Of Life and Storms and Cloaked Men

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Eagle’s Wings is a song about being bigger than your troubles. It is often said that life is hard. I used to get a little annoyed at that statement because often when people say it, they do so from a high horse, admonishing someone for having the indecency to share their troubles.

Nevertheless it’s true. Somehow I figured that much out when I wrote this song. I also figured out that you can’t let that get you down. You have to be better than your circumstances.

Looking back though I think I stopped short of another fact. A lot of times, the things that seem so hard and painful are really the things that make us who we are, get us where we want to be, give us character and generally make life less boring. So I wrote this poem-thing and posted it here for you to read while you listen to my song.

Of Life and Storms and Cloaked Men

I met you on a dance floor on a Monday night.
Early Tuesday morning, I guess, is when we gave her life.

She must be impatient; A little bit like dad.
Thirty five weeks later, she came early, just a tad.

It’s true we made a people. That still surprises me.
After all it was the first of firsts and I’m the son of a missionary.

I know there’s folks a sayin’, “Pshaw!” with mouths agape.
The news was too unbelievable. The irony had no escape.

I traded in my silver ring for a night of lust.
Now I’ve got a daughter. It’s true. Her name is “Gus”.

I said I wasn’t ready and I may have complained.
But she locked eyes with me and I knew it was a good thing.

You see life is all a mystery; A stranger in a hooded cloak.
He’s waiting in the alley. By all accounts; he’s a charming bloke.

He waits ‘til we’re not looking. He sits and smokes and bides his time.
Then he does some silly party trick and we give him each a dime.

Then later, buying cigarettes at the local grocery store,
We all get mad and cuss a bit because we came up ten cents short.

Later as we think it through amidst thoughts of regret,
We realize the treasure of smoking one less cigarette.

Now if you think I’m saying that I’ve got it all worked out,
Then you’d be wrong. That’s for dog gone. ‘Cause I still have some doubt.

But I liken myself to a skipper at the helm in a stormy sea:
The wind in gale and waters crash and on his breath, fresh Hennessy.

And he knows the storm is a lady who needs a steady hand.
But she’s mad and bad and raging and he is but a man.

He’ll use his skill and wisdom gathered up through stormy years.
He’s seen ones like her before. She laughs at tears and fears.

He knows that she will storm and crash and boom and wail.
But soon she will grow weary and calm seas will prevail.

There will be days of sunshine and easy sailing more.
But firm resolve is needed to get his ship to shore.

With the storm subsiding he breathes a sailor’s sigh.
“One more for the books.” He says, sparkle in his eye.

For he is yet alive, and more fully quick, at that,
For having sailed one more angry sea and placed one more mark inside his cap.

The storm, she is a lady. Make no mistake, she’ll make you quake.
The stranger in the hooded cloak; He’ll make your fists to shake.

But as you sit and drink a drink upon your old age porch,
You’ll know that storms and cloaked men were no more than a torch.

They lit a fire inside you and sparked with flame to make things bright.
They stirred up dregs of dullness and made you curse and fight.

In fact they put some beauty in your ordinary life.
They were the balm of vigor and not the bonds of strife.

They gave you life and memories and people to love and trust.
They gave you battle-scars of beauty…
And a daughter, named “Gus”.