"capella" poems
Sweeter than the song of a nightingale
Gentler than the whisper of a spring wind
Quieter than the murmur of summer grass
Softer than the symphony of hyacinths
Hypnotic like the splash of blue seas
Tinkling like a stream that flows
Mesmerizing like the cadence of rain
Enchanting like the hush of snow
Like the faint breath of a scarlet dawn
The rustle of clouds on a turquoise high
A duet of night and an ivory moon
A Capella of stars in the sky
A hymn, a chant, a choir of angels
Singing on a rainbow of time
Celestial is the serenade of love
A tune and a note divine.
Jul 4, 2016
Jul 4, 2016 at 11:14 AM UTC
The chao phraya river song
by: David Wayne Clare
Down by the River (echo-ee, a Capella) Down by the River (echo-ee, a Capella)
Down By the River, don't dive in, them sharks are real-damn-mean but, that's where you'll find me... along with buzzards, ******** and kumoi dope fiends...
Chorus
we love that ***** water ... oh oh oh Bangkok, Thailand; you're my home !
now...
oriental Asian Ladies, Thailand's **** Siam queens
I dig them slant-eyed ******
them sticky cat-faced chicks on Soi 13!
(Miami Hotel)
cause they love that ***** water ...
oh oh oh Bangkok, Thailand; you're my home !
(Harmonica Solo)
You'll find me trashed one morning (smashed!)
Iced-down in China Town; all crying alone...
One day I'll never leave here (Lord!) Unless an Esan Girl might claim me for her own...
'cause I love that ***** water ... oh oh oh Bangkok, Thailand; you're my home !
Refrain
Chao Phraya River, Chao Phraya River... Chao Phraya River, Chao Phraya River...
Buddha!
Chao Phraya River, Chao Phraya River... Chao Phraya River, Chao Phraya River...
Oh, Bangkok, Thailand... you're my home!
(Sharp jumps from river with snied smile... big splash sound...)
(c) in perpetuity, David John Clare Clairvoyant Music BMI
Thailand...
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 1:25 PM UTC
buhay natin ay ano nga ba?
kung walang lagyo ang musika
kagaya ng isang A capella
ang bawat simula
ay may kataposan
ngunit sa bawat kataposan
ay may panibagong simulain
isang prinsipyo na di kayang tuldokan
isang nakaraan na di mapaparam
sapagkat ito ay binantasan ng tandang pandamdam!
kaya naman halina kayo SAGLIT
samahan ako sa pasakalye ng aking DALIT
dahil tulad ninyo...di ko rin nais na wakasan
itong himno ng aking kaluluwa na di ko mapigilan
mailapat sa papel ng aking hapag sulatan
at marubdob na papangyarihin ang taos-pusong koalisyon
ng aking Pag-asa, Pananampalataya at Debosyon
sa pamamagitan ng aking Isang Libo't isang Awit
na pinapag-sanib ng samot-saring kudlit at kuwit
hanggang sa aking maabot ang liwanag sa dilim
at kayo ay aking handogan bago ang takip-silim
May 17, 2017
May 17, 2017 at 9:44 PM UTC
The chao phraya river song
by david john clare
Down by the River (echo-ee, a Capella) Down by the River (echo-ee, a Capella)
1 Down By the River, don't dive in, them sharks are real-damn-mean but, that's where you'll find me...
along with buzzards, ******** and kumoi dope fiends...
chorus 'cause we love that ***** water ... oh oh oh Bangkok, Thailand; you're our home !
2 now...Oriental Asian Ladies, Thailand's **** Siam queens
I dig them slant-eyed ****** Them
Sticky cat-faced chicks on Soi 13! 'cause they love that ***** water ...
oh oh oh Bangkok, Thailand; you're my home !
(Harmonica Solo)
3 You'll find me trashed one morning (smashed!)
Iced-down in China Town; all crying alone...
One day I'll never leave here (Lord!) Unless an Esan Girl might claim me for her own...
'cause I love that ***** water ... oh oh oh Bangkok, Thailand; you're our home !
Refrain
Chao Phraya River, Chao Phraya River... Chao Phraya River, Chao Phraya River...
Buddha!
Chao Phraya River, Chao Phraya River... Chao Phrya River, Chao Phraya River...
