In 4 minutes I will attempt
To write words
Strung together with
Some meaning
My eyes are stuck to the screen
Gleaming
Written in an attempt to say
What I have postponed along the way
Returning to ritual
Feels good
Yet not unusual
Rock and roll
Get ready to go
Living on the farm
Just east of
South Bend, IN
The nights we pull
Playing bass going low
Making coffee with the morning
Singing songs
All heard and warming
92 degrees
No sight of water or seas
Here in Indiana
Summers warming up
On the farm
Living just off the cusp
How can dust exist in such plethora
Consuming humans in black filth
Penetrating apartments with stealth
What is the creator
The destroyer
Yet it plooms from every
Vehicle brimming black and burdened
From the backs of trucks
Tossed lightly into the air
To begin it journey
Destination unknown
Yet it flies just softly enough
Through the screens
Into our homes
Where it land
Collects friends
Possibly propagates
Until we have the motivation to cleanse
Purging our home from such creations
Out the shoot
And back into the circle
Of the dust migration
Planes circle overhead
Outside dust stained windows
Bustling people away and close
Making their way from coast
To coast
On the ground cars rage honking
Swirling
Speeding
People walking
Talking
Thinking
Ignoring
We hold hands
Weaving through the crowds
With subtle plans
We think
We can
We hope
We plan
In New York
No second guess
No delay
Or deferred progress
But I sit wondering
Looking at the planes overhead
Shuffling the people around the world
New York to LA
In clear light
Late in March
On a sunny day
After many pains, deliberations, and delays
We are finally ready to make our way
To NYC and the east coast
We packed our bags
But still left most
Of what we owned behind
Tight car little time
Here we go
I-80 and the turnpike
I pray it clear with no ice
And we hope to make New York city
By night
10 feet of snow coming
Fresh bread on the counter
Waiting for the snow to come
Can’t leave
Worst storm in years
Mother nature throwing it in high gear
Dusting trees and coating drives
Glad to be warm and alive
They say it could reach 50 below
Plus at least 4 feet of snow
Today alone
Tomorrow will bring frigid air from Canada
Going be hard to see what happens to us
But we are warm
Inside a home
So there is no reason to be alone
We watch the weather and stay warm
This is the Midwest
So we come prepared
Where there is ice and wind
We burn through without a care
But this snow is different
Not quite so innocent
We will wait and we will see
What this winter storm
Will turn out to be
Cold air on sheltered skin
Slow sunrise and morning skies
Christmas
Baking goods
Flour and eggs
Bells singing
House creaking
The more I grow
I realize
As we get comfortable
The world gets ready
For change
Discontent in the bar on a Saturday
Everyone seems to be okay
Except this one character
Late fifties sniffing for something young
Couple too many drinks he has
Flung
Back
Into his wasted soul
And hardened heart
This man is doing nothing
But playing the creepy old man part
His breathe reeks of alcohol and beer
Harassing the poor musicians to play
A pick me up tune
So he can swoon the younger ladies
Sickened
To my stomach as I see him rummage
Through these civilized people
He is garbage left in the summer sun
Ruining the night life of everyone
His hair slicked back in 80’s fashion
Blond with protruding teeth
Blue eyes that see
Nothing but flesh on the bones of young women
He is sickened me to no redemption
I am but inches away from bending
Flinching into a rage of spirit
So that everyone in this bar can hear it
He is a wasted soul washed up on the shore
For he is that
And nothing more
A Cup of Songwriting 