Acorn (a song after Jonny Cash)

Visions

I saw an acorn on the ground
I picked it up, turned it around
I put it in my pocket and I took it home with me.
I made a hole I made a mound
And laid it there all snug and sound
And then I covered it and watered it, you see.

I went to bed that night and wondered
What if I wake up from my slumber
To find an oak tree like no one has ever seen.
Then I would climb up it and wander
Amid the lightning bolts and thunder
And find a treasure that’s been waiting there for me.

But when I woke up in the morning
The sky was grey, the rain was pouring
And my oak was just a muddy patch upon the grass.
And my dream was just a child’s story
Which on the chilly wooden flooring
Lay scattered like so many beads of glass.

And then my parents moved around
To other streets, in other towns,
And I grew up and I left home to find my way.
And though my feet were on the ground
My head was always in those thunderclouds
And I knew I’d find my treasure there one day.

Well, you know that life is long
With twists and turns of rights and wrongs
And many happenings that wait around the bend.
But all these things only prolong
The culmination of each song
And every song must come home in the end.

And so one pretty summers day
I passed that town along the way
And went to look at where the old house stood.
The owners, seemed like they were out all day
So I went round back through the alleyway
And climbed over the fence into the yard.

And there, where the lawn had been
Grew an oak as big as I had ever seen
And I swear that it was where I’d made my mound.
So I climbed up and ripped my jeans
And I emerged out of that of green
To see the world beneath me spinning ’round.

So I just sat there for a while
Just looking out for miles and miles
Until the cool blue dusk began to settle in.
And on my face I wore a smile
For all that time of searching and denial
When this was where my treasure’s always been.

The road home

Visions

There is no home like place
Where every smile has a face
Distant grows the fondest heart
Soon it yearns to be apart

When every fake is just a smile
We’ve all been on the make a while
Fighting for a place back home
Where we can eat and drink alone

Provided nothing is completed
Can I retire undefeated?
Softer grows the strongest heart
My angel, I don’t know my part.

Three Witches of Comerio

Songs of the Everyday

They pick through my entrails the hags
Gathering the dripping mass in trembling hands
And spreading it on old newspaper
Claws scraping at the concrete
Beneath the torn wet print

As they squat and fuss around their spoils
Wise fingers hop hop hop like long legged crows
Here is a healthy pair of kidneys lovely liver
And plenty viscera to scatter to the poor
I watch with feigned disinterest

Picking through disintegrating pages
Spread in a mass of dripping piles on my desk
My callused fingers scratching at the membranes
Of the insides of some great heaving beast
On the horizon I see that it’s grown dark

And somewhere behind the dripping curtains
You’re reading bedtime stories to the boys
In wait for my return from hunting glory
And I will smuggle home inside a ball of gore
And paper the remnants of my heart
My heart.