Oh, Bangkok you're my home!
(Big smiling shark jumps from river with switchblade knife in between teeth...)
fin
(c) in perpetuity, David John Clare Clairvoyant Music BMI
Thailand...
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 6:27 PM UTC
The Quantum Poetry Theorem
from a long time ago,
a thousand poems a priori.
**Dedicated to you, Albert Einstein and the cast of TBBT, special thanks to the OWS movement.,
But especially to the few, the brave, geeks who write poetry in word and in equations.**
Scruffy, yet ennobled,
my own 99% invade and
occupy all my senses,
in my eyesight encamped
sensing opportunity,
the 99 demand
that each shutter eye snap,
all nominal exhalations,
every quantum minutia perception,
be live streamed,
direct tv to you
Everything I witness,
transformed into an
acoustic guitar rocking vision,
a levitation of poetic expression,
set to a primitive three-chord
rock & roll overture,
and my iPad,
appointed Recording Secretary,
compiles exhalations as ecrivations
a preservation society of the verb,
strings of words emanating non-stop
within my head, from a guitar playing
twenty four seven, ironically,
expressed mathematically
Street strolling,
busy brasserie bar,
a Pinot Noir arrives,
a large pour of
stanzas and a
napkin upon to scribble
mind in ferment but
A Capella smooth cool,
my bossy brain requires
incident reports,
a "write me down, please,"
and
no matter how much I drink,
ain't anti-matter enough to
stop my eyes from seeing
every human interaction
as a poetic, probabilistic,
verbal equation,
quantum expressions of sensory upload
The brain revels and reels from overload,
no mas, no more,
poetry fatigue incurable,
caplets and ointments,
string theory,
can't cure or explain
the compulsion I feel,
and the 1% of me
protests my
overtaxed mental capacity,
and
hear the, see the, masses,
the shouts, the placards,
outside my home,
shut it down, no one cares,
no one wants your transplanted mechanics
in their eardrums
Huzzah, found in my gut,
a Grand Unifying Theory
to coordinate, gauge and harmonize
my internal asymmetries,
yes, a coupling factor required,
but still,
one equation that explains everything!
my fatigued, pointy, index finger
refuses to tap any more,
my Theory of Everything,
and my poetry, forgot, overlooked.
in my library buried,
black holed, forever silence-stored
Sep 8, 2013
Sep 8, 2013 at 3:48 PM UTC
**"His mind would never romp again like the mind of God."
The Great Gatsby**
Does he fret,
Does he sweat,
Does he pay his bills
On Time,
Even tho his personal stash
Of anything,
Inexhaustible and
He bills himself?
Is he lonely,
So when he romps,
His greatest pleasure is
Inventing new kinds of pain?
Does he like to watch butter
Snowmelt,
Does he turn the honey jar
Upside down
Because viscosity is
A turn on?
Is he lonely?
Of course he is,
Is that why he endlessly
Tinkers with creative destruction?
Does he put strawberry jam
On his watermelon?
Salt on his wounds,
Caramelized onions in his
Cologne and parfumes?
Does he watch reruns?
The bombing of Dresden, Hiroshima?
The shaving of the heads of the French women?
What's his fav. late night host,
When he can't sleep
And. his damaged dreams
Become our unfortunate realities?
Acting childish, a métier,
So he can scold himself?
Does he keep score,
Ever say no more,
Contemplate suicide,
Or just murdering his sons?
Did he kiss Shakespeare's lips,
Or just his fingertips?
Does he sing a Capella
With Holly and Cooke,
Let Beethoven play rock n' roll?
What is he best excuse
For playing with
Tormented souls,
Making so many wonderful things
Forbidden fruit?
Does he worship regularly at the altar?
Irony his faith and skin his vestments?
Are his twisted straight,
His late, early?
His order disordered and when bored,
Does he just close his eyes and
Let us live in peace?
