Songwriting, The Song Well, Tunesday

Tunesday: Oct 27th: Through the Woods

Every Tunesday I post a boldly imperfect, one-take song draft of a song. This was written from this past Saturday’s prompt, “Through the Woods” (You can receive a new prompt every Friday in time for Happy Hour by signing up here).

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I’ve been a jack
I’ve yelled timber out for the things I loved before
I’ve being a shill
rubbing nickels to bring a genie’d grant me more
I’ve been dirt in a sad song that sings goodbye
I’ve been last call with a jukebox and no dime

These Treetop are always swaying
While I’ve lived and wondered who I want to be
I ain’t through the woods I think that’s what i’m saying
The end of this is surely certainty

I’ve been two roads
Both crooked love and the straight line of regret
I’ve been fresh snow
And the first step in a patch of wet cement
I’ve been the last dance with tequila and a lime
I’ve been shaky words upon page unsigned

I’ve been three beds
I’ve been lumpy like cold porridge and just right
I’ve been beat red
Yelling at these teeth that stalk me in the night
I’ve been moaning ghosts and high spirits that howl round
Flown like buttered toast that lands face down on the ground

Songwriting, The Song Well, Tunesday

Tunesday: Oct 20th: Curtain Won’t Quite Close

Every Tunesday I post a boldly imperfect, one-take song draft of a song. This was written from a prompt offered on July 10th, “Morse Code” (You can receive a new prompt every Friday in time for Happy Hour by signing up here).

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Footsteps tap along the road
Dots & dashes of morse code
Silver quarters in a jar
Now I’m wondering where you are

Smoke signs burnt into the air
A last goodbye, well thee fair
Ash that echoes from afar
Now I’m wondering where you are

Our neighbors sleep beneath their stones
Someday I’ll be one of those
Driven home in a long black car
Will I meet you where you are?

A call out on your radio
To dads we never really know
W1HFR
Now I’m wondering where you are

Songwriting, The Song Well, Tunesday

Tunesday: Oct 13th: Curtain Won’t Quite Close

Every Tunesday I post a boldly imperfect, one-take song draft of a song. This was written from a prompt offered on March 28th, earlier this year, “Curtains that don’t quite close.” (You can receive a new prompt every Friday in time for Happy Hour by signing up here).

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The fabric of a lost touch
The last piece of drapery
A light cracked through the window
The low fruit on the tree

The end of a performance
in this darkened heart of mine
the ghost light and the doormice
the pain ripened on the vine

When the curtain won’t quite close
It’s not time to take a bow
When uncertainty of what I see has punch me in the nose
The curtain won’t quite close

The hands aren’t striking midnight
but my fear is everywhere
the vigil of just one candle
A chill in the night air

The spotlight of a question
The hope within a pause
the proscenium of starlight
the open heart of awe

When the curtain won’t quite close
It’s not time to take a bow
When uncertainty of what I see has punch me in the nose
When that time is now

When that time is now
I fear I’m reaping what I sowed
but the dreams aren’t flickered out . . .
I fear I’m reaping what I sowed
Time to scream and shout
It’s what a pillow knows of dreaming
but the dreams aren’t flickered out
but the dreams aren’t flickered out

Songwriting, The Song Well, Tunesday

Tunesday: Oct 6th: Ordinary Day

Every Tunesday I post a boldly imperfect, one-take song draft of a song. This was written from a prompt posted back on May 9th, (my birthday!). The prompts was, “Plain Water, Ordinary Day.” (You can receive a new prompt every Friday in time for Happy Hour by signing up here).

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All these tales are dogging me
Smoke in a cheap motel
All the stares are stacking up
stories to a tower bell
The garbled voice of static fear
A haunted telephone line
All these wake ups calling me
Telling me it’s time . . .

These laurels left upon my door
commemorate the dead
These lush bouquets of sympathy
for resentments in my head
Sheepish mundane fantasies
flowing through a tiny valve
bread crumbs on a jagged trail
I’ve been on since I was twelve

I want chocolate chip of more forgiveness
the whip cream of less shame
The open valve of a little hope
the flow of angel cake
To Thaw this Ice box of resentments
This store of frozen beefs
Move out of the cheapest room
With it’s nasty old inn keep

Songwriting, The Song Well, Tunesday

Tunesday: Sept. 22nd: A Message Writ in Indigo

Every Tunesday I post a boldly imperfect, one-take song draft of a song. This was written from the prompt post on Saturday, September 26th: A Message. (You can receive a new prompt every Friday in time for Happy Hour by signing up here).

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All these tales are dogging me
Smoke in a cheap motel
All the stares are stacking up
stories to a tower bell
The garbled voice of static fear
A haunted telephone line
All these wake ups calling me
Telling me it’s time . . .

These laurels left upon my door
commemorate the dead
These lush bouquets of sympathy
for resentments in my head
Sheepish mundane fantasies
flowing through a tiny valve
bread crumbs on a jagged trail
I’ve been on since I was twelve

I want chocolate chip of more forgiveness
the whip cream of less shame
The open valve of a little hope
the flow of angel cake
To Thaw this Ice box of resentments
This store of frozen beefs
Move out of the cheapest room
With it’s nasty old inn keep