A Poem and a Painting for my Grandson Simon Devol

Advise to My Grandson

If you’re a man,

Even the tight, green bud of a man,

You’ve got to love the snake

And embrace the skull.

You’ve got to check into

The Motel Diablo,

Shoot craps at the crossroads,

And light a candle for El Maximo.

Whisper in San Simon’s pink plaster ear,

“No tengo miedo, cabron, No tengo miedo.”

Blow cigar smoke in his face.

Leave him a tumbler of Havana Club.

If you’re a man,

Even the tight, green bud of a man,

You gotta fight the devil everyday.

Let me Polonify your skinny ass.

Remember, "The soft and the pliable will defeat the hard and strong."

If you fight him head on,

You’ll get hog tied, up a creek, flat on your back.

T’ia chi the fucker,

Yin and then yang his shiny red behind.

High five him, buy him a beer, put an arm around his shoulder.

You call the shots.

Then,

Then,

Walk away.

If you’re a man,

Even the tight green bud of a man,

Then,

Then,

You can walk the dog,

Rock the cradle,

Go round the world,

Learn to dance in three languages.

Kiss your best buddy smack on the lips.

Play air guitar like Johnny B. Good and Jumping Jack Flash.

Let your heart break while singing,

“I couldn’t sleep a wink for trying.

I saw the rising of the sun.

All night long my heart was crying

You’re the one, You’re the one, You’re the one.”

And then…

When Artists Go Bad

When Artists Go Bad

While passing through

The Albuquerque airport

I saw Dale Chihuly in chains;

Thick ones on his wrists,

Thin ones that tinkled

Around his ankles

Checking his stride as he walked.

He was being transported

By federal marshals.

One was muscular, handsome, Hispanic.

The other wore a Hawaiian shirt

And an expression

That said

To maintain law and order

Murder is always justified.

In this context

Dale’s eye patch

Seemed somewhat sinister.

So did the tears tattooed

In the corner

Of his visible eye,

And the spider web on his elbow.

The artist and his two guards

Were given special handling

At security.

I lost sight of them.

But later they were seated

On stools at the counter of

All Aboard Noodles.

Dale was seated in the middle

Eating from a steamy glass bowl

With a porcelain spoon,

Slices of pink pork

Like poker chips

Floating in golden broth

White noodles looped

Like calligraphy.

Tying not to stare

I passed them by.

When first class was called

For my flight to DC

I made a last minute trip

To the bathroom.

Dale stood at the urinal

Dick in manacled hands

Pissing loudly.

The Hispanic marshal

Stood one step behind him

A respectful distance

But within easy arm’s reach.

They spoke like

Business acquaintances

Which I suppose they were.

“When we woke up this morning

I had to scrape the ice off

The fucking windshield.”

“Where did you guys

Stay last night, Los Alamos?”

“I don’t know where the hell we were.

He was driving.”

The marshal spoke perfect English,

But Dale had a heavy Spanish accent.

Strange I thought at the time

For a one-eyed glassblower

From Tacoma.

I wanted to say,

“Mr. Chihuly,

Over the years

Your art has given me

So much pleasure.

Thank you for creating

All that beauty.”

I wanted to say

“That bowl of noodles

Made my mouth water.”

Under the circumstances –

The US marshal,

The chains,

Dale vigorously shaking his dick –

I said nothing.

They walked out together

Law enforcement holding the elbow

Of a ground breaking artist

Gone bad.

I was filled with regret

For gratitude unspoken.

For passing on the noodles.

(I did spot Dale Chihuly in an airport recently, but it was Newark not Albuquerque and he was not in chains. I do regret not having spoken to him.)

An Old Guys Love Poems

This is a self-portrait I drew when I was in my mid to late twenties. The drawing is close to forty years old.
I've been writing Portrait of the Artist for a full year now. I started it last December as a way of paying attention to and celebrating aging. I turned 65 in May making me officially an old guy.
With this posting I am bringing this project to and end. However, this blog will go on as a place where I can write about anything that is on my mind. And...

In January I will be launching Portrait of the Artist as an Old Man - Part II, in which I will be writing about and presenting portraits of working artist over the age of 65. So my focus will be shifting from autobiography and memoir to biography, to an examination of aging and creativity not just in myself, but in others. I'm very excited to be working on this project and grateful to everyone who has supported it with donations and suggestions.


