I wrote a song a couple of days ago. Or a simple poem, if not quite a song. But writing to chord changes and glimpses of melodies causes me to write significantly differently than writing with just the sound of words. Simpler, and the sounds and rhythm just flow a little bit more.
This is one of my simple songs, the time limit, very little editing or second guessing.
Eb-Bb-Ab
Pretty soon she'll be a dove
and the records will play again
in the morning all those thoughts in the night
just flutter and lighten
thin ice and vapour coalesce
into a cup of tea
eyes readjust to the green and lush
all her brittle shiftings decay
in her bed she had nothing but sleep
limbs softly twisting only in dreams
Rothko, Chagall, Picasso on her walls
faces all turned and blending
Ab-Bb-Eb-Cm
her portait heightens her bones in yellow
the shirt she wore in it, was it her own
her features fumbled loosely in charcoal
hang in a third floor apartment in Montreal
Eb-Bb-Ab
she practices her handwriting
on words so full
they cause her hands to shake
and the ink to streak
illegible blue lines curving
and staining her wrists
where once finely washed edges
loosened their tips gently
Ab-B-Eb-Cm
and blood flows out faster than you think it might
she stops it with three fingers pushed against a pulse
the breadth of her heart she can't keep inside
Eb-Bb-Ab
all of her skin grown smooth again now
her repairs are subtle and strong
she can hold water in her palms
and let it drip through
her offerings so simple
but she has this day
and a bowl of soaking rose petals
is her method of keeping the darkness aside
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