In the Winds

Another Billy Collins…
January 6, 2010, 2:45 pm
Filed under: Art, Lyrics, Recommend

The Night House

Every day the body works in the fields of the world
Mending a stone wall
Or swinging a sickle through the tall grass-
The grass of civics, the grass of money-
And every night the body curls around itself
And listens for the soft bells of sleep.

But the heart is restless and rises
From the body in the middle of the night,
Leaves the trapezoidal bedroom
With its thick, pictureless walls
To sit by herself at the kitchen table
And heat some milk in a pan.

And the mind gets up too, puts on a robe
And goes downstairs, lights a cigarette,
And opens a book on engineering.
Even the conscience awakens
And roams from room to room in the dark,
Darting away from every mirror like a strange fish.

And the soul is up on the roof
In her nightdress, straddling the ridge,
Singing a song about the wildness of the sea
Until the first rip of pink appears in the sky.
Then, they all will return to the sleeping body
The way a flock of birds settles back into a tree,

Resuming their daily colloquy,
Talking to each other or themselves
Even through the heat of the long afternoons.

Which is why the body-the house of voices-
Sometimes puts down its metal tongs, its needle, or its pen
To stare into the distance,

To listen to all its names being called
Before bending again to its labor.


How long, How wide, How deep
September 15, 2009, 4:23 pm
Filed under: Lyrics

This is a short song I have been working on this week.  I’ve been thinking alot about the reality of God.  Knowing the attributes of God is good for doctrine and good for preaching to yourself in the mirror.  Doctrine is essential in leading to a clearer perception of reality, but it isn’t the reality itself.  God is not an idea.  He is a living being.  The Holy Being and The Ultimate Reality.  I have been praying that his attributes become real to me. We all have a hunger to know and be known by our Creator.  By extraordinary grace, love, and awesomeness, God wants us too!  In fact,he didn’t just love us back he loved us first.  (1 John 4:10)  If I could only grasp the complete reality and utter immensity of his love, grace, and sovereignty…how would I act?  How would I speak?  How would I trust?

I was a prodigal son in the famine and fire

I left the feast for the mud and the mire

I wanted the world, you wanted me

You broke into my soul so I could see

How long, how wide, how deep is your love in my life (2x)

I have stumbled on doubt with tears of need

You know my heart, help me believe

That the season of pain is a seed to sew.

I’m not there yet, but maybe one day I’ll know

How long, how wide, how deep is your love in my life (2x)

You came to me, you loved me first

You were the water of my thirst

A treasure in a jar of clay

With trembling I can proclaim

How long, how wide, how deep is your love in my life (2x)

February 15, 2009, 2:15 pm
Filed under: Art, Lyrics, Misc

This poem is actually a song by Bob Dylan.  So many good songs have tension in the lyrics.  (“if I stay there will be trouble….If I go there will be double.”)  Just kidding….maybe not the  best example.  But honestly I think we are drawn to songs with tension because they are  more sincere and true to life.  Our deepest emotions are, more often than not, layered and in competition with each other.   This song is a perfect example

Abandoned Love

I can hear the turning of the key
I’ve been deceived by the clown inside of me.
I thought that he was righteous but he’s vain
Oh, something’s a-telling me I wear the ball and chain.

My patron saint is a-fighting with a ghost
He’s always off somewhere when I need him most.
The Spanish moon is rising on the hill
But my heart is a-tellin’ me I love ya still.

I come back to the town of the flaming ruins
I see you in the streets, I begin to swoon.
I love to see you dress before the mirror
Won’t you let me in your room one time, before I disappear?

Everybody’s wearing a disguise
To hide what they’ve got left behind their eyes.
But me, I can’t cover what I am
Wherever the children go I’ll follow them.

I march in the parade of liberty
But as long as I love you I’m not free.
How long must I suffer such abuse
Won’t you let me see you smile one time before I cut you loose?

I’ve given up the game, I’ve got to leave,
The pot of gold is only make-believe.
The treasure can’t be found by men who search
Whose gods are dead and whose queens are in the church.

We sat in an empty theater and we kissed,
I asked ya please to cross me off-a your list.
My head tells me it’s time to make a change
But my heart is telling me I love ya but you’re strange.

One more time at midnight, near the wall
Take off your heavy make-up and your shawl.
Won’t you descend from the throne, from where you sit?
Let me feel your love one more time before I abandon it.

Crimson Wine
December 6, 2008, 2:27 pm
Filed under: Lyrics

We’ve put alot of pictures and updates on the blog, but haven’t really used it as a place of reflection or expression.  We have no news, and no new pictures…so…I thought I would post lyrics to one of the songs i’ve been working on.  Enjoy.

Crimson Wine

Thunder on the hardwood, riddle on rhyme

There’s fear and freedom dear, but we’re almost out of time

Criss-cross dimensions, I trip my head on the heavenly

Your green eyes gaze at the landscapes of peace and poverty


Once was blind but crimson wine was poured for me

One Sunday ray turned streets of gray to ivory

(He laid me low) 3x


Parallel to the ocean we walk a crooked line

The night crawls, the shadow falls, like my grip upon the vine.

Silver lingers over black waters, its a midnight, moonlight low

But hope still groans on your weak bones and rides a wave into your radio


Once was blind but crimson wine was poured for me

One Sunday ray turned streets of gray to ivory

Poem of the Month
November 16, 2008, 2:36 pm
Filed under: Art, Lyrics, Recommend

First Reader by Billy Collins

I can see them standing politely on the wide pages

that I was still learning to turn,

Jane in a blue jumper, Dick with his crayon-brown hair,

playing with a ball or exploring the cosmos

of the backyard, unaware they are the first characters,

the boy and girl who began fiction.

Beyond the simple illustration of their neighborhood

the other protagonists were waiting in a huddle:

frightening Heathcliff, frightened Pip, Nick Adams

carrying a fishing rod, Emma Bovary riding into Rouen.

But I would read about the perfect boy and his sister

even before I would read about Adam and Eve, garden and gate,

and before I heard the name Gutenberg, the type

of their simple talk was moving into my focusing eyes.

It was always Saturday, and he and she

were always pointing at something and shouting, “Look!”

pointing at the dog, the bicycle, or at their father

as he pushed a hand mower over the lawn,

waving at aproned Mother framed in the kitchen doorway,

pointing toward the sky, pointing at each other.

They wanted us to look but we had looked already

and seen the shaded lawn, the wagon, the postman.

We had seen the dog, walked, watered, and fed the animal,

and now it was time to discover the infinite, clicking

permutations of the alphabet’s small and capital letters.

Alphabetical ourselves in the rows of classroom desks,

we were forgetting how to look, learning how to read.