Category: Tunesday

Every Tunesday I post a boldly imperfect, one-take song draft of a song. This was written from the prompt post on Saturday, September 12th: Where the Mountain Would Be. (You can receive a new prompt every Friday in time for Happy Hour by signing up here).

We’ve been inside
Empty highway long haul ride
Fallow fields feeling fraught
Wander aimless what’s been wrought

Flatland level waxing tides
Hermit crab no place to hide
Sidewalk walks empty shells
Quiet days just humming

Water dried up in the well
Hollow echo where the bucket fell
Not even the bump of an anthill
Where the mountain used to be

Wound up strings without a tune
On the floor endless room
Orchestra playing the same old note
No wind for the sails of this boat

Wonder how long we’ll be afloat
Drifting sideways going rote
Concrete grey of cloudless sky
Quiet days just humming by

Every Tunesday I post a boldly imperfect, one-take song draft of a song.

Can’t sleep tonight
for the roses in my sheets
Can’t sleep tonight
For the thorns my soul does keep
The highway is all backed up
The devil’s toasting cheers
The good times are here

Don’t want to fight
with the rise of the levee
Don’t want to fight
with the boiling of the sea
I’d rather season all my french fries
with the saline from my tears
The good times are here

The moonlight is a mule
Caffeine espresso fuel
My cupboard’s dreams are bare
I want sleep but sleep don’t care

I can’t sleep tonight
I’m locked out in the cold
I can’t sleep tonight
I’m a weed on a side road
I don’t have to find my way home
but I ain’t sleeping here
The good times are here

The orchestra is playing
And banjos are all I hear
The good times are here.

Every Tunesday I post a boldly imperfect, one-take song draft of a song, which gets written from the prompt posted the previous Saturday.

In the shuffle of the moonlight
She whispered in his ear
The memory of a raven
The dancing of a deer

In the Gossip of the moonlight
He new he didn’t care
Of his promise to another
In the strut of love’s affairs

Orphans never lose their loss of home
Drift together in the river’s flow

The secrets of a river
are the stones it can’t ignore
Like the rustle of a first kiss
That flutters on it’s shore

Goosedown feather blankets
The weathered brush of wool
A lover is a soft bed
that scratches at you too

A jewel round on your shoulders
A joy beneath your tongue
The murmur of the soft sound
of the hush of two as one