Monthly Archives: March 2013

Listen to the Quiet AMeri…..Canadian

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It’s Only These Days……Listen


Hole in the Board

i’m a
stompin
and
a
kick’n
and
a hittin
that
board –
feet, dont’cha
fail my
plow
I’m a
stompin and
a
lickn’
fingers just
a
pickn’

Lord, can you hear me now?

I’m a leaf
just
a
loof
just a
Canada goose-
with
black hat
leather
boots
just a movin
to a
scoot

Canada don’t you know my sound?

I’m a hummin’
and
a
strumin’
a
holdn’
my course
for a chance
i’m
gonna
sing tonight

I’m a
walkn’
just
a headin’
and
leaving
no.7
hitchin a
ride
to heaven
somehow

Lord,you can hear me now

I’m a stompin’
and a hittin’ and a lickn’
just a pickn’ and
a singing-
feet, don’t ya
fail me now

just a
hummin’ and a strummin’
with another
hole in the board
guess i’m gonna
hafta
play one more-
but my
Canada is our heaven
and
i’m
headin’ over
her
shield right
now


Your Cloak

give
me
strength
when i lay
down
guide
my
world
when i close
my eyes
teach
me
trust and
take
my stress
i
give
it
freely, but
hold
it
tightly
My
love for you
is
a thankful
wave
a
boat
i sail
and
forget
i’m in
oh
Lord
put me on solid
ground
your
rock
my
hammer
your
hands of
clay
teach me
effort
while eye
i
close
give
me dreams
i
touch
your
cloak
.


I am the TIGER

i’m a tiger on
the
curlers broom
100 years
of old
corn and leather
pushing legs
like
a rock stars
microphone
stand
made of wood
holding balance
and calculating
the
pool table
set
up
where’s my pink hat
i used
to
wear a
pink hat
a scotsman
worst
nightmare
and
a
micks
best
temper
i am the tiger
this
is an old
broom
push
me home slowly tonight
i’m
ready


Sir John A. and the man in pink

i watch for the mundane
in a colourful
town
the man in pink
under
Sir John
two drunks rejoined
dancing the horse
before
the cannons
king street has exploded
from the
explosions
the comic book
is
born
and John street has
a corner
where the wolves
can come out
in daylight
and howl
i look for the colourful
in
the
mundane
the man in pink is asleep
Sir John
steals the bottle
for the another
take
only to feel whole
with
the daytime
vampires
making love
to the
crippled
wolves
plugged into
the outdoor
plug ins
and selling
drugs back
to the
pigeons
fed corn
from a
sloppy
guitar
rhythm
picking out
the grit
and
the stones
of a town
that once
had umbrellas
and pools
full patio grass
on the rooftops
sketched
by the architects
who
knew why
a steel mill
was sexy
in the
background
while
sipping tea
while
sir john
A
and the man
in pink
fight the
colourful
mundane
for the final
pull from the
brown
bag


Kelly (or the writers paintbrush)

she’s the ballerina
painted on
my
easel
she’s the canvas dancing
across my
walls
paint brushes that
can’t
capture the
pirouette
black-and-white
grey , browns that
sparkle
the sand (which)
i didn’t realize
had such
light
i am a poor man
who can’t paint
her beauty
properly
thats the artist she
loves
most
because a pedestal
she
wants no
part
of.


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