Sing it with Full Confidence

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Note: this is a song I made up in the car. If I remember to write the notes down, I’ll include it here in an edit. It’s a fast-paced, bluesy song.

Sing it with Full Confidence

I’m a daughter of the water
And a child of the land
I got one foot in a puddle
And my hands in the sand
I’ll take my bucket to the river
Till the waters run dry
Then I’ll cry
Then I’ll cry

It doesn’t have to make sense
If you sing it with full confidence!
Sing to me, in a tree
From your boat on the Seine
If you can pull on my heartstrings
Then I’ll call you a man
And we can sail down that river
Till waters run dry
Then say goodbye
Say goodbye

It doesn’t have to make sense
If you sing it with full confidence!

I’ll be found, underground
Digging down the core
With amphora in my backpack
And my soul wanting more
I’ll drink full from the Styx
Till the waters run dry
And I’ll die
Yes I’ll die!

It doesn’t have to make sense
If you sing it with full confidence!

Observing Death at a Sickbed

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I can see you, though I don’t know what to call you in passing.

You are not an angel, but you are not a monster.

A shadow without darkness,

A solemn thing without judgment.

I can see you, old bird, faceless man,

I know you smile gently.

I tried screaming at you.

But you did not hear me

I wept at you and begged.

But you did not see me.

I raged.

But you did not need me.

Now I nod and smile gently in return

Now we catch each other in the corners of our eyes.

So you are with us again

A caressing, skeletal hand

Down a dress,

Cupping a breast,

Murmuring eternal nothings in an ear –

We cannot hear those teeth

Those tongueless mouths.

Hearts drown out the sound.

The Italian Renaissance showed it best-

A voluptuous woman

In a yellow gown

Braided hair and rosy lipped

A bag of bones draped around her shoulders,

A hand gently plucking back a bodice

This is the particular beauty that we cannot see

Not life but death

Nor life yet death

But life and death

The constant, the beautiful truth

The unchanging and informal caress

Of a promise which is always kept.

I wonder – will I see you when you drape your arms around me?

It would not be a bad thing

To track your progress in the room

To count your steps to my side

Perhaps that would be better than being tackled by you on a highway

HansBaldung

Two Poems: Modern Viking & Soup Tureen

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Poem 1: Modern Viking

The moon rose lustrous and whole.

The morning was nothing but gray.

I spent the night in a fine, restful sleep.

I think I will rampage today.

Last night I had hope in my heartstrings.

This morning I have bills to pay.

I spent the night in a fine, restful sleep.

I think I will rampage today.

I’ve lived all my life in the system.

My bones know no other way.

I spend all my nights in a fine, restful sleep.

But I think I could rampage today.

Just to shake off the dust on my shoulders.

Just to take on the morning and say,

“I spent the night in a fine, restful sleep.

I think I will rampage today!

Lest I sit in a withering office,

Till my body turns black with decay,

And I spend my last night in a fine, restful sleep,

And the Reaper carts me away!

I’ll set fire to all of my neckties!

I’ll steal all the women away!

I’ll spend the night in a fine, restful sleep!

I’ll go on a rampage today!”

 

When the moon rises lustrous and full

When the mornings are cloudy and gray

There’s always the craziest option:
You could go on a rampage today.

 

 

 

Poem 2: Soup Tureen

I dream, I dream

Of a soup tureen

And a soup spoon rest to go with it

I’d never stoop

To serve a soup

With a ladle that could not relax for a bit

 

I wish, I wish

For a chafing dish

Imagine my kitchen buffet

Oh the money I spent

Is half of the rent

But I’m rich so I spend anyway

 

Alas, alas

I’ll have to pass

On that dream of utensils so fine

For bills are a bitch

Which soup cannot fix

Serve a bowl, pay a bill -they’re both mine

 

 

The Bumbling Man

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I would not trust the man
Who never walked into a door.
Or bumped into a table.
Or tripped upon the floor.

These men who never stub their toes
And stand aloft, (so grand!)
They stride unmarred by grass stains,
Yet never understand.

We cannot live on horses
That are themselves so high
That we forget that we’re all limbs
And limbs do go awry.

My friends, it’s tiny bumbles
Which make us all alike!
So trip upon your laces!
And stumble off your bikes!

And trust the man who fails
To attain Perfection’s throne
For he’s the man who when you fall
Won’t let you fall alone.