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
I suppose most folks would think a man's best friend ought to be a dog. Mine was a bar stool. Now before you start judging me, let me explain.
It wasn't just any bar stool. It sat at the far end of Murphy's Tavern, right by the window overlooking the ocean. The old place wasn't fancy. The floor creaked, the paint peeled, and the jukebox only played country songs from thirty years ago. The bartender claimed it was broken. I claimed it had good taste.
That old stool had been waiting for me for nearly fifty years. I met her when I was twenty-three years old. Back then, I had hair, hope, and just enough money for a cold beer and a bad decision. I sat down, and that old stool let out a squeak. "Get used to me," I laughed. Turns out, it did. I sat there after my first real paycheck. I sat there after my daddy died. I sat there the night I met the woman I thought I'd spend forever with. I sat there six years later when she walked out with somebody who had more money and less gray hair.
That stool never said a word. Sometimes that's exactly what a man needs. The bartender changed over the years. The owners changed. The faces changed. Friends came and went. Some moved away. Some passed away. Some just disappeared into the mystery of life. But every time I walked through that door, there sat my old friend.Waiting.
Lord knows that stool heard things no preacher ever should. It heard me cuss. It heard me cry. It heard me laugh so hard whiskey came out of my nose. It heard me promise I'd never drink again. Then listen to me break that promise the very next Friday. One evening, the young bartender asked me. "What keeps you coming back here?" I looked around the room. The old pictures on the wall. The dusty bottles. The jukebox playing an old country song. Then I looked down at that beat-up old stool. "You see that?" "The stool?" "No son. That's my history." He laughed. I didn't.
Every scratch in that wood told a story. That little burn mark happened when my buddy Charlie knocked over his cigar celebrating the birth of his first grandson. That dent came from the night I found out I'd become a grandfather myself. The worn spot under my right arm came from a thousand lonely nights trying to figure out why life never goes according to plan. I ran my hand across the wood. "This old bar stool's got stories to tell." The kid smiled. "You really think so?" "I know so."
A funny thing happens when you get older. You stop chasing excitement. You start collecting places that feel like home. Some folks have fishing boats. Some have front porches. Some have church pews. Me? I had an old bar stool.
One rainy evening, I came into the tavern moving slower than usual. Age has a way of collecting little payments from a man. My knees complained. My back argued. My shoulders negotiated. I eased myself onto the stool. It creaked louder than I did. The bartender looked at me. "You alright, Doc?" I looked into my glass and smiled. "I don't know how much farther this old soul can go..." He nodded. "...with a shot of tequila and some Jesus to go." The whole bar laughed. I laughed too.
But there was truth hiding inside the joke. You get to a certain age and you start counting blessings instead of birthdays. You thank God for mornings. You thank Him for friends. You thank Him for one more song from the jukebox. One more conversation. One more chance to say I love you. One more sunset over the ocean. This bar had been my home through thick and through thin. Every drink that I tasted. Every loss. Every win.
I suppose people would say that's a sad thing. They're wrong. The sadness wasn't Sitting on the stool. The sadness would have been never having a place to sit. One night, the bartender asked me something I'd never thought about. "What happens when you're gone?" I looked at that old stool. Somebody else would sit there. Some young kid with a broken heart. Some old widow trying to remember her husband. Some fisherman celebrating a good catch. Some lonely traveler needing a friend. That stool would listen. Just like it listened to me. I smiled. "Take care of her." "The stool?" "No, son." "The memories."
Last call finally came. I stood up slowly. My hand rested on that old piece of worn wood. "Well old friend," I said. "We had one hell of a ride." The bartender smiled. "You coming back tomorrow?" I looked toward the door. "If the good Lord's willing." I tipped my hat. "Hey bartender..." "Yeah?" "One more round before I roam." He poured it without a word. I lifted my glass toward my old companion. "Here's to the nights we can't forget." "To the loves we've lost." "To the people we've met." "And to old bar stools..." "...that carry more of a man's heart than the world ever knows." Then I walked out into the night. But I had a funny feeling. That old stool would be waiting for me tomorrow. And if heaven has a little country bar tucked away somewhere by the sea... I hope there's an old jukebox playing. A bartender who knows my name. A shot of tequila. A little Jesusto go. And one empty bar stool... Saving my place.