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 4:46 PM UTC
Collage of College
Sharpened carrot sticks
Twenty hundred lettuce leaves
We eat this salad
Fall Fails
Summer: The Sequel
Starring Flora S. Fallen
Directed by Son
Sweater Weather
Snow covered beignets
Cider and cocoa rivers
Gingerbread people
Mojito Vice
Muddled leaves of mint
Lime juice and syrup downpour
Ice cube avalanche
A *** and fizzle drizzle
A spri(n)g of mint to garnish
Meat meet Heat
Baritone beer belch
Sweet symphony of pig parts
Oyster orchestra
Beef, chicken composition
The sun sings A Capella
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 7:59 PM UTC
It was raining really hard,
I’m standing under an empty shed
And the sky wasn’t starred,
Seemed like all the lights were dead
You came under the umbrella,
With your face neither happy nor sad
I looked up hoping to see the Capella,
But still the sky seemed mad
Slowly, I glanced at you,
I caught you staring at me
Then the wind hardly blew,
The freezing rain fell free
Suddenly, the shower stopped
You smiled, I blushed
Overwhelmed, my gaze dropped,
And everything around hushed
Then lights started flickering,
I thought they were the stars
But no, they weren’t shimmering,
The fireflies were ours
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 7:36 PM UTC
friends of friends and an **** of mutuality
every one ripe for the ******* until we greedily
eat our own tails
I find myself running low on chemistry
with so little reaction left inside of me
the water around the plug hole no longer spins,
it only falls
architectural wounds
cannot heal beneath this razor’s murderous haste
while the cognisant weak and a capella apes deform
the silent comedy of a shared space
once straight tempers and scorpion kindness highball
an unhappy taste, leaving who to speak
for the ordinary host?
the functionaries’ short practice
infects the martyr’s hurried hair
between the principal route and the settling irons
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 1:40 PM UTC
It was raining really hard,
I’m standing under an empty shed
And the sky wasn’t starred,
Seems like all the lights were dead
You came under the umbrella,
With your face neither happy nor sad
I looked up hoping to see the Capella,
But still the sky seemed mad
Slowly, I glanced at you,
I caught you staring at me
Then the wind hardly blew,
The freezing rain fell free
Suddenly, the shower stopped
You smiled, I blushed
Overwhelmed, my gaze dropped,
And everything around hushed
Then lights started flickering,
I thought they were the stars
But no, they weren’t shimmering,
The fireflies were ours
Nov 28, 2014
Nov 28, 2014 at 6:55 AM UTC
colours sing their a capella hymn
lighter tones emitted from your skin
brush the light aside as morning's rise
shows us something glowing from within
Feb 28, 2012
Feb 28, 2012 at 1:34 AM UTC
.
I lay down on a bed of petals
I lay down on the flowers scent
I lay down on a bed of petals
I saw my Spirit and where it went
I lay down on a mossy carpet
I lay down on the forest floor
I lay down on a mossy carpet
I feel my Spirit was here before
I lay down on an icy glacier
I lay down on the frozen ground
I lay down on an icy glacier
I know my Spirit can be found.
Pagan Paul (25/09/22)
Aug 8, 2023
Aug 8, 2023 at 10:56 AM UTC
Mc Kit, im a cat i compose my songs
a dog's gonna to bark, a dog is a dog
i go to an extent come see how long
dog sits on a chain, cats are free to walk
no reason to chase me, im high up in a tree
barking won't help, you wake a Lion in me
if it happens that you, slip off your leash
you take that chance, run away if you wish
if they catch you again and tie to a chain
they do it that way, so you can't run away
you can guard their money be my guest
real treasure though is what's in my chest
doesn't take any heart to diss a cat, fella
i fight for my freedom do this a capella
we live in a junge it's true what they say
it's a struggle for me every night and day
dog chase a cat it's hungy for food
bad dog doesn't see i am more like a wolf
figure out for yourself if you're evil or good
i gave you a recepie hope its understood
what else do you need how much more proof
i am a Whale in a sea, a cat on your roof
hold on to knowledge while my sub woofs
still all i hear in the background is woof...woof
Jun 11, 2016
Jun 11, 2016 at 8:35 PM UTC
once when we were speaking candidly
in the car or maybe at breakfast
I told you how much I love the you
that comes out at night in your room,
the Bogeyman beneath your glasses who
leaps out of the shadows and, like a
ravenous beast, topples me over to
devour my tasty flesh —
you shrugged at my suggestion and I
wondered if it ever occurred to you
that your lust simmers so near the
surface on those nights that smell
so heavily of *** —
when I asked if you noticed any
Bogeyman in me, you only admitted
that I become more “blunt”, not
commanding, necessarily, but
straight-forward and concise —
it makes me think of those shivering
nights without clothes when we haven’t
made it beneath the covers yet
as something like a ritual where we
shed our daily roles and put on
those of the beast and his master,
where I conquer you and clean up
your spoils, leaving only a
slick orange sweater and a
hasty a capella symphony, a
prelude to sweet and somber slumber.
