This might be the cover of my next book.
It might not take so long as the others have to write as I think I might leave the pages of this one clear of any ramblings, rhymes, and stumbles.
Can the subtle sound of blank pages turning by one’s own hand lead to anywhere worthy?
If I were to leave a copy of Grace on a park bench, would a passerby take it and carry it along and then later in their room slowly turn its blank pages and be stirred somehow?
Then close it again and put it away.~
tension clouds in the air today
tension everywhere and every way
walking around eyes to the ground
suspicion grinds it’ll take you down
sometimes I don’t want what it is I see
so much cracked fragmented humanity
Tom Waits says a song is like a prayer
a letter sent to somebody way out there
scribble me one I promise I’ll read
somebody willing to plant a good seed
I lean in close to the sound I hear
find hope in thin slivers of possibility🪶
What will we do
When the old barn falls?
How will we remember
How it sheltered us all?
What sound will we hear
When the walls lay down?
What will we do
When the old barn’s gone?