Catalina's Milky Way Dreams(c) Re- Written 2024 - By The Depressed Poet, Doc Dalton
Shooting Stars and fast moving CarsRumble through the roads of my mindTick-e-ty Tock, the old sounds of the clockSay's it's almost a quarter past nine
The moons surely rising, the stars are a glidingAnd Mr. Sandman is ready to roamHurry off to bed and put your pillow under your headHe might just be visiting you tonight at homeDrifting off to sleep is such a wonderful featAdventures you'll enjoy on your ownMaking new friends on a journey to no endA secrete life that is yours all aloneDon't be afraid of those gobble lee goo'sOr those pirates drifting to sea on their boatsThere's no need to worry there just in your dreamsLike rainbow clouds and cotton candy floatsOh that sky's full of colors of make believe wondersExciting every step of the wayCan't you let me stay for just a little bit longerPlease, don't take my Dreams a wayTo see this through a child's eyesOn the path to where stars brightly beamThrough a different world of twist and twirlsWon't you come to my Milky Way DreamsWe could have so much funUnder an ice cream sun and laugh our time awaySing some M & M songs the whole day longUntil we awake to brand new day
Pluto say's hey kiddo don't get out of bedAs Snakel Puss laughs and says, ah it's OKKKKKKKKPopeye yell's, were gone in a minute after I eat me spinachPoo say's all aboard my Banana Split SleighOh that Sky's full of colors of make believe wondersExciting every step of the wayCan't you let me stay for just a little bit longerWorry not Catalina, we won't take your Dreams a way
To see this through a child's eyesOn the path to where stars brightly beamThrough a different world of twist and twirlsWon't you come to my Milky Way Dreams
Catalina say's, please come join me, on my Milky Way Dreams
The old man sat by the side of the road with a whiskey bottle resting against his worn-out boot. The dirt beneath him was hard, but after eighty years, he'd learned that life wasn't interested in making anyone comfortable.
People drove by and hardly noticed him. A few slowed down. Some looked away. Most simply kept going. His beard was white now, and his hands shook a little more than they used to. His clothes had seen better days, though truth be told, so had he. His name was Samuel Carter, though nobody had called him Samuel in years. To most folks, he was just the old drunk sitting by the highway.
He took another sip from the bottle and stared toward the horizon. "I wasn't always this way," he whispered. There was a time when he had dreams. At twenty, he wanted to own a ranch. At thirty, he wanted a family. At forty, he wanted another chance. By sixty, he was simply hoping tomorrow might be kinder than today.
Whiskey had been his companion longer than most people. It had celebrated his victories and buried his losses. Every broken promise, every funeral, every goodbye somehow found its way to the bottom of another bottle.
His wife had left years ago. His son stopped calling. His friends slowly disappeared, one by one. Some died. Some moved away. Some simply got tired of trying to save a man who didn't think he was worth saving. The whiskey never left.
His eyes carried stories that words could never explain. Dreams abandoned. Jobs lost. Hearts broken. Nights spent wondering where everything had gone wrong. He couldn't remember every detail anymore. The years had stolen pieces of his memory. Faces blurred together. Names faded. But he remembered one thing. His mother. She used to tell him, "Sammy, no matter how far you wander, God knows where to find you." He laughed a little. "I sure made Him work for it."
The old man looked at the bottle beside him. It had cost him nearly everything. But not quite. Deep inside, hidden beneath years of regret and disappointment, there was still a tiny spark. A little faith. A stubborn belief that maybe he hadn't been forgotten. The sun began to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and gold. He started humming an old country song his father used to sing. He couldn't remember all the words. Just enough to make him smile.
A pickup truck slowed beside him. A young man climbed out carrying two cups of coffee. "You look like you could use one." Samuel looked surprised. "I ain't got any money." "I didn't ask for any." The young man handed him the cup and sat beside him. Neither of them spoke for a while. Finally, the young man asked, "You got family?" Samuel nodded. "Somewhere." "You ever think about going home?" The old man looked down at the whiskey bottle. "I don't know if home would have me." The young man smiled. "My granddad used to say that home isn't where you've been. It's where somebody's still willing to open the door."
Samuel felt something he'd almost forgotten. Hope. Not a lot. Just enough. The young man stood and reached into his pocket. He handed Samuel a small piece of paper. It had a phone number written on it. "My church has supper every Wednesday. Nobody asks questions. They just feed people."
