Stranger Malone always saved any potential writing surface; small bits of paper, envelopes, a beer mat, and the back of everything else.  He traveled with small pencil stubs that he used to draw, write out a music part, scribble some verse, or more often just jot down a thought.  Here are some of them:

Written thoughts are footprints on the path of life.

Poetic thought must flow. It can’t be hoarded or dammed up – it must be directed to someone or something or to posterity. While I write this, I have visions of it being found long after my departure, and received by some sympathetic soul with joy and understanding.

At midnight my clock seems to juggle past and future – it’s the best hour of my day.

I love beauty in its innumerable forms and wish to be part of it. On my tabs of paper I record my search for it. An honest search is as good as a casual find.

My notebook pages are almost full
Of memories, for all of them I thank
But the pages that I hold most dear
Are the ones that are still blank

If I am sick, I have violated one of nature’s rules.
I made me sick, I will make me well

I always buy the best possible shoes, as they may be my last.
Then I look at my old pair thankful they weren’t.

An old man shakes his head, neither yes or no.
While others dance and kiss
I sip and reminisce
And try to trap thoughts on a page
That make me more aware of age

At my age, people should stop sending birthday cards.
I should send them word I am still alive.

Just play me the chorus
Don’t wanna hear the verse
Verses are vice versa
And some are even worse
Let’s all sing a familiar refrain
We won’t have to rehearse
Just play me the chorus
Don’t want to hear the verse

We have men on the moon and our planet is dying. Is that progress? (1971)

There are those that would sell us the air we breathe,
if they could get control of it.

I stay away from museums. They might try and keep me there.

At my age, I don’t buy green bananas.

The passing of years like withered leaves,
Fly swiftly through the air
I glance aside to avert the blast and suddenly I’m aware
The years have all fled, the trees are bare.

One old tattered leaf still clings to the bough amid the buds of a new generation. With the aid of the chill spring breeze, shakes in defiance at the inevitable fall. So such am I.
I’m not so proud of my achievements as a musician, as I am of the fact that I still strive to be a better musician. Possibly when I return, I will do even better.
(Oct. 25,1997 eighty-eighth birthday)

I’m five and ninety years, mostly five. (Oct. 25, 2004)

These writings are excerpted from a small book that Mick Kinney has put together. 
To purchase a copy, visit Elise Witt’s website at:
http://www.mindspring.com/~emworld/

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