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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Seagulls

I always loved the sound of gulls in the morning.

My father complains. They no more shatter the dawn

As the arriving cars. They are the music of the sea

And the sun shines with them. Who cares if they steal

From time to time?

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.

Today

I am singing through the voices of my heroes

Here on a grey day in February

And the wind is yelling at me to stop.

I have burned through Neil Young

And now I don’t know where to turn.

I want to paint the mellow autumn

That he describes, only my drifting fingers

Repel the brush. My own voice can’t hit

C sharp minor 7. I want to drown this creative sorrow

In a bar, alone, with quiet music,

But I am too nervous to live out this cliché.

I’ll Have To Go

I’m tracing animals in the water,

I’m thinking of churchyards in the sun.

I’m watching leaves cling to trees

And the silver river run.

 

I’m singing simple songs,

And considering pathways down the road;

I’m happy where I am

But I know soon I’ll have to go.

 

My white shirt is stained by the earth,

The muffled roar of cars float by.

I’m watching honey be poured

On the evening sky.

 

I lie in grass now fresh and green

That will again be covered with snow;

I’m happy where I am

But I know soon I’ll have to go.

Lust for Adventure

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.

Good Morning

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.

High Society

Let me enter the stunning worlds

Of rich circles in high society nights

And let my clothes be torn

And my hair pulled by the wind

So as to invite looks of disgust…

And then I’d start to sing

Awful cackles of misshapen carols;

Then let security chase me

As I slam into tables,

Step on champagne glasses,

Break a window,

Headbutt an aristocrat,

Then leave without a fuss.

Christmas in a Convent circa 1923

Well, the snow aint falling this year

Inform the orphans we’ll be penalizing all signs of Christmas cheer;

And Sister Maria stole my last bottle of beer,

What a lousy way to spend Christmas Eve.

 

Father Cohen fell down the chimney

And we’re not entirely sure he’ll recover from his injury;

Little Timmy just won’t stop sinning,

It’s a pretty lousy way to spend Christmas Eve

 

I’m bored of burning Christmas wishes

I’m tired of hearing the children sing as they wash the dirty dishes;

I’ve just been told my brother’s sleeping with the fishes,

It aint the best way to spend Christmas Eve.

 

Oh Sisters, I’m packing my bags

I’m sick of looking at the rosy red faces of you old hags;

I’m climbing out the window and I aint looking back,

There’s no better way to spend Christmas Eve.