frescoes
the dusk

I smell ouzo in these pages.
 
The rocks have beautiful faces.

So Many Faces and None
 
 
I am fado I am the loneliness of all souls the rainy souls of loneliness I am the longing in the thorns the scars the string that bends snaps slices bleeds and cries I am tears falling in ancient black wells and farewells never ending
I am fado I am
the longing
 
sweetly vengeful relics nip at my heels, but I am faster
 
like Pessoa I write listening without feeling the sounds of the street disquieted by my gasping snoring living my dying my dreaming
 
an angel is an angel anywhere, but more so on earth
 
singing on the dank street corner singing at the bright river’s edge singing in the blue chapel singing as the planet dies
 
sails and sun feathers unfurled the birds are not angry they are energy they are
 
I imbibe copious clouds but I’m still so damn thirsty
 
being a non-being in a non-world like non-clouds I am so many faces and none
 
calcadas light my dark walks bright gravity to my foolish fancies where I dance like I haven’t a cure in the world
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

This song is unique in that it is the only track on which I play the mountain dulcimer. The instrument belonged to a friend who lent it to me for the sessions. (Soon afterward, he sold the dulcimer in order to buy a deer rifle.) I had owned a dulcimer many years before and had a basic knowledge of how to play. The flute on this track is one that I purchased from a Choctaw maker from Oklahoma. It has a beautiful, clean tone which, in this song, brought to mind the lovely cascading notes of the call of the canyon wren, which Nikki and I always delighted in during our canyon adventures. The title is a play on "Renaissance."

"Escalante"

This is probably my favorite song from "Ruin Sky." At the time I was recording this album, I had become enchanted with the canyons of the Escalante River in Utah, and this song was my musical homage to that place. I recorded the rhythm guitar track first and then added a second guitar line as a bass substitute. Next came the flute part which consisted of both backing and lead sections. I found a keyboard sound I liked to add texture and depth, and then decided to try a solo on acoustic guitar. Engineer, Blair Ashby, did an great job of recording my old Yamaha steel-string and we were really pleased with the result. My producer, Doug Goodwin, said it reminded him of the acoustic solos played by Peter White on Al Stewart songs. The water sound was carefully chosen from a public-domain sound effects library. The song brings back strong memories of many glorious canyon days.

Fado
(a found poem)
 
 A cry for hope.
 
Tenderness?
Sure, but so little.
 
Just because a swallow dies, spring does not end.
 
The soul gets tired.
 
The fingers take orders from the heart.
 
We leave our bodies when we sing.
 
The alchemy of sound and poem,
it’s inside us from birth.
 
**

Memory?
 
I cannot remember if
there was a candle
on the clothed table
set for one.
 
I do recall the vinho verde
chilling in a teakwood bucket,
poured quietly between 
sets of fado, smoldering,
mournful--
 
tearful singer, wet cheeks lit
by dying candlelight.
 
I remember.

 
**
 
Into the Vapor and Din
 
Listening to Amalia with windows
wide open,
saudade in winter
evening gloom.
 
My new guitarra portuguesa
yearns for me to learn, to teach
old fingers new licks, and I dream
 
I am wandering calcadas in Lisboa
inventing my own heteronyms, concocting
poems with vastly different pens.
 
I greet Fernando Pessoa,
“Bom dia, Senhor. I saw you sitting
outside A Brasileira today but
you were not actually there
nor anywhere else.”
 
“That is how I prefer it,”
he replied without inflection
then vanished precisely
into the vapor and din.
 
I awaken to Amalia singing
life’s last song,
to gray-soaked murk and
swirling fog.
 
The music pours through
my confused heart.
 
My weeping eyes listen
to the distant wild
ocean wind.


(c) Eric Walter 2022

Days
 
I wake up
Disappointed that I’m still alive
But I get up and brush my teeth
Shower sometimes
Light a candle and weep
For a while at her altar,
 
Make tea and meditate
Go about my solemn day
Trying to fathom the pain
Loneliness and fear
Trying to see a future beyond
The gloomy uncertainty
That makes me wish again for sleep
From which I’ll awaken
Disappointed that I’m still alive.

 
I am scared to go to sleep. Not because of the nightmares and claustrophobic dreams, but because it is even scarier to wake up and remember it all anew.


I walked up to Council Crest today. It was good to get out. It was so hard coming home. I am not sure what home is anymore.


I feel like I can’t do this anymore. I’m so tired. I’m so angry. I am so overwhelmed. I don't know what to do or where to go. I want only to forget.


On rare days, I trick myself into believing that I will survive this. Today was not one of those days.


It has been eight months. There are times when it feels like eight seconds, times when it feels like eight years.


The Chagall windows at the Art Institute of Chicago are stunningly beautiful. We fell in love with them when we first saw them three years ago. Today I broke down and wept openly and audibly in front of them. The kind museum guard asked me if I was okay. I nodded. That was a lie.


It should have been me
You were stronger than me
You were braver than me
You were smarter than me
You were better than me
It should have been me
One day it will be me and
You will welcome me with open arms
I look forward to that


I’m lost
I’m broken
I’m failing
I’m falling
Apart


Pretty sky this evening
Four hummingbirds at one feeder
At the same time,
And a mosquito

Equinox
 
mackerel sky and
another dose of morphine
nights getting longer
 
 
Angel
 
Blue evening weeps outside
Tearful melancholy
Gone angel on my mind
 
 
Blue Moon
 
One more empty night
Lone candle at her altar
A cold silent moon
 
 
Wind
 
River music and raven song
Sagebrush daydreams
The wind doesn’t care if I wail


Flower
 
Deep well of sorrow
Tries to pull me down then
I remember a flower

Calm
 
I feel a strange calm picturing
My own bleaching bones
Glistening
Undisturbed
Beneath the immensity,
The indifferent desert sky.
I will be with her again.

Exiled
 
I can be happy for others, but not for myself. I should be exiled to the desert. A shack in the canyonlands, a horse, a place for a garden. Days of ancient ruins and solitude. Nights of weeping, blue stars and icy planets. A cold spring not too far away, not too close. Effort is necessary but being tired is so exhausting. I want to leave off where I began, at the end.