Now to close out this portion of Portrait of the Artist as an Old Man:

An Old Guy's Love Poems

Stories

I.

Deb, long before I knew you

I spent a weekend on Block Island

With Miranda.

I think she was three.

That makes it thirty-five years ago.

We climbed down the bluffs

And built driftwood sculptures on the beach.

(In a snapshot, she wears

A tiny red and white plaid bathing suit.

Her hair,

That refused comb or brush,

Halos her head)

That night, thunder rattled the windows

Of our hotel room

And lightening toppled a chimney near by.

Miranda slept through it.

I stayed awake to protect her.

I’ve told you this story

A hundred times.

I want you to know all my stories,

To be proud of me

And to forgive me.

II.

“Deb, tell me about the time

Lars fell asleep riding the bike.”

“We had been directing camp in Barnes.

The Dutch families gave us a bunch of bikes to use.

We had been riding bikes all summer.

At the end of camp,

The Dutch families said they would pick them up.

We decided it would be fun

To ride a couple of them to their house.

It was a two or three hour ride.

Lars had Helen in a seat on his bike.

I was pregnant with Jesse.

It was the end of camp

So we were exhausted.

Lars was leading and he just fell over.

I said, ‘Are you alright? Is Helen alright? What happened?’

He said, ‘I fell asleep.’

That was about it.”

You’ve told me that story

A hundred times.

I want to know all your stories.

I want to know about when you and Loie

Were “the little girls.”

I want to know about you getting stoned with Janet

And running the tollbooths on 95.

I want to know about the time you and Lars

Didn’t have thirty-five cents to cross the Mt. Hope Bridge.

I want to know about Helen and Jesse jumping from the hayloft

And crumpling the roofs of the antique cars.

III.

Deb, last September 2^nd , before dawn,

When you were home in Rhode Island,

I pedaled my bike a couple of miles

Out into the Nevada desert

To an art oasis of upholstered couches and chairs

And fake palm tree umbrellas.

Just as the sun was raising

I sat next to a skinny

Sixteen-year-old boy.

In lieu of shaking hands,

He hugged me

Like the prodigal son coming home

To his long lost father.

This boy had two names.

The name given him at birth

Was Alexander, my middle name.

It means, he tells me, ruler of many.

But his desert name in Shanghai.

He is too stoned to talk much.

He is sweet and spacey.

He is much too thin.

If it were possible,

I’d take him out for a cheeseburger.

He would order

The brown rice, tofu, organic shitake, goat cheese burger.

“Have I told you this story?”

“Only about a hundred times.”

I want you to know all my stories.

Living the story is half the story.

Telling you the story completes it.

IV.

Deb, remember when…

Remember when…

Remember when…

Remember when we got massages

From the blind guy in Truth or Consequences?

Remember when we climbed Cadillac Mountain

To watch the sun rise?

Remember when we saw a palliated woodpecker

From our canoe?

Remember when we got robbed

On the beach in Guatemala?

Remember when we dropped Miranda and Helen off

At U-Mass?

Deb, remember everything that happened in Honduras?

I want to remember all our stories.

I want to tell them to each other

A hundred times.

Husband in Winter

In the middle of the night

I wake up in my warm bed.

I nudge Deb softly.

Yeah, she is still there.

I get up to pee,

Walk past the coats in the hall,

The door to the basement.

The clock on the stove says 2:10.

My old bladder knows the hour,

If not the minute.

There is moonlight coming in the back door.

I can make out the silhouette of the big rosemary plant.

I sit.

No sense in trying to steer

When I’m half asleep.

The thermostat is set at 58.

I’m cold

When I slip

Back under the covers.

But, Deb is warm.

I press against her,

Snuggling, spooning.

One day,

One of us

Will be alone

In this bed.

One of us

Will have to wait

While the heat of one body

Warms it up.

Honduras, November 2010 - Part II - Cruz Bermudez

Cruz Bermudez is a self-taught artist who lives and works in a small, wooden house just outside of downtown Tela, a beach town on the north coast of Honduras. He is proprietor of an art gallery called El Aura, which takes up the living room of his house. Cruz, his wife Maria Lopez, also an artist, and their two young children, live in a couple of small rooms behind the gallery. Paintings are hung and stacked all over the house. The yard functions as a studio and arts workshop where Cruz, Maria and a couple of brothers from each side of the family gather to paint.