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 12:07 AM UTC
Science is the understanding that nothing is lost,
But everything winds down.
There is no beauty in science, some said, no art.
I refused: Some, God, silent doctor waiting at the door-
I refuse.
There is only this tragic struggle:
Your heart, carrying all the implications
Of a watch left in desert, must eventually fail to keep time.
*I would know why the stitches that wound our heels,
Blossoms of Achilles, are the heart’s most desperate gestures.*
I want to look at your heart, hearts.
Aspiring a capella,
The down-singing choir in my hand, your heart reveals.
First, I must understand the laws of motion,
Wave-forms, cryptic anatomy of silence and not-silence,
Only in your mind, your body is a law unto itself.
First, the Archaea, frustrating enigma that never speaks.
“Where did you come from?” I asked.
You smiled, as if I were asking
*Who of us is more than water?
Why aren’t the stars alive?*
Selfishly, our endosymbiosis called its questions as demands.
*How can this work?
You look like someone I knew before…
I want.
You cannot leave.*
I must submit to examination.
The machine will tell us if my heart speaks in murmurs,
But not if I am heavier than a feather,
Not if we did or didn’t know what we were doing.
You invited me in, and it was raining so I stayed.
We violated the lens, spoke too longingly of light.
You saw the defined spaces between the foam.
In a tangle of bed linens, I dreamed of pulsing Farandolae,
Paired for synapsis, migrating to the metaphase plate,
Ripped from sound’s embrace by their reluctant roots.
I will be vaccinated against harm, but not shadows, not time.
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 2:45 PM UTC
East of the Equator on 1° 15' tropics is an old pirate isle
Irate willy-wavers are set to meet, I repeat, on Santosha
where, if you know it by its sanskrit, they might reconcile
Wishful leaders play symbolic. To us are none, but frenzy frolic.
Rudy doubles a pretty sight when smart cookie crumbles
to his knees. The apprentice, a fake gansta has capitulated to
Trump who's known to expostulate his lot of twitterati
oh, the wizard of sentences, cut the circuit and paparazzi.
Rocket man says read my lips, so Dotard threatens bigger drips
Both gaga over trigger hands, like-a-virgin on hot dozen buttons.
Ain’t it a saga, they goatherd each other on, so call in Dennis to
get us out of the funk. Just maybe, a remote chance, a fun slam-dunk!
The world awaits with bated breath, the immovable anchors to a
bad romance. We're stuck for answers to translate two gyrate minds,
singing hits a-capella under nuke umbrella. No tanning spray and
pray please or death-from-behind us all, the wrench of humankind.
At 34, Prince has just begun life, to see his people starving to die
At 71, ****** has a life doing what he does, while waiting to die
Chasms miles long, but cookie cutter share tall man phantasm
94 stories high towards disarming God in their own ego suites.
Gurkhas and gazetted city blocks, the people in uttered groans
All twitterpating over a hermit throne dancing to a jailhouse rock
Two bright like buttons, so zero sum bargains may cost an arm and
an earth - nuclear glutton! Not a far gains from your usual Target?
At St Regis in gather, string theories of riddles to Lord of the Rings
Towkays at the table “Order! Order!” no one absquatulates at all borders
In shambhala, will it be “Big and Bold” or “Beg and Hold”, who knows
Except Goldenhair, in first minute - Upside or Upset of an F1 ride!
Jun 10, 2018
Jun 10, 2018 at 2:01 AM UTC
On The Great Lawn of my mind,
The city's biggest dance floor,
Upon its cushions, stepping lightly,
The spring breeze, feeling its way,
Making, reawakening, a thousand acquaintances,
Absent parent kissing each long-lost babe-blade of grass
Breeze takes each blade of spring grass:
Cajoles, asks not,
With windy hands, guided missiles,
gentle/firm
push/pull
engage/ disengages,
open/closes
Breeze makes each one
Neck, caress their neighbor,
A thousand pas de deuces of
fresh faced green children.
