The music and the writing



Poems

The List

The girl sits at the table, notebook open, pen in hand
Each day the same, the same, the same, so hard to understand
How one so bright could stumble, stagnate
Scribbling lists and lists and lists, yet unable to open the gate.

Must get out, scream and shout, find myself a job
Make some friends, avoid the bends, Christ I'm such  a slob
Must get out, scream and shout, got to get a job
Where to go, what to do, must not cry or sob.

The world's my oyster so they say, so this time I must go
Check the list, clench my fist, onward onward but no
Not quite ready yet, must be sure and certain
Another day, another list, is this the final curtain?

Crying in the dark

Tear stains on your pillowcase, a sure unhappy sign
of anguished nights, no bright lights, precious young daughter of mine
Your demons came and left at will, no calling card required
They seized your mind, left little behind, your face so drawn and tired.

Crying out in the dark, like dog howl and bark
so desperate you were to leave your mark
Yet you denied all those who tried, yes tried, to help you
love you, hold you, hug you, save you.

So here I stand in this last room you slept in
packing up your clothes, your books, your art
I feel your pain and I'm half expecting
to hear you crying in the dark.

The White Butterfly

Flitting here, floating there, moving on the breeze
pastures new, petal dew, such short time to seize
seldom settled, always searching, elusive joy to find
hopes held high, pie in the sky, always on our minds.

You broke our hearts, constant new starts
never able to cross that line
to fulfil your dreams, but so it seems
you finally ran out of time.

So when I see a butterfly flying
a white one, all alone
I close my eyes and cry at your dying
and just wonder where you have flown?