The lilting sound of Townes Van Zandt –
It’s a sound that speaks like the nameless town
At dusk, when people expect something.
And they won’t find it, but they can dull it
Until they forget they ever wanted anything at all.
It’s something in the air that brings you to tears
Because it reminds you of something simpler
And now you’re stuck between one responsibility
And another. Both reach out to you when you try to leave.
It’s something like a mountain too far to see,
Like a river of promised wine in a depression era song;
It’s an ear to the wooden floor in the hoping
That something will soon go wrong.
It’s the echo of Spain in the West Coast
That doesn’t speak as romantic as the language
But hides the poetry in its pleading.
Sometimes the light beating wings are just as misleading
As the songs from a hopeless heart.
A small running stream –
Wind chimes from the neighbour’s porch.
Blue tired evening.
Sunrise on the hills –
White snow rests on their high peaks,
They seem far away.
A summer lay in your heart
And the ocean flowed through your veins
Your breath was the breeze in the shaded courtyard.
You sewed the spring in me
That bloomed into the invincible sun,
And planted my feet on the ground
To cast away the pain and let flow the fun.
I miss conversation
That falls like wrong notes
In the right rhythm;
That played about the air in the summer
And melted the snow.
It was always about nothing,
But to feel the words,
And to hear the music of another,
Builds a moment in time.
In the years of learning and city freedom
The breeze always seemed blue.
My feet sprang from the Victorian pavement
And my eye caught the beauty of buildings,
Fallen leaves, a car pausing to let a passer by
Cross the road. I walked through art
Like Van Goughs whirling night,
And left my thoughts to run with words,
Words to play in the paradises of my creation.
I had some to share it with, and some I wish were there.
But it was never more-easy than when I walked
Through the days when I knew I was part of the rhythm
It is a winter of inquiry and romance
And against better judgement I read the news,
Nothing much is going on but the offers to fly
Are enticing. I’d rather gaze at the fair Italian moon
Than the crimson wash of the Manchester sky.
I’ve got excitement within my reach,
But as soon as my heart starts to pound
I retreat into the crescent arms of early night.
I’d rather feel an African joy than the woes of a northern boy,
But my hands are pale like a river
And the choirs in my town are solemn and repressed.
I’m sure I’m awake to the fire of Elvis
And the conversation of Richard Harris,
But the wind that follows the car are ribbons reaching home.
I’ve kept the curtains open
So as to rise with the sun.
It comes cold and golden into my room,
And grows as the Mersey River runs.
It is only just gone five
And the songs of morning birds arrive,
The roar of speeding trains
Has yet to break through the tired day.
I’m happy to know the world still sleeps
And I sit in bed awake,
Still too lazy, maybe, to leap up to my feet
But pleased to steal what there is of life to take.
The rain falls reluctantly around me
Picking up strength as time moves on.
The yellow sky is letting go of its stars
And they fall with joy, dripping lazily
From gutters and off the green leaves.
I’m watching a city take a breath
As the rain plays about its streets,
Covering all as one.
Striking sounds of silver and gold
Float through the open window,
The sun is lazy in its waking.
Soul songs stir through the night
And play until the dawn;
The cold moon lets go,
A love light turns on.
Rhythm and melody intertwine
Everything starts feeling fine,
A new morning blooms
From the light singing of strings.
In this room lies the start of spring.
The vines on the walls
The light stirring of the mid-morning crowd
The sun falling over her
The smell of olives, the taste of wine
The rags of history
The warmth of the breeze
The blue of the resting ocean
The music in the town
The final all enfolding gold of the evening
And the fire of the streetlights at night.