In the dark hours of night with the sodium glow
permeating the sky and making me feel low
I stand in the downpour and get soaked to the skin
I raise my face to the sky and let my senses reel in
they’ve been gone for a while, as I wandered in rags
accosting strangers and tourists, begging for fags
screaming at ghosts, clawing at the air
sleeping with women who weren’t really there
I met cowboys and Indians, liars and crooks
I met men who appeared from the pages of books
they taught me to see the real world that we’re in
I wanted to warn people, but they wouldn’t listen
they call me a madman, a hobo, a drunk,
it seemed like my senses were all in a funk
but the rain washes away my physical sheen
my body is ready, my mind is pristine
I’m watching them both from a really great height
And I know the rain can’t wash away the truth in the night
originally posted June 28, 2012
Here’s a song I wrote about five years ago when Somali pirates were the big thing in the news every day of the week. (I also wrote the first chapter of a novel, however I lost momentum when I discovered that Wilbur Smith had just published one on the same topic. Another unfinished first chapter to add the the pile.)
My smile is turning upside down
Like a clown left out in the rain.
I wandered through the empty town
And never saw your sun again.
I wanted to think about you and me
And the times when we were just all right
But instead the only thing I see
Are Somali pirates in the night.
Sailing in their motorboats
Their grins and guns give me a fright
I hope I never ever see
Somali pirates in the night
You left me with a head of dreams
Melting like some toast on cheese
My river now is just a stream
My trees, some paper leaves.
My thoughts turn to my memories
Like the time you set my fire alight
But the fire will only ever remind me
Of Somali pirates in the night
“Orange Trees In the Rain”
This morning I was thinking a lot about the theme of ‘Home’ and then I saw the miserable rainy weather outside, so much like the spring weather in my native Ireland that I took a walk. Along the way I stumbled upon this avenue of orange trees so typical of my new home, and it struck me as a beautiful juxtaposition.
The lone walker on the bridge
Feels the cold shoulder of the breeze
He shuffles further from the edge,
And muffles an uninvited sneeze.
The city shivers in the pre-spring chill,
Failing to cope with change in clime.
The winds continue, the traffic still
The night time is the hardest time