All in all a triumphant processional,
Cloaked in robes of sky blue velvet,
Crowned by the sun's burnt orange kisses.
At the middle school dance,
The walls are portrait painted
with the shy ones,
The ones-who-don't-know-how-to-ask.
Passover's children
Needy for a Moses.
Student of the spring breezes,
This silly earnest teacher/chaperone,
Grand-pa-rent will:
Cajole, ask not,
With hands, guided missiles,
gentle/firm
push/pull
engage/ disengages,
open/closes
Under his tutelage,
Every boy and girl
A dancer, a blade,
Each a Passenger on the fuselage
Of his Spring Ballroom breeze.
These are my spring rites
imagined,
Visions of my sight
unimpaired,
Present and future
clarified.
Soon we will teach our own
Little Princes and Princesses,
The shelter of dancing,
Feel the embrace of nature,
Under the mantle of an
A Capella choir of tree leaves,
We will lie side by side,
Skyward pointing,
Sharing our spring-sprung imaginings,
Performing each and all
Upon the breeze to carry away,
For all to gleeful applaud!
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 9:22 AM UTC
Drove 75 miles each way
To see Colbie Callait,
Somewhere in Connecticut,
That was back
In 2009,
Maybe 2010,
Maybe 2011.
Enjoyed it immensely,
Other than
The only thing
Older than me
At the concert
Was the building
It was held in.
And everybody at work made fun of me.
Took my woman
Downtown to the
High Line Ballroom
A few years back,
Edwin McCain,
He sang
I'll Be.
It was fine,
Other than
I was the tallest person
Standing on line.
Last year
Danced on a conga line
Led by Pink Martini,
At Carnegie Hall.
Ain't embarrassed to admit,
They dragged me from my front row seat,
Kicking n' screaming,
Hope nobody was videotaping!
At the Beacon on Broadway,
Saw Paul Simon and
Straight No Chaser,
And I would do it again in a
A Capella second.
This year,
High up at Lincoln Center,
Overlooking Central Park and
My city sparkling,
Saw Ingrid Michaelson singing,
It's OK.
She was giggling,
Cause it was so fun, for her,
To act so grown up.
Her parents and sisters
Even came to see her.
Sometime ago saw Marc Cohn, singing,
Don't remember when, don't recall,
Walking in Memphis,
Even tho both of us were at
City Center on West Forty Third Street.
At the City Winery,
In NoHo
Don Felder did Hotel California,
Went to the backstage partee
Cause I was around when
he first penned it,
When he was still part of the Eagles.
For an old geezer,
Born in 1901,
I'm pretty cool,
Despite the occasional mistake.
But I know better than to go to see
Justin Bieber,
Way too cool for that,
So those ticket to
Taylor Swift,
Ripped,
Having never seen
the light of day,
I think I even pretended to
Throw them away...
Jun 15, 2013
Jun 15, 2013 at 3:21 PM UTC
(A capella)
The room's gettin kinda crowded
I think they heard our sound check
I can seem them craning their necks to see who's next
they want a set that wrecks
were happy to provide, come on
step inside the light we'll take you for a ride
and we're smiling like we're on trial for our lives
it's a good day to die
but tonight we feel alive
(FUNKY ****
and it's wild how they've got us chasing fires
through the night
in the absence of light
with music, we search for sight
they're reaching for the supreme dream
the currency, the cream
but we resisted the feeling
and we rage against machines
and we blow off ceilings
"Lil c" and the Tree and me, we three
teach with beats and melodies
and bass lines we shine our light
for those who are blinded
and we raise our voices
for those who stay silent
dying to live so
to live we're dying
but to be honest
most of these faces are two-sided
it's the pride inside that won't let me hide my shine
trying to find a sound in this town i can call mine
but i'm feeling fine, waiting for my time
just walking the line in the sunshine
chasing a feline, this a summertime rhyme
but i'm ducking rainy days
like Cassius Clay
Stinging like Ali, laying waste in this place today
fade away?