Cruz’ paintings are distinctive and easy to spot around Tela. Most of the hotels have a couple on display. Typically, he depicts life along the north coast of Honduras, especially the life of the Garifuna, an Afro-Caribbean community that has as much in common with the cultures of Haiti and Cuba as with Latino Honduras.

He paints men fishing from canoes and from the beach with nets, thatched huts, roosters, musicians and dancers. He is particularly adept at painting night scenes; houses glowing against near black foliage, deep blue water reflecting moonlight, clouds back lit against nighttime skies.

This is Cruz’ bread and butter work. There isn’t much of a tourist industry in Honduras except for the island or Roatan, but those who do travel on the mainland often pass through Tela. Hondurans of means, from San Pedro Sula and Tegucigalpa, also come to the beach here, especially for Semana Santa, the week of celebration around Easter. Cruz supports himself as an artist. He is proud that his paintings have been taken home to the United States, Canada, Germany, France and Spain, rolled up in tubes, stuffed into suitcases or back packs.

Certainly these are commercial paintings, created to sell, to remind people of their experiences in Honduras. However, within this context, Cruz is often after something deeper.

For example, in a painting he recently completed it is nighttime. Off to one side a man paddles a small canoe out into the bay to fish. In contrast to his adult responsibilities, four boys are playing on a pier. The two oldest boys, probably teenagers, are in mid air, having jumped from the pylons. They seem to be at that exact moment of weightlessness before gravity overtakes the momentum of their leap. The next boy in line is a little younger. He is considering jumping. It seems likely that he will follow the older boys and take a swim in the perfect blue of the nighttime ocean. The fourth boy, younger still, hangs back. His posture indicates hesitancy. He is not ready. Maybe he is too young. Maybe he is timid by nature.

Here in the guise of a lush painting for tourists, is a perfect portrait of that moment when you realize that your life is waiting for you. It is yours for the taking. Will you dive in? Will you hesitate, play it safe?

This description is based in part on Cruz’ explanation of the themes of the painting and in part on my extrapolation.

If this painting was hanging above your couch and you looked at it every day, I believe you would find yourself making braver choices. Even if you never thought of it metaphorically, you would develop a yearning to join those boys in mid air, in that moment where anything could happen and nothing is retractable.

Cruz has been an artist since he was seven years old. Throughout his boyhood he drew and sold a comic book featuring a character named Jeiko. Jeiko was a Honduran Tarzan. He was born in the mountains and could talk to the animals. His adventures included combat with giant snakes, plunges into jungle pools from the tops of waterfalls, and swims across crocodile infested rivers. He swung a mean machete.

Cruz sold photocopies of his comic to his schoolmates for one cent. He always had plenty of pocket money. His buddies pestered him, “When will the next one be ready?” There are no surviving issues of Jeiko.

Cruz has two children with Maria Lopez. They are eight and ten. He had them show me their drawings. Both the girl and the boy had drawn themselves trying on outfits from a closet full of colorful clothes. They draw very well.

Cruz has two older children from a previous relationship. I asked him if they were artists, too. He replied, “Yes they play guitar and sing. We are a family of artists. All of this - painting, sculpture, music - comes naturally to us.”

Cruz, who is 55, has been with Maria for seventeen years. I’m guessing she is fifteen to twenty years younger than him. I asked if she was already an artist when they met. He said, “She liked to paint, but didn’t think she could. Now she is better than me because women are more perfectionistic. I can do it if I want to, but it doesn’t satisfy me. In fact Maria’s paintings are meticulous and yet seem fresh and lively. She specializes in portraits of Honduran women often at work. These portraits have strong psychological and social resonance.

I told her that Cruz and I had been discussing why he paints and that I wanted to ask her the same question. She said, “At first, I painted because I liked it and to make money. Now I paint because I want to show how things are at this time in this community.”

After a couple of hours of talking, Cruz said, “I make paintings to sell, but I also make paintings for my private collection. These I make for myself and for my children after I am dead. I show this work to close friends.”

Cruz had shown me some of his private work on previous visits. This time he went into a back room and brought out a half dozen canvases. One is a large painting of a boat with slack sails full of refugees, people with sad faces making a desperate journey. The boat is becalmed. It seems to be making little forward progress. Cruz said the name of this painting is El Viaje de Esperanza (The Journey of Hope).