It wasn't just any bar stool. It sat at the far end of Murphy's Tavern, right by the window overlooking the ocean. The old place wasn't fancy. The floor creaked, the paint peeled, and the jukebox only played country songs from thirty years ago. The bartender claimed it was broken. I claimed it had good taste.
That old stool had been waiting for me for nearly fifty years. I met her when I was twenty-three years old. Back then, I had hair, hope, and just enough money for a cold beer and a bad decision. I sat down, and that old stool let out a squeak. "Get used to me," I laughed. Turns out, it did. I sat there after my first real paycheck. I sat there after my daddy died. I sat there the night I met the woman I thought I'd spend forever with. I sat there six years later when she walked out with somebody who had more money and less gray hair.
That stool never said a word. Sometimes that's exactly what a man needs. The bartender changed over the years. The owners changed. The faces changed. Friends came and went. Some moved away. Some passed away. Some just disappeared into the mystery of life. But every time I walked through that door, there sat my old friend.Waiting.
Lord knows that stool heard things no preacher ever should. It heard me cuss. It heard me cry. It heard me laugh so hard whiskey came out of my nose. It heard me promise I'd never drink again. Then listen to me break that promise the very next Friday. One evening, the young bartender asked me. "What keeps you coming back here?" I looked around the room. The old pictures on the wall. The dusty bottles. The jukebox playing an old country song. Then I looked down at that beat-up old stool. "You see that?" "The stool?" "No son. That's my history." He laughed. I didn't.
Every scratch in that wood told a story. That little burn mark happened when my buddy Charlie knocked over his cigar celebrating the birth of his first grandson. That dent came from the night I found out I'd become a grandfather myself. The worn spot under my right arm came from a thousand lonely nights trying to figure out why life never goes according to plan. I ran my hand across the wood. "This old bar stool's got stories to tell." The kid smiled. "You really think so?" "I know so."
A funny thing happens when you get older. You stop chasing excitement. You start collecting places that feel like home. Some folks have fishing boats. Some have front porches. Some have church pews. Me? I had an old bar stool.
One rainy evening, I came into the tavern moving slower than usual. Age has a way of collecting little payments from a man. My knees complained. My back argued. My shoulders negotiated. I eased myself onto the stool. It creaked louder than I did. The bartender looked at me. "You alright, Doc?" I looked into my glass and smiled. "I don't know how much farther this old soul can go..." He nodded. "...with a shot of tequila and some Jesus to go." The whole bar laughed. I laughed too.
But there was truth hiding inside the joke. You get to a certain age and you start counting blessings instead of birthdays. You thank God for mornings. You thank Him for friends. You thank Him for one more song from the jukebox. One more conversation. One more chance to say I love you. One more sunset over the ocean. This bar had been my home through thick and through thin. Every drink that I tasted. Every loss. Every win.
I suppose people would say that's a sad thing. They're wrong. The sadness wasn't Sitting on the stool. The sadness would have been never having a place to sit. One night, the bartender asked me something I'd never thought about. "What happens when you're gone?" I looked at that old stool. Somebody else would sit there. Some young kid with a broken heart. Some old widow trying to remember her husband. Some fisherman celebrating a good catch. Some lonely traveler needing a friend. That stool would listen. Just like it listened to me. I smiled. "Take care of her." "The stool?" "No, son." "The memories."
Last call finally came. I stood up slowly. My hand rested on that old piece of worn wood. "Well old friend," I said. "We had one hell of a ride." The bartender smiled. "You coming back tomorrow?" I looked toward the door. "If the good Lord's willing." I tipped my hat. "Hey bartender..." "Yeah?" "One more round before I roam." He poured it without a word. I lifted my glass toward my old companion. "Here's to the nights we can't forget." "To the loves we've lost." "To the people we've met." "And to old bar stools..." "...that carry more of a man's heart than the world ever knows." Then I walked out into the night. But I had a funny feeling. That old stool would be waiting for me tomorrow. And if heaven has a little country bar tucked away somewhere by the sea... I hope there's an old jukebox playing. A bartender who knows my name. A shot of tequila. A little Jesusto go. And one empty bar stool... Saving my place.
