Maybe Sunday

We throw conversations into phones,
pretend they make us flesh and bone,
it feels my blood has turned to dust,
the air smells like it's full of rust.

As if
there was
some hope,
of life
becoming
to cope
with me.

Remembrance is all we have left,
of days whose nights we took as theft,
fences surround houses next door,
leaves cover feelings I ignore.

My mind
wraps
around,
one idea
full
of sound
for you.

Prompted by my request,
maybe Sunday, was just said,
people take the streets to get,
all sorts
of odds and ends,
all types
of little gems,
keep waiting for some reward,
that maybe I cannot afford.

Fragments

Fragments of leaves,
chains, light,
fragments of red and brown,
and you are outtasight.

Pieces of me, left,
there,
some guitar riffs,
just tear
the air.

Fragments of life, of days
and nights,
snow covers the roofs,
wonder how we came to say it might.

Fragments of joy,
and a handful of dimes,
would like to give you a call,
don't know where to draw the line.

Fragments of winter,
pieces of us,
a cold draught, december,
you better go, before you miss the bus.

Muzzle of bees

I was so hooked up by this song this morning while driving I could not avoid posting it here. It almost made me take the wrong exit to work. Awesome. Btw, this is by Jeff Tweedy.

There's a random painted highway

And a muzzle of bees

My sleeves have come unstitched

From climbing your tree

And dogs laugh, some say they're barking

I don't think they're mean

Some people get so frightened

Of the fences in between

And the sun gets passed from tree to tree

Silently, and back to me

With the breeze blown through

Pushed up against the sea

Finally back to me

I'm assuming you got my message 

On your machine

I'm assuming you love me

And you know what that means

Sun gets passed, sea to sea

Silently, and back to me

With the breeze blown through

Pushed up above the leaves

With the breeze blown through

My head upon your knee

Half of it's you, half is me

Half of it's you, half is me

Wish

One thing I wish for stands out this morning full of dust,
it rests on small details, not easy to describe,
like the way you cast shadows, down at the seaside;
you might wonder whether one can have it
at the front door or where the street ends,
and while the answer to that is not easy to find,
when daylight fades it stirs my mind
to the point where even then it feels like a knife thrust.

This little wish comes from dairy farming up in Killyleagh,
goes round in circles searching for a path which should be straight,

it's been long now since I last saw a naked full moon,

about the same length in time it takes to see some feelings bloom,

and as the air I keep breathing is still thick,

distress invades my mind as a shattered wall of bricks,

it is about time to see the beach in Stranford Lough again,

I guess I should do it, even to ease this pain.

So, in all, my wish becomes an all-purpose

while searches for life, for the lost and found,

reaches a stage where surpasses my senses,

my fate, my mirror, my mind to be sound,

gains depth, width, height, dimension,

wants to be yours without further exception.

Fate

Fate is a mirror,
for my soul and my sins,
it keeps spinning around,
as if it were to begin
reconciling ups and downs,
stretching out the time
we have left to live...

Fate is my truth,
my reason, my silence,
it stays all the same,
without all this abstract nonsense;
I am trying to reach out,
I am striving to find a limelight,
wish to draw a picture,
like the one we saw in Florence.

There is a shortage of ideas,
a shortage of gas,
my tank is close to empty,
and I'd like to drink from your glass,
while we drive north of here,
with no direction at all,
fate is nothing but a mirror,
for all my sins and my soul.

Hospital

I am standing here
wishing for an empty winter tree
that howls in the dark
without a trace of a spark
whilst the night fights a battle with me

Marbles

Did anyone see my last marble

As it rolled out and over the floor?

It fell through a hole in the corner

Of a room in a town on a tour

It's lonely without your last marble

I miss it not rattling around

As I lie in my bed there's a space in my head

Where there used to be colours and sound...

(Steve H.)