Cruz said that all over Latin America people are leaving one place and going to another in hopes of a better life. Hondurans leave for the United States or Spain. Haitians leave for the Dominican Republic. Nicaraguans leave for Costa Rica. Cubans leave for where ever they can land. Many die just because they want a better life.

“I painted this for my children because I hope they never have to make such a journey.”

Maybe all the best paintings are prayers.

I asked Cruz about his plans for the future. He said that he would like to be an artist outside of Tela, outside of Honduras, outside of Central America. Visitors have said they will help him organize shows in Canada and Germany. He said that he would like to have an exhibition in the United States. I guess I’ve got my work cut out for me.

Here is a link to photos of more paintings by Cruz and Maria:

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=251446&id=669761364&l=8a0dab474b

Honduras, November 2010 - Part I - Four Poems

Honduras is Green

Honduras is green

In the same way that

Blood is red,

Snow is white,

The night is dark.

Essentially green.

Without the green

It wouldn’t be Honduras.

Honduras is poor

In the same way that

Babies cry,

Drunks stagger,

Dogs gnaw bones.

Essentially poor.

Without the poverty

It wouldn’t be Honduras.

Honduras is joyful

En lo mismo manera que

Kids kick futbols above the tree tops,

Lovers dance close,

A gray haired woman swims in the sea.

Essentially joyful.

Without the joy it wouldn’t be Honduras.

I visit Honduras

In the same way that

Los sacerdotes oran el rosario,

Los gallos gritar a la madrugada

Palabras cruzar los labios y forman frases.

My visits are essential.

I make these trips to know who I am.

Waiting and Hoping

In Spanish, esperar

Means to wait.

Espereme, mi amor.

Wait for me, my love.

In Spanish, esperar

Means to hope.

Espero que regreses

A mi, mi amor.

I hope you will come back

To me, my love.

Si estas esperando,

Hay esperanza.

If you are waiting,

There is hope.

Si su esperanza

Esta terminado,

If your wait is over,

You know,

Sabe.

There is nothing more

To wait for.

Nothing more

To hope for.

Por eso espanol es

Una lingua mejor

Por amores

Que ingles.

Spanish can break your heart

El espanol puede romper su corazon.

Gringo Time, Honduran Time

El tiempo del gringo

Es bien organizado.

It has a beginning, a middle and an end.

Honduran time flows and loops.

Si Dios quiere.

Gringo time falls on the beat.

At best it waltzes.

1-2-3, 1-2-3.

El tiempo Hondureño baile la bachata.

The feet execute a sexy little two-step

While the hips elaborate.

But Honduran time is a

Bromista cruel.

Its jokes are merciless.

The hours glow.

The days rhyme.

The weeks nap in their hammocks.

The months pass in ciclos de sol y lluvia.

But the years kill you.

You are old at forty.

At fifty you look seventy.

Before long,

There is a tent in the street

In front of your house.

Your family weeps in rented folding chairs.

A black bow droops on your door.

Gingo time is a negotiator.

(Even time knows that gringos are powerful.)

In the end it is all the same.

Time has nothing to loose

By relenting a little

Here and there.

Five years if you go to the gym

Three times a week.

Ten years if you take your

Lisinopril daily.

Gringo time is patient.

It’s all the same in the end.

Cielo

In Spanish cielo means

Both heaven and sky.

It’s a smoke ring word.

Say it with a Cubano

Between your teeth.

A ring of cloud

Floats toward the sky,

Toward the heavens above.

Guillermo died in Honduras.

I helped carry his coffin.

His brother unscrewed the face plate.

We said good bye through

A plastic window.

Reflections of clouds and sky

Floated over his face.

Cielo y cielo. Cielo y cielo.

In the dirt school yard,

Boys climb the flagpole.

Thirty feet up,

They become

Skinny silhouettes

Against el cielo.

As close to el cielo

As a hungry ten year old

Can get.

The 24 Hour Comic Book Challenge

I was only at the 24 Hour Challenge for about 12 hours. So sue me. I’m old. I had other things I had to do. But, for the time I was there, I had a blast! Next year I’ll plan my time so I can stay for the whole thing.

