Trailing up, the steps to fame; take them one at a time…they always seem to stretch further. The cool stone underneath your feet invites you to stop, to rest your weary bones. The buildings, windows staring like eyes out at your defeat, tower to the skies. It is easier going down, but the reward seems not as sweet. If you only make it to the next landing, your soul would be content.
Trailing up, the steps to love; take them one at a time. The heart yearns for companionship, but no one seems to fit. Keep climbing upwards, the song of the swallow urging you to know, the one you look for is just ahead, if only you do not stop.
Trailing up, the steps to heaven; someday you will arrive. The path there is steep, many doors along the way. Take one, any one; a garden gate, a lovers’ door. Each promises rest and pleasure, but in the end, they only conspire to keep you from your destination. A gentle breeze ruffles through your hair, giving you a taste of heaven, soft and sweet, of those that wait for you. Keep faithful, one foot in front of the other; one day you will arrive.
Sneezing, uncontrollably. I take great gulps of water to rid myself of the stuff. Next, with the neck of my shirt pulled up over my mouth to keep from breathing it in, I grab a broom and dust pan and start to sweep up the piles of pepper. The canister is empty. The brown tiger-striped cat stares at me from her perch on top of the bookcase, no remorse whatsoever in her eyes. I am mad, put out with her, but as soon as I dump the last of her pepper mess into the trash, she runs up to curl around my legs, purring and pleased. I remind myself I am still mad, but within seconds she is in my arms, nuzzling my neck. I cannot stay mad at her. I pull out a small bowl and a jug of milk from the refrigerator, and watch as she laps happily at what I’ve poured for her. I walk away to the living room, pick up a magazine, and sit on the couch to read. Soon, she is back, standing on the arm of the sofa, looking at me; with affection she nudges my shoulder, as if to say, “I’m sorry”.
I’ve just started working through a book, “Writing Better Lyrics” or “The Essential Guide to Powerful Songwriting” by Pat Pattison. There are exercises given, and I thought I’d start posting my efforts each day.
This first one is, admittedly, terrible. But the thought is that with each consecutive day, they’ll get better. 🙂
So, here is “Puddle”, or as I’ve termed it more accurately, “Rainfall”.
Soft circles appeared sporadically, expanding from where they started, overlapping one another. The air tasted fresh, newly clean. I could smell the honeysuckle that grew wild along the fenceline. The ground was damp, soaking in the life that this rainfall offered.
The birds were nearly silent, most tucked away in their nests, I was sure, save one lone brave soul, who sang his song from the safety an overgrown bush provided.
“Those who tell their own story must be listened to with caution…[for] seldom, very seldom, does complete truth belong to any human disclosure; seldom can it happen that something is not disguised, or a little mistaken.” Jane Austen. Sift what you hear, determine the truth in it; only then may I hope to inspire you.