Photo by Matheo JBT on Unsplash Oh, Down the dunes I roved; in tow The heady scent of petals, grow Under the steady sun; Below The sand wore ever on! … Continue reading A Wedding Song
I want to curl up so hard my limbs stick together
Like dough, like clay
Squeeze me together until the seams disappear
Lose my shape in your palms
Knead me smooth
Turn me over, and over and over
I’m raw potential now
Waiting for a chance to be something new
Let me rise and stretch
Push out with no borders
Give me time to grow
Enough to be formed into something
Cut me apart, round me out
Now the work’s begun in earnest
Squish and squeeze me
Turn and roll me
Make me into something new
Parts of old and parts of earth
Warmed by hands and hunger
Kept in molds to guide my body
Further skyward, never falling
When all’s been made as stone and wood:
Solid, but for the wanton need.
Give me this new self so I can
Make me again, and again,
Shape me however you please
My skin is as putty
My soul’s never slowed
Until your desire my form will
Take a look around
Can you see through the trees?
They’re so big and overgrown;
The wind is howling, but there’s no breeze
They tell us to stop lighting fires
To clear away the weeds
To clear out all this old growth brush
But they’re the ones who tend the roots
To keep them healthy
Keep us crushed
“At last I’ve found your heart, O Dreadnought”
I’ve been feeling instru
About the way I’m being held
Figurehead, like a grand tree, just
Waiting to be felled
When your time is up, timber,
The funeral march drones
Down into soil to grow the next
Regime upon your bones
You’ve got me feeling funda
With your book of holy text
Warping tales to fit around you
Like the noose around your necks
When you see the face of those outside
Your tidy little group
Do you see the people, lives and dreams,
Or only heathen soup?
Now I’m feeling senti
For the things I once held close
Shut up in some chest-of-drawers
Away from those that need them most
They tell me “give that up”;
You’re a child no more
But they hand me things no human wants
And try to sell me war
We treat them like they’re orna
Put the doll upon the dais
Worship at the feet of your idol
Before you burn and raze
If you’re planning out to conquer
All your neighbours and their fields
Reconsider who you pray to and
The power that it wields
This whole song’s experi
Digging into words and sounds
Playing up on emphasis and
Making sure the meaning pounds
Sometimes the lyrics flow like wine
But often Bacchus is a hog
And out come words that muck and mire
It’s really quite a slog
Listened to “Departure Songs” by We Lost The Sea while hashing this out. I sometimes write lyrics for songs that don’t exist yet.
Hope your Saturday is going well.
When the ship begins to sink
And hope is tossed asea
Don’t, clinging to your anchor, think:
“Surely this will save me!”
There is an ocean’s worth of difference
In knowing your boat is sinking
And knowing how to stop it
Without even thinking
If you find yourself adrift,
No paddle to your name,
Examine why you’re left becalmed
And do not jump to blame.
If it’s your design to end up here,
Congrats, you’ve done it, led by fear;
Now you’ve an ocean to sit and dwell
On why you chose to never tell
A soul about your personal hell.
If it’s fickle mind, poor chemical synthesis,
You might find the ocean a dense abyss:
More of a mire than a wide expanse
Less of a trial and closer to dance
With a partner who gives no second chance.
“Don’t panic”, they say, all teacups and sunshine,
Medicine bags full of useless tat.
But you’ve sailed these waters line by line;
There is no one fix to solving that.
All told, it is awful, and without cure;
Though there’s nothing wrong with you
You’re not impure
Your brain’s just a mess. Diagnosis: chemical
Full to the brim with habits inimical
But I believe in you, that’s the truth.
You can win against yourself.
Just remember, you’re okay,
And leave your habits on the shelf.
Apparently the first two verses were missing, oops!
Aye, the feelings still reside
Within the battered hide of the heart
But what use are they now,
Fruitless trees kept and tended
Only for history and memory
Their branches lie fallow in warmth
And cold alike.
“Could they burst forth with life again,” some ask, hopeful;
Others ask why I keep such empty vessels at all.
In truth, I cannot feed myself on hope
Nor wither myself to dust waiting
For a harvest surely imaginary.
The things are kept as a sign of progress
Of learning from one’s past, good and bad
A reminder and a marker.
New trees may take up their role
In the orchard of my soul,
And tended there in new light
They might produce unknown delight
If only the old do not poison them.
Heavy leaves of the most barren tree
Will still choke the life from those beneath
That ask for only moments of that blazing star
That the old memory drinks deep of. Oblivious.
Its time has passed, and should it come again,
It will come in the rebirth after the blaze,
The sun made manifest in the orchard of my soul.
Growth is hard, but is best noticed when left to itself. Keep yourself well and do likewise for others in the coming years.
I want to be the one that buys your art
So I can hear how happy it made you
How you struggled that week between jobs and chores
Or why a trauma gave you inspiration instead of just a scar
But I can’t always be that one.
Someone else will buy it instead,
and I’ll never hear that story.
And there isn’t a word I know
for that kind of happy sadness.
When I dip my head into the pools
To see what’s growing
What’s different from their neighbours
I see a cosmos that rivals the stars
So I dive deep
And when I finally pull myself up
I realize I forgot to breathe and
I wonder where the day has gone.
Busy months. Expect more stories and poetry soon!