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.

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Talking.

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.

Castle on a Hill

A lord lived there once. The floors remain;

A high, proud place. It still stands in parts,

On a hill in the midst of a field

Where the grass is cold and dull.

This lonely tower, a wreck that bore

Storm after storm, still holds within the life

Of someone lost to time. Someone who once listened

To the singing birds in the near-by forest –

The same songs that I heard not long ago.

Harbour.

The dusk sky on a harbour front –

Oh, it makes me drunk and happy.

The pubs are full and uproarious,

And the human sound in the air

Is footsteps, and the rhythm of the tide

Matches my breathing.

This is a land of ancient stone,

Unchanged roads, songs of autumn death

And songs of spring reborn.