Isaac Asimov stated the obvious
and Vonnegut smiled like a loon
Bradbury laughed to see such fun
and Dick put a man on the moon, the moon,
and Dick put a man on the moon.
song
a scribbled partial lyric found in box
my favourite shirt lies on the bed
just like that Nicky Heyward said
and no one pulled the blinds last night
I laugh inside at who I became
on Earle Street in the pouring rain
as my shadows drank up the light
of just another Sunday morning
let regrets play no mind
just another tied on head
push the button to rewind
Songwright (unfinished)
write songs with sincerity
to sing them with uncertainty
show that side to you we wish we were
amd in our insecurity
we’ll find out who we want to be
beyond that which to the world we share.
Another Verse Without A Protest Song
the bells are ringing,
and the sirens singing
to warn of wars that never came
for the end will be dealt
in silence and stealth
and what was won’t come again.
The Forgotten Songs (unfinished)
In the days before
I was filled with youthful songs
still I sing their words
though the music comes out wrong
as now my days are short
and their tunes but memories
floating back across the years
to who I used to be
in some long lost springtime
each verse a lover’s dream
have now in winter as regret
relate what may have been.
Untitled Song
she said to me farewell
and from this summer’s golden joy
winter’s dark befell
she said to me goodbye
and ’twas at once all of the stars
had left the evening sky.
we are no more she said
and in a moment from this heart
all that lived was bled.
From Another Riverbank (a song for Scott Walker)
from another riverbank
I stand watching her
framed against
the distant clouds
from another riverbank
I stand watching her
singing her song
without words
from another riverbank
I stand watching her
as the rain falls
on the still waters
and the ripples which grow
closer to the other side
roll against the footprints
where she once stood
and whisper my song
too late, too late
while I can only stand
and watch her
from another riverbank
Just Writing
this sunset tastes like
eighty three
then nights were
what they’re meant to be
in which we played
our party games
and in them
parts of us remained
Partial Song
I’m too far gone from my mind today
to write a song for you today
so instead
I’ll whistle a tune
and hope you make
all the words come true
earnest verse for an imaginary young busker
they will give you circus tricks
and not even throw you bread
distract you from bright futures
with their faded pasts instead
