A quiet life
A country life
Where the grass sways in the breeze
And the hues of green signify the beginning of balmy nights
A far cry from the city
Gone are the endless vibrant lights
Gone are the 2 a.m. trips across town just because they make the best doughnuts
In this place of air almost too clean to breathe
They stroll
A traffic jam is four cars at a stop sign
Battling rules of the road with polite hat tips of "you go first"
Fast feet and hot dog carts
Italian ices on every corner
Fifty-six blocks to a destination
A world of choices
A billion footprints at a time
Stoplight crowds of sneakers and pantyhose
Everyone is invisible and naked at once
The green haired freak and the business man
The limos and the gypsy cabs
The excitement only felt in a world of possibilities
The difference between pick up trucks and bike messengers
A hundred miles for supplies
Or fifty-six blocks of everything under the sun
Soot filled pores and too much traffic
Street sounds to sleep by and a world of opportunities
Crickets and junebugs
The world closes at eight
Nightlife turns into Wal-Mart and Taco Bell
The slow pace of growing grass
The warmth of a winterless Summer
Wishing for a trip across town at 2 a.m. just because they make the best doughnuts

Home is a red-shuttered house with over-
grown hosta plants, sold to a Chinese couple
whose translator loved our hummingbird
feeders and the way the house faced East.
We had a swimming pool, frog pond, two
pink bikes and matching helmets--mismatched
childhood memories nine years behind me--

we moved to a ranch, where I painted my room
the color soft, baby grass fighting through
wintergreen fertilizer, the kind my father
scattered over our front lawn, hoping to grow
something above the underground spring
flooding muddy, brown, saturated as we
became when my mother remembered her
locked-away childhood, my father broke
his back, my sister succumbed to self-blame,

and I cleaned up after it all. Our ranch holds
these events in its powder-blue walls, creaks
at night and wakes me from a dream repeating
nine times over--where I stand inside that red-
shuttered house, beside an eleven-year-old
me with honey hair bleached from too much
sunlight, speaking softly: you’re almost home.

Pictured as bloodshed
The word 'war' is fear by all
Everything that one can think of
Environment, Economics,Politics
All joins in the fray

Country against country
War begins
Sending dancers of death into the battlefield
Changing the landscape, death to all
Leaving behind a stage , full of agony

What can we say,
When wars are waged,
Both sides are equally just.

i killed a gnat on my shirt today
and now he sits there dead
next to a hole
which is starting to look
more and more
like his twin brother.
both black spots reminding me
of the ***** dishes and laundry
and the difference between dogs
in the city and country.

The country music plays at a low tinny volume
I never much cared for it
But thinking back now I enjoyed it then
From the back seat of a love's family car
Stopping at small town after town
Country meals and light on conversation
Our favorite was finding
everyday treasures of times long past.
How appropriate then as I scour my mind doing the same
thing

They say the sea
is a place for freedom,
for the strong willed
and the liberal spirits.
They say the country
is a place for humility,
for the hard workers
and the level headed.
They say the forest
is a place for mystery,
for the subtle explorers
and the quietly brave.
But the sting of the salt,
the pull of the grass,
the shade of the trees,
they haunt me so:
for there is only one place
I could ever belong,
and those arms, that heart,
have long since departed.
                                                   tsk

"My Curiosity"

(Whats her name? Now why won't she stop and talk to me?)

Trying all day to find the right merge, planning every way just how to quench this here urge
Now walking my way, I may come on to her, dare I not scare her, should I loose this cool...

All I want is just to take-a-peek, as she grabs my... attention: is she too shy to speak?

Until this fine girl I met; she hadn't found me yet - Well, there ain’t no crime in tryin', so don’t get so upset

It’s just my curiosity!  It’s got the better, the better of me
(ay ay ay ay) I can’t help if I like what I see

The chance comes once, only once in-a-while
We might just flip it upside-down tonight, so's I can teach her how to smile!

(Drums: Boom Ba Boom Ba Boom Ba Boom Boom Bap!)

Now hidin' my face isn't what I do best - I just want to know ifin' I can pass her test
You see it makes no difference if I embarrass myself
Hell, that's the only way I know to find me somebody else

I’m a thrill hunter, not some geek, Better hurry up, like there’s no time to be meek

Some say it’s the thing that really killed the cat - Well, I got nine lives: an' I ain’t turning back

It's just...My curiosity!  That's got the better, the better of me
(ay ay ay ay) I can’t help if I like what I see

Them pretty things come once, only once in-a-while
I'm gonna smash her bedroom wall, make her flower stand tall!

Say pretty lady, now maybe be sad, but I ain't no stalker or Moon howlin' mad
Say like when you give me the time of day, you might just spend a minute, not just walk away...

And satisfy, satisfy... My Curiosity!
Why, ay, ay satisfy, satisfy this: hungry guy you see!
Well satisfy, satisfy all of my curiosities
(Why ay ay) satisfy, satisfy this lonely night come see
Just make Love to Me!

David Wayne Clare  (c) In Perpetuity - ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Clairvoyant Music / BMI

www.mynoisyplanet.com/davidjohnclare

Rockin country lyrics
Non plagiarized

crude a cappella demo on YouTube

Link here

My Curiosity  a cappella demo: http://youtu.be/tBk0n8xC2TI

Thank you!

I watched my  family grow and break in that house.
Little barns for playing hide and seek turned into hiding, hoping
never to be found
and forest games of tree creatures turned into alone and breaking
in the highest branches,
deciding whether it would be a good idea to fall
and break my outside to match.
Matches on the pottery wheel looked so much of unsteady faith
and I grew to love that memory
of running through a muddy grass field,
sinking my flesh into nails left by forgetful builders.
When my sister first got drunk,
the big screen window was torn wisps in the hot night air and I felt
that it took away my ability to breath right like I used to
at age seven, shallow pools in my grumbling belly, but
I built a circle of twigs in the woods
and sat inside it for a long time,
believing that I had made a line that only I could cross-
that it was me, just me
and everything beyond meant **** that I wasn't supposed to
think about.
Age ten was when I first fell to that place
where dreams look like death escapes
and ambulance sirens sound like the kind of music
you aren't supposed to listen to twice,
because the lyrics will just make you feel bad about yourself.
I never connected the way I grew up
with all the ways you tore yourself apart,
but I hated how you related to the world
because my relationship with you was too tired,
barely even trying,
and hoping that the painting turns out anyway.
I watched my family grow and break in that house.
I held it between my teeth like wheat-grass,
just barely keeping my country cool,
and making sure the crickets didn't hear me crying
each night to the dirt and sweating moss.