Surrender is a lovely word to sing
Surrender is a lovely word to sing,
just let it ring. It brings I know not what -
a special something, yes, what is that thing
which rings and sings and as yet still is not?
Is it a river that can heal old pain,
a place to disappear and re-emerge
with happy news of being born again,
invigorated by the bracing surge?
Perhaps, and yet I find myself unsure,
as I remain upon the shore unfound,
if I am ready for this evermore
to carry me from my familiar ground.
I want an answer - I am listening.
Surrender is a lovely word to sing
Loneliness
Is intimate. A song of coming home,
if only we would hear the melody
and by ourselves at last be gently known
In all our wond'rous sensitivity.
The heart is not an easy thing to hear.
An old audacious advocate for life
in all its forms upon our spinning sphere,
with love undimmed by centuries of strife.
And when our hearts, revealed, together grow
to intertwine in single symphony
they leave behind the shadowed status quo
and roar the truth of how this world could be.
There is no gap to fear from me to you,
we fall between our dreams and what we do.
The rower.
He struggles on against the flooding tide.
Relentlessly in motion, blistered hands
once more compel each oar to catch and drive,
yet never take him further from the land.
The twilight sky will soon forget the sun
and all around this stubborn little boat
resounds the water's silence by the tonne,
a contrast to the rowlock's rusty note.
Without apparent cause, he stops. Lets go
of all the force that took him to this place,
returns control unto the ocean's flow
and lets the tears express upon his face.
For hours he drifts, concealed within the night.
It brings him home, adorned by morning light.
If water be the food of love
If water be the food of love then eat!
(Or drink!), for love must never cease to flow
From out that spring that never will deplete
(A river sometimes fast and sometimes slow)
That constant source of wond’rous nourishment
If only we could store it in our flasks
And pack it with our clothing, mat and tent
As we set out upon our lifetime’s tasks.
For times will come in which we cannot find
A drop to drink as far as we can see
‘tis then we need the storeroom of our mind
Our memories of what a love can be.
Perhaps we have it from the very start,
The beating truth of ev’ry human heart.
E is for electricity
Anticipation, the crowd is settling in.
The pianist pauses as the lights go down.
We hold our breath, it's going to begin.
Within this moment, now, I look around
Make out the shadowed faces of the friends
With whom I will create this evening’s show,
A telling of a story to its end
And no-one knows the places we will go.
There is the chance of doing something wrong
And yet I know I could be anyone
Upon our little stage and still belong,
A sense of trust that time has not undone.
Dramatic chords! We’re suddenly in view!
Just me, and you, and the current surging through.
Quarter moon
Practice
As if each moment
Is a masterpiece.
A painting the size
Of a double decker bus
In a prestigious art gallery.
So what if it depicts a solitary train journey
At 11.30pm on a Wednesday night
The long carriage of uniform tables and chairs
Populated by you
And an empty sandwich packet
You may well turn your head
And look for something more grand.
A kiss, or a coronation,
A battle or a resurrection.
Before you go
Did you notice in the train window
The golden quarter moon?
And the reflection of you
Book and pen in hand?
Masked face
Practicing
As if each moment
Is a masterpiece.
Surrender is a lovely word to sing,
just let it ring. It brings I know not what -
a special something, yes, what is that thing
which rings and sings and as yet still is not?
Is it a river that can heal old pain,
a place to disappear and re-emerge
with happy news of being born again,
invigorated by the bracing surge?
Perhaps, and yet I find myself unsure,
as I remain upon the shore unfound,
if I am ready for this evermore
to carry me from my familiar ground.
I want an answer - I am listening.
Surrender is a lovely word to sing
Loneliness
Is intimate. A song of coming home,
if only we would hear the melody
and by ourselves at last be gently known
In all our wond'rous sensitivity.
The heart is not an easy thing to hear.
An old audacious advocate for life
in all its forms upon our spinning sphere,
with love undimmed by centuries of strife.
And when our hearts, revealed, together grow
to intertwine in single symphony
they leave behind the shadowed status quo
and roar the truth of how this world could be.
There is no gap to fear from me to you,
we fall between our dreams and what we do.
The rower.
He struggles on against the flooding tide.
Relentlessly in motion, blistered hands
once more compel each oar to catch and drive,
yet never take him further from the land.
The twilight sky will soon forget the sun
and all around this stubborn little boat
resounds the water's silence by the tonne,
a contrast to the rowlock's rusty note.
Without apparent cause, he stops. Lets go
of all the force that took him to this place,
returns control unto the ocean's flow
and lets the tears express upon his face.
For hours he drifts, concealed within the night.
It brings him home, adorned by morning light.
If water be the food of love
If water be the food of love then eat!
(Or drink!), for love must never cease to flow
From out that spring that never will deplete
(A river sometimes fast and sometimes slow)
That constant source of wond’rous nourishment
If only we could store it in our flasks
And pack it with our clothing, mat and tent
As we set out upon our lifetime’s tasks.
For times will come in which we cannot find
A drop to drink as far as we can see
‘tis then we need the storeroom of our mind
Our memories of what a love can be.
Perhaps we have it from the very start,
The beating truth of ev’ry human heart.
E is for electricity
Anticipation, the crowd is settling in.
The pianist pauses as the lights go down.
We hold our breath, it's going to begin.
Within this moment, now, I look around
Make out the shadowed faces of the friends
With whom I will create this evening’s show,
A telling of a story to its end
And no-one knows the places we will go.
There is the chance of doing something wrong
And yet I know I could be anyone
Upon our little stage and still belong,
A sense of trust that time has not undone.
Dramatic chords! We’re suddenly in view!
Just me, and you, and the current surging through.
Quarter moon
Practice
As if each moment
Is a masterpiece.
A painting the size
Of a double decker bus
In a prestigious art gallery.
So what if it depicts a solitary train journey
At 11.30pm on a Wednesday night
The long carriage of uniform tables and chairs
Populated by you
And an empty sandwich packet
You may well turn your head
And look for something more grand.
A kiss, or a coronation,
A battle or a resurrection.
Before you go
Did you notice in the train window
The golden quarter moon?
And the reflection of you
Book and pen in hand?
Masked face
Practicing
As if each moment
Is a masterpiece.