The summer sun is nearly done
Frost will follow soon
Asters and chrysanthemums
Light up the afternoon

The dew is on long after dawn
Mornings are a haze
One swallow’s song is holding on
In these fading sweet summer days.

We flew across the ocean
Some fell into the sea
God will choose what we will lose
Though we may disagree

We come here to be mended
That we may find our way
We pray that there’s redemption
In these fading sweet summer days

Summer months comfort us
The sun comes with sustenance
We live for its lingering light

Days slip away from us
Katydids and crickets hush
We drift into lengthening night.

We were once our children
Too soon they will be us
All they ask, a simple task:
“Remember how it was”.

We hold them close, we let them go
We watch them fly away
And if we trust, they’ll come to us
In these fading sweet summer days

Stars they are innumerable
We’ll never know them all
But nature’s not immutable
Every star will fall

And one day, I’ll return to thee
And all that will remain
Is the beauty and the certainty
of these fading sweet summer days

We wore bright red uniforms with white epaulets and tall hats with red and white plumes. We were the Bayard Reds. A huge Indian Chief (no Native Americans yet) on the bass drum.

On Memorial Day, we marched to a cemetery outside of town, a swath cut out of a corn field. We played Sousa.  Aging veterans in tight uniforms held up the flag. We stood still as my brother Jerry raised his trumpet and played taps. For a moment we  weren’t pretending. We were in Arlington, playing for the unknown.

Arlington

High school band. Memorial Day.

Country cemetery. Marched all the way.

We stood in formation, took off our caps.

Stood with the nation, we played taps

Year before Kennedy, year before King.

Last year I cared about anything.

But for that moment, we were one.

Honoring soldiers

At Arlington.

Notes drifted across the plains.

Swallows signaled oncoming rain.

Station wagons, pickup trucks

Rescued us then turned to rust

We put on new uniforms

Crisp, creased. Tattered, well-worn

Some forget where we come from

Some come to rest

In Arlington

When he was twelve, took my only son

Lost ourselves in the Smithsonian

Then Abraham, above the Mall.

Then raised our hands, touched the wall.

Headstone horizon, eternal flame

Unknown lie with familiar names

Sacrificed daughters and sons

So I could cry

At Arlington.

To listen, click on album title below. To download, click on cart next to song.

Previously, Caraher had delivered children’s CDs like “Bow Wow Baby” and “Dog Bone Town,” and he joked that the musicians he worked with, “gently pushed me into this abyss.”

The abyss he must be referring to is the lyrically poignant “Radio Boy” which features a depth of songwriting that deserves to be heard.

“I just really care about words and I have a passion in wanting to emotionally affect people,” he said via e-mail. “My goal in song-writing is to engage an audience; to write songs where words are paramount and the music, the tune, is the icing.”

Caraher engages with a combination of stark lyrical landscapes and well-timed comic relief. Songs like the dark “In the Rain,” the story of a man losing his son to war that would have fit on Springsteen’s “Devils and Dust,” are juxtaposed with “Kindergartner in Love” in which a man’s first love becomes a nun.

“While I love the local music scene I’m actually more inspired by the incredible appreciation of poetry that exists here,” he said. “There aren’t many other communities where it’s SRO for a poetry reading.”

While words are central to the vibe of “Radio Boy,” Caraher was wise to enlist some of the very best to track the sound. Jim Henry, Keith Levreault, Chris Haynes, and Paul Kochanski lend their skills, as does fiddler Tracy Grammer.

“I’ve known Jim Henry for awhile,” he said. “He’s a fan of my songwriting and was glad to help out and he suggested I use Tracy on a few tracks. I’d never met her before but she is also very unassuming and easy to work with.”

Donnie Moorhouse, Springfield Repbulican

And Picture On the Fridge is downright funny, a lyrical coup, with lines like “Got your picture on the frigerator/That’s a big deal/It’s a real fine indicator/The way I feel/I’m not a good communicator/Honey, don’t quit/Don’t say see you later/Honey, you’re it”. A bit of Dylan with humor and a splash of Larry Norman’s 6 O’Clock News.

To tell the truth, I may have heard better singers but only a few have been able to pull of the variety of moods and styles Caraher does here. It helps, of course, to have the likes of Haynes, Tracy Grammer and Jeff Potter in the studio, but in the end, it is Dennis Caraher, songwriter, who makes the difference. If I was a performer, I would look at anything Caraher has written—closely.”

Frank Gutch, Jr., AcousticMusic.com

Henry Hallet, KXCI, Tucson, Arizona