The caricatures of our soul,
Trapped within white walls,
Sinking into the slumber of morning.
Trees, of which we are the mothers,
Or perhaps wild nature’s offspring.
When we place our hands on the table,
Awaiting food,
We see our grown children through the window.
The tip of the pen leaves lines on the paper,
Trapped within white walls,
Sinking into the slumber of morning.
Deaf concrete houses
Disrupt the echo of stillness
Oh, the emptiness.
Bresson’s films,
Breaking into us,
Like the diary of a country priest,
Written on black pages
In white correction fluid.

inspired  by“Blame It on Kristofferson” written by Byron Hill and John Wilken,
released 2010
(lyrics below)
<•>
A young teen listens to the
folk/rock of the Sixties,
all growed up a few five-years later
living on Bleecker Street, the very same,
where these songs were being sung live,
by the artists, songwriters & friends

And Judy sings a ballad, mysterious,
‘bout a Marianne and all the tea in China,
words written like it was a poem,
and the infection was then transferred,
still ‘fected, even when now, sooner be
reporting to heaven’s door, this blessed
curse will be coming along, blame it on
Leonard Cohen

Knew the words, learned the secret chords,
which was easy, a-direct line between us,
knew where he got them holy tunes,
words he stole stealthy from our prayerbook,
went to Montreal, visited his home,
it was no accident, just the hand of god,
but don't blame the divine mystery being,
nah~nope, half~century, later, this dope
still blames it on, yeah that’s right, on
Leonard Cohen

And here we are, the two of us, probably
smiling, gesticulating and gesturing, who
in fact is truly responsible for our crazy gene,
that pursues us, to create, to mate words with
music of the deep soul, and here me be, I am,
grateful grasping for each latter day to birth a new creation, going out smiley & feeling kindly and fulfilled, more than ever, and
zero doubts that the person at fault, fully blaming it all on my Canadian soul brother,
Leonard Cohen