Unbending hope
Pulled out from under me
Hands tight on the rope
The feelings of letting go
Blown around
My hope preservers
That good people walk next to me
Alongside my steps
Friends walking with friends
That is the beauty of the ascent
To find more of myself the what I knew
To realize instead of shrinking
I grew
I
The light passes through glass
Rigid at the top
Distorted unequal wobble
Of light through the bottle
Incandescent lit up flutter
Transparent empty
Filled and dashed away
Sips of cold water saved
Into the hot wash
Cracked plastic dry
On the table coop
In this coffee shop
–
The Brooklyn Cafe
Seven up hot drinks
Laughter
Tunes
Common swoons
While the coffee machine croons
To stiff business collars
And relaxed jackets
Soft sips
Furrowed brows
White tables decorated with coffe stain
Constant drone of the roaster
Light bean roasted
In the Brooklyn Cafe
–
Sometimes we just need help
A four letter word
That keeps me from running to far off
On days
Where my pants are dirty
My mind worries
Where the next paycheck is coming
So I find myself running
Not with my feet
Constant thoughts
But then I get some help
It comes in any form
Off the beaten path and more the norm
These small gestures I suggest
Mean more day to day
Take sullen weights off my weary chest
I muse myself that the world can see my needs
Humanity in its entirety
Knows what I need
So I just have to remain steady
Hold on hope
That I can persevere
Through the sleepless nights
And life will return back
Resuming that it will be alright
Damp stillness in the Hudson Valley
Rocks broken
The cold ground
Swirves so violent and gentle
The Tectonic is avoided
Longer paths are better enjoyed
20 minutes from civilization
But 2 hours from the city
In the studio
Committed and gritty
On a Friday
In the August blush
You know I don’t eat that anymore
The smell of processed meats
Leaking through the cracked door
Orange yellow eggs smashed in
Not quite sure if it the slightest smell of plastic
That did me in
Logs of meat hammered out
Full of sodium bicarbonates
The thoughts just frustrates
But on Sunday mornings the family still enjoys
The processed meats
Made from recycled toys
The morning rests soft
Easy speaking and waking slow
The summer breeze rustles
Through the soft flower leaves
Change has its way of breaking me
Lowering my tolerance for what is coming
Arise to life’s challenges yet
One by one
I hope my buffer for new will not come undone
I have heard stories of burn outs
Giving up
I know that the roads we create
Are not easy or clear
But what we do
We do for love
My dear
Sudden change is what we fear most
Life’s swelling waves
In a small fishing boat
Bail out the water
Keeping our heads above the sea
It’s a commitment we made
A long time ago
Over a cup of Darjeeling Tea
There we were
The last night on the farm
The summer of farewells
Sun setting soft in the clouds
That lie just above the horizon
Air light and easy
Wind calm subtle yet breezy
So many memories made over months
Lived on the farm
Time to move on
No reason to hold on
Holding on too tight
Will only make it difficult to let go
So pack up our bags
And lets hit the road
Everything I need is right here in front of me
My hands, eyes, hope, desire
Everything I can use to bring myself higher
Hard work is the barrier
Constraining my own ethic
I feel that I have now realized this simple truth
What you focus on grows
What you forget about goes away with old
So I must refocus on what is in front of me
All the tools I need
Are surrounding me
Asking me
I will answer
Some details are always secret
Frustrating and deliberate
Held back with animosity
Towards the roaming misfit
Truth is never quite told
Lies sleekly avoided
News spread through lies spun
Then voided
I hope to deal with such grace
That I can overcome dealing with
The real face
Of a roaming misfit
Hold my tongue in place
For when he shows up to my door
Waiting for the embrace
I will hold back the words true and harsh
Hoping for something more contained and smart
But the webs we weave
Some to build
Others to deceive
I know this now more than before
So I will smile with reserve
When this man shows up to my door
A Cup of Songwriting 