These 24 Hour Challenges occur around the world on the same day – this year Saturday, October 2 – coordinated by ComicsPro, “the only trade organization dedicated to the progress of direct market comic book retailers, allowing us to move forward together.” Huh? The challenge is to create a 24 page original comic book in 24 hours.

Annex Comics on Broadway in Newport, Rhode Island hosted the event I attended. Wayne Quackenbush is the proprietor of Annex Comic Books. He has gone out of his way to help some of the kids I work with at the East Bay Met School. He gives them internships in his store and encourages them to display their artwork in his shops windows.

I drew at a table in the back of the store surrounded by racks and racks of comics, graphic novels, obscure science fiction and horror videos, and pulp fiction of several genres. Eventually, gathered around the table were six young men in their late twenties and early thirties, one fifteen year old, and me. There were an equal number of artists working at another table in the front of the shop.

Here was another situation where I was at least 30 years older than everybody else. I love times like this where I’m the outlier. For example, I like going places where I’m the only gringo and everybody else is Hispanic. I think the reasons I enjoy this status are complicated and perhaps to some small degree suspect. The positive pay off for me is that I get to hear and see things that I wouldn’t otherwise come across. I value and seek out experiences that make me reconsider my default perceptions of the world. If I spent all my time with old, relatively well off, white guys, I wouldn’t get much of that. Also, being a bit off to the side, makes for good observation. I get a little distance that allows me to take it in while not being 100% in it.

The things to watch out for in being an outlier, it seems to me, are being a poseur and/or being a voyeur.

I’m clear that if I hang out with young comic book artists, that doesn’t make me a young comic book artist. I’m still an old artist who happens to appreciate what they do. Likewise, when I’m with Hispanics, I’m clear I’m still a gringo. So I’m not too worried about being a poseur.

Voyeurism is one of my great pleasures. I love to watch, take it all in, soak it up, but I’m almost always a participant-observer. I might be an outlier, or a bit off to the side, but I’m not sidelined. I take part.

You are supposed to come to a 24 Hour Comic Book Challenge without having prepared anything. It is billed as a marathon of creativity in which the concept, the characters, the story, the drawings emerge on the spot. For me, it was impossible not to do some thinking ahead of time. I had recently seen a story on the news about a poet that writes by selecting words on a newspaper page. He blacks out the whole page except the words that appeal to him. He then indicates what order the words should be read in and that is his poem. I decided I’d adopt this approach for the Comic Book Challenge. I’d work on newspaper and select words from the text on the page. I also decide to do self-portraiture. I had hopes that a monologue would emerge and that I could use speech balloons or thought bubbles to indicate that I was delivering the monologue.

I did six pages in this way. While I was working, there had been a lot of conversation at the table about a chair in the woods. The fifteen year old said that when he bunked school he would go to the woods and sit in his favorite chair. There were many jokes about what one could and should do while bunking school and sitting in a chair in the woods. The older artists encouraged him to drop his plans to do a zombie comic book and do an autobiographical story about the chair in the woods. I asked him to describe the chair and it turned out to be an ordinary folding chair. I drew one and went to Staples to make copies of my drawing in various sizes. The chair in the woods got incorporated into all my pages.

I wasn’t getting anywhere with the monologue idea. However, I was enjoying my time at the table more and more. I decided that I would use my pages to document the 24 Hour Challenge. To the self-portraits and the chair drawings, I added portraits of the other artists. I had thought I’d throw in samples of the banter that was flying around the table, but I ran out of time and energy.

Is what I did even a comic book? For many people the preferred term for comic books, comic strips, and graphic novels is sequential art, but can it be sequential art if it has no narrative and no obvious sequence?

Whatever. It was fun to be there and I’m proud of the work.

One of the things that made my time at the Annex so enjoyable was watching the interactions between the fifteen year old and the guys in their late twenties and early thirties. Frankly, the younger guy was a pretty obnoxious kid. He’d insert nonsequiturs into ongoing conversations and break silences with random remarks that had little meaning to anybody, maybe not even himself. (“Hey do you guys know Justin Thompson?” “No whose that?” “He was in my math class last year and…” “How in the hell would I know some random kid in your math class last year?”) Although he was at the table the whole time I was there (and talking pretty much non-stop the whole time) his total output was the title “Zombie Invasion” and a few ballpoint pen stick figures drawn in a tiny notebook with lined pages. He could really try your patience, but the more accomplished artists at the table were great with him. They made jokes about the things he said and teased him mercilessly, but during this they advised him, cajoled him, encouraged him the whole time. They also paid him the respect of not talking down to him. It was like he instantly had six older brothers who were totally on to his shit, but at the same time were sticking with him in a very positive way. I didn’t see any improvement in the kid’s social skills, but I think the time was good for him, better than therapy.