heck, we haven't begun to blaze today
but maybe today's the day to light up the stage
let me see, Tree can these people hear you slay
(FUNKY BASS ****
but just remember, there'll always be Haters in every pack
they'd stab you in the back
soon as they'd help you off the tracks
whatever helps them stack faster, or
puts their name on the plaque (map)
but we'll be rockin
til this all fades into black
with bass...(FUNKY BASS **** and drums...(FUNKY DRUM ****
and a kid on a mic
(ALL THREE)
we designed this curtain call
for ya'll, we hope you like it
(JUST ME)
now listen to this beat hit just right
to-nite
(CRAZY FUNKY ****
Mar 1, 2011
Mar 1, 2011 at 8:23 AM UTC
amidst cavorting delightfully, enjoying thorough
frolicking gingerly, foreign hick hating slo
hip-hopping insouciantly sustaining row
biological status quo
kvetching lamely moreso mother became pro
naturally physically rumbling,
heard all the way in Oslo
supposedly twerking, undulating vivaciously
wantonly x2c wisely yielded – nada no
zona pellucida anchored byte size ******
potent embryonic fetal moe
newlweds nocturnal merriment
moma's ****** marked march 1959
lovingly joyusly, insemination happened ha low
bullseye clenched diploid fertilization
guaranteed germinating heiress
while squaqking lichen Apache at Diablo
ma late mother did should know
upon awakening upon tautly stretched exertion
during dilating ****** which jiggled like jello
three score orbitz round el sol, warmed cockles
and muscled away brutally cold degrees
tab billed an igloo,
or circa six decades
drafted exuberant ho...ho...ho...
cuz, i.e. thencee at 362nd day
baby in belly did fully grow
December first nineteen fifty seven
sanctioned newly minted papa
to sing a capella for he's a jolly good fellow
quintessential nascent
kickstarter heady everflow
though wintry dark,
a “hi” beam illuminated
newborn girl with dayglow
sans, mechanical engine ear
papa (an honorably discharged army vet)
all spit and shine groom,
who wed a bride somewhat callow
first time parents with giddiness did saul fully bellow
Boyce and Harriet Harriet countenance
twas (like an elf on Christmas eve) all aglow.
--------------------------------------------------------
Dear Sis – I knew not what else to do
thus, this poem crafted fur ewe
a doe ting maternal gal – whose time on Earth flew
Nov 10, 2017
Nov 10, 2017 at 1:09 AM UTC
the radio echoes
noiselessly
off lives lost
too soon
dreams left
for dead
people die everyday
I only blink
move on
perhaps turn
up the volume
staring at
blank pages
they burn and twist
taunting
while the words
won't come out
and the women
won't go out
they scorn
the piano player
while dancing to
the music
it makes
no sense
no music
no women
they dance and dance
each with their own
set of teeth
of claws
only hope
to make it out alive
the door opens
and the door closes
it won't stay shut
the piano player
scorned in the corner
while the women
dance and dance
and laugh
while all dreams
bring paradise just
out of reach
while the dead
still die
still die
and the words won't come out
the music cuts off
and the women still dance
as if there was
no sound
to begin with
no sound
no sense
no music
no women
only blank pages
burning and twisting
and the piano player
scorned in the corner
and the words won't come out
the words won't come out
anymore
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 7:05 PM UTC
THE PODS
A Memoryrhyme
a capella
I Pod
You Pod
We Pod
She Pod
He Pod
They Pod
Her Pod
His Pod
My Pod
Your Pod
Their Pod
This Pod
That Pod
May 13, 2016
May 13, 2016 at 2:45 PM UTC
Walked into the bathroom, expecting to see the room crammed with girls
screeching, smiling at me, checking their foundation and wondering
why hasn't he flirted with me yet?
Instead, all that's left is the ten posters taped on the wall
with stock photos of black skirts
telling me the difference between wrong or long.
Yeah, there are no more mornings of waking up to the sound of
A Capella hymns and kids I've never met laughing at
things I've never said before
no more 5 'o clock practices full of winces, trips, laughing, sweating, and thinking
no more 7:30 pm concerts where
my heart bounces around like a dead animal
no control left, and
I'm running in the halls wearing black and white, but thinking gray
no more taco bell runs right after, when I'm getting cinnamon sugar on my skirt and counting measures in my head.
And certainly no more days of just sitting on the bleachers
my head and heart too full of sputters of laughter to worry
about whether my melody is correct.
Apr 8, 2014
Apr 8, 2014 at 7:19 PM UTC