Perfect Tune

I trust that a man can create the moon with his voice

And reap the melancholy they create.

The woman who leads the stars into the sky

Can charm the misshapen hands of fate.

But the simple words that rest between you and me

Are born into patterns of crimson and gold;

Though the smiles and laughs and the final goodbyes

Rest on our skin already forgotten and cold.

We rely on people we trust to have seen our act

To shape the formless tide of mood;

All collected in a narrative we create together

In the heart of the perfect tune.


Ideal Dreams

Well, my dreams remain stately seen

in a passing eye or my written melody.

And somewhere are the places that I know,

although I see them with a golden glow.

I hope that my dreams will always stay

never to dim with the passing days.

And I know one thing that still stands true;

dreams never die, they simply change.


You don’t notice the world when you’re talking.

When you remember the scene, you remember everything:

The temperature of the wind, the sounds of laughter,

The pebbles parting beneath your feet.

And parts in-between you paint into view,

Like the camera angles that would have captured you best,

The lingering shot on the moment they looked at you,

The song that should have been playing, just audible enough.

But at the time you lose yourself to the small things that you say;

The things that make you happy just being there.

Small Southern Poem

Big delta heart aged one hundred and three;

Crossed a mighty river,

Showered by the tears from the high hanging trees,

And that steamboat never slowed down.

His crooked cemetery smile grounded the crows

That followed like the band;

And they sang in the sermon weary night

Till it got out of hand,

Still that steamboat went rolling on and on.

The Simple Things

The simple things I long for

Like blue skies over cable cars

Only happen in the movies

Littered with forgotten stars.


Warm fires on winter days

Romances to light the summer sun

Seem so close to touch

Yet remain hidden when the day is done.


The good life in the streets

People smiling, birds in the trees

Are locked outside my door

Maybe waiting there for me.


But the simple things I long for

Come from technicolour stories;

The right lines to the saddest songs

And people chasing down memories.

Late Night at the Hotel

The blessed final drink late at night

As the rain turns gold in the glow of the spotlight

And the gamblers amble from their games.

Your song had finally been sung

Remembering the last time you were stung

By the one who can chill you with her name.


The sympathetic ear that once stood so near

Is at the other end of the bar

And your inner thoughts turn to wondering

If anyone cares where you are,

But the money you’ve spent and the letters you’ve sent

And the final whispering goodbye –

Leaves you with no feeling left in your heart

And a pair of tired eyes.


The light footsteps on the polished floor

Are making their way towards the open door

Into the cold silence of the night,

And you listen for her even though you know

She had left so long ago

And you didn’t even put up a fight.