Just some little thoughts and reflections that found their way into my book. It helps me keep track of my life…I think. Others are extracts from a book I have written…or some morph into songs..


Real People Problems

Finally we’re having real people problems, something I can sink my teeth into. Real people problems filled with misunderstandings that  grabs you by the hair, kicking and screaming through the dirt. Of course I can’t tell you this as you stare at me demanding answers. I can’t confess how it pleases me to  hear my voice become this uncertain thing. Finally I am no longer studio perfect and in sync, a disembodied voice over a piano. But a composer searching for coherence in sound as dissonant chords and garbled melodies float in and out…

I walk outside, gently light my cigarette and place our real people problems and my feet close to yours. I wait until I feel your voice moving through your body, ordering my chords into place, re-wiring your crooked words note by note. I watch as you  quickly inhale and exhale. Until I feel the rays of sun creep between your fingers, towards your neck, back into your eyes and mine…


I have watched you coax Music from beach sand, the ground as your feet anchor, step by step, a path you must take. I have watched you weave  desire into my skin and heard only the ancient call of drums…that respond to only your fingers..


Written in Sand

Our Mothers warn us against all manner of men.  Angry men, jealous men, sad men who love too much, busy men who love too little. But Mother never spoke of the Defiant man. The man, who toys with overused phrases, smiles easily, leans in to listen as though he might be reasoned with.  Mother never spoke of such a man. What warning could there be against one such as he?

Defiant Lover, I have sacrificed all the corners of my heart you lit and offered them to Those who Guard the Gates. I asked Them to crush it, splinter after splinter, and scatter them in worlds and times so remote it could never be retrieved, revived or puzzled back together. Knowing that even an inch of a love fueled heart could birth galaxies, obliterate worlds and set ablaze the minds of millions, They asked, ‘What you want in return?’

When confronted by my silence, They declared. ‘When needed, you can conjure The One Who Loves Sparingly into being. On that appointed day, he will walk beside you like the Ancient God he has forgotten he is. Give him ale, embrace him as he wars with younger lords and dances joyously until sleep claims him. Allow him to fill your inner being with music and allow the Music to enchant anyone who listens. For that is your Gift. For One day only.

When night falls, when the wind dies downs whispering of its aloneness, when only the cries of solitary ants are heard, he and everything he is will leave. The contours of your world, your music, revived, enlivened. Yet, as your days grow longer, remember this. His eyes that glimmer with light, his hands that knot your being with desire, his melodious voice that stills your raging storms will fade. With each growing hour you will remember less. Less and less until you have forgotten that you once knew one such as him. For that is our gift to you.’

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *