Putt-putting around the house you find things. In my house anyway…scraps of notes, scribbles on paper…usually end up as scrunched up balls. I fear there is too many to count…they seem to turn up inbetween furniture, under sweatshirts, and of course in laundry baskets. These are most certainly lyrics. And yes, some of these might even be unused
Once in a while you come upon a nice crisp sheet with very clear, legible writing, that’s filed away in an unmarked…well…sometimes a file actually. These types exist few and far between. But once in a blue moon you find them resting neatly in their own cozy space. These are often what become of the few (very few) poems ive ever written.
I often clarify many differences between words put together for the express purpose of lyrics and everything else so I won’t get into all the reasons why these pieces of paper are different. But safe to say, I know the difference simply by looking at the condition of the paper and the manner in which they are preserved:) Yep, these tidy and pristine guys are definitely poems. And believe me, it doesn’t mean in positively any way at all that those crumpled up lyrics sheets are valued the slightest bit less- it’s just that’s the world they live in…you know they interact with music…they’re more chaotic…they stop for a drink or a smoke and hang out wherever they feel like it…freakin’ delinquents…you don’t have very much control over them, they seem to do what they want to do.
But the poems are so thoughtful and well-behaved. Like English school children dressed up and ready for a Sunday picnic.
Here’s a sample from one dating back ten years:
I am an ant walking on the ground,
I don’t complain or make a sound,
I do what I do because I must,
I don’t complain or make a fuss,
All ants work hard,
If we don’t, we die,
If we die, our colony dies,
We do what we must, so we can survive.
Meaning aside, i can see why these guys find their own space and not want to hang with the kids from the other side of tracks if you know what I mean.
Here’s the one i stumbled on yesterday, sitting very neatly at the bottom of a pile of books…unfortunately not dated, and title-less…but i was immediately reminded of that moment in which it came…
In a valley below,
Where the shores won’t go,
Lived a hapless man
who strung beads into wands.
If ever a feather,
Was lost in forever,
It was this man
Whose life wasn’t grand.
Though everywhere he wandered slow,
It was only into secrets he would go-
For therein lies the magic of old,
Simple wisdom for a simple folk.
Yeah, so these guys are a bit different. But let’s try and make space for everything here…especially flotsam and jetsam.