The Dreamer of No Dream
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Tag Archives: nate hoff
Rooftop Friday
Rooftop Friday nights
Pressed linens and evening skylights
Skyline fading in the backdrop
Of this terrace rooftop
Music plays gentle melodies
Clouds block out burning light
My guitar sits waiting for a new tune
Played well into the evening night
Breeze passes on my left cheek
Sunlight wrapping around flowers and pillars alike
Chairs waiting for the party to begin
Breaking out and summers in
Flowers push up from soil life giving
Trees fall soft on distant ground
Giving life to the view from above
Green and golden a generous view
A tower and a dome rest to the north
Towering over trees confident exuberant
Bricks filled solid and firm
Prepared for years of life
Holding the structure to the ground
On a Friday night on a rooftop
Eyes see what I have not seen
In a way I have never seen
As the night wanes on
Fall asleep until that morning dawn
The Sweet Smell of Rejection
Nothing like the sweet smell of rejection in the morning
To receive the call an early warning
Its not the right fit but I wish you the best
But if you had to receive a grade you failed the test
Refreshed I see it in a morning sigh
No more than a simple rejuvenating sign
That more must be done to push forward
No looking back or retracting your hand
Giving my best out there I cannot look back
The evening lines have been drawn in the sand
Take a breath and begin again
This will seem to happen every now and again
I take it as a compliment
That the successful plans have been laid
I will not give into some cheap demands
To jump at their will fall upon their command
People look for something to fill their own void
All the while they hold stiff while creativity is destroyed
Looking for something to replace the old
Will make the fillers seem out of place and cold
Wet and waiting on the driveway of replacement
Taking what just comes along seems way to complacent
They want someone who will fit the mold
Casting away the unique and the wanderers
The fearless and the bold
For someone who does not mind to grow mold
Upon their creative gears and will simply listen to their peers
Me that I am not and surely never will be
What will ever become of me I guess I will wait and see
As for now I am content on my bed of worthlessness
It does not fear me to be alone out here calling
Much better than rich and my creative mind mauling me
I recluse back to come back stronger
Eager to fight again
Rejection is nothing more
Than a reason to start again
The Daily Routine
Ah the challenge of keeping creativity alive in my life. As I am pulled to try and sell the art and the creations that have already occurred. It is hard sometimes to step back and try and let the creative juices be heard. So I sat down to try and document my daily routine of keeping creativity alive in my life. So here it is – enjoy!
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The daily routine
Wake up in the morning
Make sure to exercise
Work out the arms and the thighs
Get back and get cleaned up
Got to write and practice
Keep the routine up
3 or four hours later
I now sit at the compu-tater
Life’s lines complex yet defined
I make this no place to wine
Letting go on paper what must be done
Seemed like a good idea
Challenging and fun
Poems must be constructed daily
This challenges what I have to say
About beauty, art, and the progress of today
The challenge is not to conform
But to set a new aggressive norm
Creativity must be engaged often
Or else the course muscles will soften
Decay and leave your soul
Looking for someone else to enroll
The creative spirit can be fleeting and gone
So I must capture these spirits in songs
Poems, writings, and other means
Or else I will be left with nothing
Creativity gone and no job to boot
I look pretty bad now in a business suit
Full of aspirations are these writings
Even though my mind is rattled with distractions
I must be real and stay ahead
Better off here trying
Than creativity dead
Long Days and Unpaid Bills
Long days and unpaid bills
Winters long and summer thrills
Get laid off find a new job
Find the hustle to make ends meet
I will never sit in the CEO seat
But this hustle has a beat
A beat that keeps my feet moving
Put some food on the table
Waiting for news
Information I could really use
The days slip through my fingers
All everyone sits around and debates
Whether the songs written
Have what it takes
To pay the health insurance
To give my life a little assurance
Is that all I sought?
a fish swimming through life
In the net of capitalism caught
The Old Car
The old car is still hanging in
making it through Winter’s thick and Summers thin
The AC rattles
the carpets are worn out
But the motor still delivers me to the destination
very devout
The weather is broken in
The locks don’t work and haven’t for days
The radio still sings out a couple of melodies
But when the wheels struggle up the hill it gets my sympathy
on a warm day in June
When the engine is ringing out
In it’s classic tune
Bellowing out like a great monsoon
This is my car and I stand by it
Even though the dollars I’ve paid have been multiplying
But it is a true beauty and I ain’t lying That’s all I have to say about this your car
It’s taken me miles and miles afar
The dream alive when I get down
We’ve toured we’ve laughed we’ve cried
In this cabin we lived our lives
So this car I say cheers
I hope you may live on for years and years
Swollen Hands
Her heart has more love to give
Then I’ll ever know
Her heart has more love to give
And she’s growing old
–
Time can harden your heart
Break you apart
And turn it into sand
With weary eyes
And weathered lines
No one would understand
These eyes see the world
Felt the knife slide through
Her swollen hand
Call the birds
Forget yourself
Put your ambitions on the shelf
No way to live
Don’t ask but give
Breeding nothing but bitterness within
–
This heart has more love to give
Then I’ll ever know
This heart has more love to give
And we are growing old
–
When things get bad around you
Walls falling down too
I know what she’ll do
She will start again
With some new friends
A new life so far from the bends
Make her way
Cutting off the slack
Far away and never looking back
Then one day
She will turn and say
Things were never quite the same
She will know
That in her soul
Pain fades but never grows old
TV’s On
Late night at the Italian joint
we sit tired and staring
talking about how we are
going to make our lives
work
6 tv’s blaring telling us what to think
Next I am easily distracted
by the compact box
lighting the room
the food is good and will do
but as for me and you
it has been 10 years in the making
no more waiting
we are going to make our move
but for now in this vacant little resteraunt
we enjoy each other
even with the tv’s on
Summer Rain
Summer rain falls mid day
filling the pavements
washing dead bugs and twigs away
cascading on grass so needy
pulling it beneath the earth
taking its fill and nothing greedy
grass blades bend soft with water pose
hoping that the sun will keep it live on loan
but the cloud has filled with pulled cotten clean
billowing the small stacks of steam
I sit and wander
how the world rejoices in summer thunder
for me under the roof i sit and watch
that water falls to the ground
filling the parched holes in the earth
with a simple pitter patter
the wonderful summer sound
The River is Swollen
Up in Fargo, ND there is some serious flooding going on – in Chicago too. I scribbled this together with Siri on the 16 hour drive home. Enjoy.
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The river is swollen.
Fargo fields are flooding overflowing
with water and run off
falling from the sky filling the fields 3 feet high.
Taking turns to throw sandbags to hold the river back.
The water collects the fields and dirt and turns brown and black.
While the snowflakes fall fast and crash on the pavement.
Painting the fields and streets White a revealing statement.
But the river water will not turn from our abatement
Flowin and rolling through the Fields
Making its way
While the water doubles it’s yields.
There is no shield from this water
flowing it just pushes its way wherever it’s going.
Because when the Fargo fields are flooding it’s as serious as can be.
When the fields are full and the animals flee.
What to do with the river now is up to you and me.
A Cup of Songwriting 