Samuel folded the paper and slipped it into his pocket. "You think a man like me belongs there?" The young man looked him straight in the eyes. "I think a man like you is exactly who it's for." The truck drove away. The old man sat there for a long time. He looked at the whiskey bottle. Then he looked at the piece of paper. He wasn't sure what tomorrow would bring. Another hard day. Another lonely night. Or maybe something different.
He picked up the bottle and stared at it one last time. Then he set it down by the side of the road. He stood slowly, his old bones protesting every step. Eighty years old. One foot in the grave, another on a banana peel. Not a single dime to his name. But for the first time in a long while, he wasn't carrying quite so much weight. If you ever drive down a lonely country road and see an old man sitting by himself, don't be too quick to judge. Sit for a minute. Share a cup of coffee. Listen to his story. Because behind every whiskey bottle, there may be a broken heart. Behind every weathered face, a life of battles nobody ever saw. And behind the holes in a man's soul, there just might be enough room for a little grace to find its way in.
After all, life is a tapestry woven with sorrow and joy alike. And sometimes, the brightest tomorrow begins with one stranger stopping by the sideof the road.
People drove by and hardly noticed him. A few slowed down. Some looked away. Most simply kept going. His beard was white now, and his hands shook a little more than they used to. His clothes had seen better days, though truth be told, so had he. His name was Samuel Carter, though nobody had called him Samuel in years. To most folks, he was just the old drunk sitting by the highway.
He took another sip from the bottle and stared toward the horizon. "I wasn't always this way," he whispered. There was a time when he had dreams. At twenty, he wanted to own a ranch. At thirty, he wanted a family. At forty, he wanted another chance. By sixty, he was simply hoping tomorrow might be kinder than today.
Whiskey had been his companion longer than most people. It had celebrated his victories and buried his losses. Every broken promise, every funeral, every goodbye somehow found its way to the bottom of another bottle.
His wife had left years ago. His son stopped calling. His friends slowly disappeared, one by one. Some died. Some moved away. Some simply got tired of trying to save a man who didn't think he was worth saving. The whiskey never left.
His eyes carried stories that words could never explain. Dreams abandoned. Jobs lost. Hearts broken. Nights spent wondering where everything had gone wrong. He couldn't remember every detail anymore. The years had stolen pieces of his memory. Faces blurred together. Names faded. But he remembered one thing. His mother. She used to tell him, "Sammy, no matter how far you wander, God knows where to find you." He laughed a little. "I sure made Him work for it."
The old man looked at the bottle beside him. It had cost him nearly everything. But not quite. Deep inside, hidden beneath years of regret and disappointment, there was still a tiny spark. A little faith. A stubborn belief that maybe he hadn't been forgotten. The sun began to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and gold. He started humming an old country song his father used to sing. He couldn't remember all the words. Just enough to make him smile.
A pickup truck slowed beside him. A young man climbed out carrying two cups of coffee. "You look like you could use one." Samuel looked surprised. "I ain't got any money." "I didn't ask for any." The young man handed him the cup and sat beside him. Neither of them spoke for a while. Finally, the young man asked, "You got family?" Samuel nodded. "Somewhere." "You ever think about going home?" The old man looked down at the whiskey bottle. "I don't know if home would have me." The young man smiled. "My granddad used to say that home isn't where you've been. It's where somebody's still willing to open the door."
Samuel felt something he'd almost forgotten. Hope. Not a lot. Just enough. The young man stood and reached into his pocket. He handed Samuel a small piece of paper. It had a phone number written on it. "My church has supper every Wednesday. Nobody asks questions. They just feed people."
Samuel folded the paper and slipped it into his pocket. "You think a man like me belongs there?" The young man looked him straight in the eyes. "I think a man like you is exactly who it's for." The truck drove away. The old man sat there for a long time. He looked at the whiskey bottle. Then he looked at the piece of paper. He wasn't sure what tomorrow would bring. Another hard day. Another lonely night. Or maybe something different.
He picked up the bottle and stared at it one last time. Then he set it down by the side of the road. He stood slowly, his old bones protesting every step. Eighty years old. One foot in the grave, another on a banana peel. Not a single dime to his name. But for the first time in a long while, he wasn't carrying quite so much weight. If you ever drive down a lonely country road and see an old man sitting by himself, don't be too quick to judge. Sit for a minute. Share a cup of coffee. Listen to his story. Because behind every whiskey bottle, there may be a broken heart. Behind every weathered face, a life of battles nobody ever saw. And behind the holes in a man's soul, there just might be enough room for a little grace to find its way in.
After all, life is a tapestry woven with sorrow and joy alike. And sometimes, the brightest tomorrow begins with one stranger stopping by the sideof the road.