Road Trip - East Bound

Cross Country Haiku

I

Road Trip

Nevada

Poker, blackjack, slots,

Kids living on neon streets,

Too many hard luck tales.

I’m hot and dusty

Thirsty, too. My home is far.

Time to hit the road.

Utah

Seagulls of Salt Lake

Are polygamists and must

Moisturize their feet.

Sunrise in my eyes

I’m headed east, aiming home.

Sunset behind me.

Colorado

That road kill is huge!

What the hell was that before?

Deer? Moose? Harley?

Landscape fills my eyes,

Makes the miles pass quickly by.

The leaves are changing!

Nebraska

Windmills make lazy

Circles in the sky. Lovely!

Please, build one next door!

Miles and miles of corn

Grown to marbleize beefsteak.

Pollan says, “Eat plants.”

Iowa

Nina Simone sings

Out over the dry corn fields.

They never heard better.

Flat is not boring.

All around variety.

Sunflowers everywhere.

I had to get in

The word “prairie”. Now that’s done,

Good bye Iowa.

Illinois

East of the mighty

Mississippi the states are

Smaller. Why is that?

It’s a long, long way

From Reno to the east coast.

Half way in three days.

Indianna

Adult Super Store,

Huge sign erect in the sky.

Excited farm boys.

U.S. tis a mall

Same shit, under god, for all.

Small towns took the fall.

Ohio

Ohio, you seem

Surprised. Your two Os look

Like big popping eyes.

I’m so skinny here.

The rust belt comes in one size,

Triple XXX

I’m so skinny here.

Fried chicken is the state bird.

Fat is fabulous

I’m so skinny here.

Sandusky could be my town.

I got to loose weight.

Pennsylvania

Freight trains pass by me

Headed west. I am going east.

I can’t count that fast.

Coming back seems fast.

Faster than going. Tail winds?

Anticipation?

New York

New York, the cool state.

Just a corner of it is

Cooler than Texas.

Connecticut

Connecticut is

So, so sophisticated.

Would never date Georgia.

Crossed the U.S.

Fueled by Frappachinos.

Starbucks is my friend.

Rhode Island

Little Ol’ Rhody

In and back out in an hour.

That’s my kind of state.

Little Rhody! I

Land after adventuring.

Its good to be home.

II

The Social Lives of Cities

Charlotte and Macomb
Charlotte was sorry
About her night with Macomb.
She had too much wine.

But he fell for her.
She didn't return his calls
or answer emails

Spurned, he raged,
"Some day, some way, she will pay,"
Proving she was right.

Philadelphia and Cheyenne
Philly and Cheyenne
On a date. She swallowed hard.
His boots had gold spurs.

Cheyenne and Philly
On a date. He blushed red.
Her heels were six inches.

Philly and Cheyenne
On a date. Later, in bed,
They kept their shoes on.

Gary and Newark
Gary could be pals
With Newark. They both have abs
and bad attitudes.

Newark could be pals
With Gary. June at The Shore.
July at The Dunes.

Gary and Newark
Could be pals, but they would fight:
Knockwurst or calzone.

Akron and Bayonne

Akron and Bayonne

Had a bromance. Back slap hugs.

No way no kisses.

Bayonne and Akron

Had a bromance. Screw some girls

Brag who did it best.

Macho guys in a big

bromance. “Hey, look, once don’t count.”

“Especially drunk.”

Biloxi and Austin

Two towns up a tree

K-i-s-s-i-n-g.

One thing then another.

A well-known story,

A different order for the

Carriage and marriage.

Biloxi loved

Austin. Austin loved Biloxi.

But still, would it last?

Minneapolis and St. Paul
Minneapolis,
Long wed to St. Paul, yawns, sighs
Flirts with the waitress.

St. Paul, long wed to
Minneapolis, sighs, yawns
Knits for the grandkids.

The venerable pair,
With hearts full of love, know they
Will go on spooning.