"nashville" poems
This Ain't a ******* Country Song
You know I love my Rock and Roll
I wouldn't write a Country Song
'Cause that's not how I roll
This song it ain't bout country things
Like pickup trucks and cars
You'll never find me writing
About getting drunk in bars
There's no mention here of Taylor Swift
or The Charlie Daniels Band
I wouldn't write of how the banks
are taking our farmland
This Ain't a ******* Country Song
You know I love my Rock and Roll
I wouldn't write a Country Song
'Cause that's not how I roll
I don't know **** 'bout Redneck stuff
like hunting dogs and guns
I wouldn't write of Daisy Dukes
showing off some hot babes buns
I won't write 'bout the Opry
I don't know all that stuff
Of Minnie Pearl and Grandpa Jones
And Mr. Roy Acuff
This Ain't a ******* Country Song
You know I love my Rock and Roll
I wouldn't write a Country Song
'Cause that's not how I roll
There's nothing here 'bout Bourbon
or of Racing through the fields
I don't know much about farming
or crop futures or of yields
I listen to The Rolling Stones
Trace Adkins I don't like
Lady A can go away
Kid Rock can ride his bike
You won't hear much about Zac Browns Band
or of food thats Chicken Fried
I might go to a hoedown
If I'd just up and died
My music, it fulfills me
It makes me who I am
But I'll stay away from country
songs, Cause I don't give a ****
No Oak Ridge Boys or Hee Haw Here
Hank Williams I won't buy
I'll never buy a Dixie Beer
It's a drink I'll never try
I won't sing about Kentucky
or of a Texas Yellow Rose
you know this aint no country song
Good god I hope it shows
There's no mohter, dogs or applie pie
no fishin' in the dark
No Everything is Beautiful
No songs by Terry Clark
I'm really open minded
My friends they are the same
We won't buy country music
To us it's just so lame
This Ain't a ******* Country Song
You know I love my Rock and Roll
I wouldn't write a Country Song
'Cause that's not how I roll
I won't mention stuff you'll find
in songs by Nashville bands
There's nothing here about
watching football in the stands
I'll never write a country song
Cause country just ain't fun
Oh crap I just read this thing
And I think I just wrote one
This Ain't a ******* Country Song
You know I love my Rock and Roll
I wouldn't write a Country Song
'Cause that's not how I roll
May 4, 2012
May 4, 2012 at 10:33 AM UTC
O brother, tell us where you've been!
What is the world like beyond these trenches?
Is it safe to crawl out —
we heard the wolves were just 'were-' with a sweet tooth.
Won't you help us sniff out the lotus from the roses,
their thorns so cleverly hidden…
Sisters, we're tired of hiding in the dark,
our eyelids shut by the nurse's damp cloth;
To our champions: were you blessed in your travails?
Did you find the loving,
the caring,
the fabled Happy People that
Nashville balladeers croon about?
brave children, remember to return;
we dreamed of setting foot in a place of our own, too.
does one exist in their world ||
// NOT THEIR WORLD
NOT OURS EITHER
BUT ALL OF OUR
UNIVERSE //
Jan 10, 2021
Jan 10, 2021 at 2:23 AM UTC
Independent Grammy
Ameripolitan Billboard
CMA Triple Play
Indigenous K-Love Fan
Austin YouTube
Loudwire MTV Video
GMA Dove iHeartRadio
Canadian Country
Stellar BBC Music Magazine
Americana Blues
Tennessee Songwriters Association
Soribada Best K-Music
Texas Country
APRA Western Heritage
Texas Sounds
Academy of Country Music
Wine Country
Carolina Teen Choice
Pulitzer Prize
Latin American Unsigned
Alternative Press
International Western
People's Choice
American Tejano
ASCAP Country Soul Train
Soribada Best K-Music
Texas Country
American Songwriting
Branson Terry
Nashville Industry
International Bluegrass
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 6:27 PM UTC
For a Palestinian Child, with Butterflies
by Michael R. Burch
Where does the butterfly go ...
when lightning rails ...
when thunder howls ...
when hailstones scream ...
when winter scowls ...
when nights compound dark frosts with snow ...
where does the butterfly go?
Where does the rose hide its bloom
when night descends oblique and chill,
beyond the capacity of moonlight to fill?
When the only relief’s a banked fire’s glow,
where does the butterfly go?
And where shall the spirit flee
when life is harsh, too harsh to face,
and hope is lost without a trace?
Oh, when the light of life runs low,
where does the butterfly go?
Published by Tucumcari Literary Review, Romantics Quarterly, Poetry Life & Times, Victorian Violet Press (where it was nominated for a “Best of the Net”), The Contributor (a Nashville homeless newspaper), Siasat (Pakistan), and set to music as a part of the song cycle “The Children of Gaza” which has been performed in various European venues by the Palestinian soprano Dima Bawab. Keywords/Tags: butterfly, children, storm, lightning, thunder, hailstones, snow, frost, night, shelter, comfort, safety, rose, fire, warmth, Holocaust, Nakba, Gaza, Trail of Tears, slavery, injustice, abuse, ethnic cleansing, genocide
Apr 4, 2020
Apr 4, 2020 at 4:39 AM UTC
It ain’t too bad to be from there
Just ask my family and friends
But it’s too flat, ain’t no way out
The roads are all dead ends.
Sometime soon I’ll find a place
Where the music I’ll enjoy
But for now I keep on tryin’
To escape from Illinois!
There’s a river on the border west
That moves a lot of dirt
Mighty Muddy Mississipp
Drowns the pain and covers hurt
Yeah, I’m movin’ south to New Orleans
Maybe I can find employ
In a blues bar down on Bourbon Street
Escape from Illinois!
Well I stopped a week along the way
When I saw the Gateway Arch.
But the folks out by the airport
Were stagin’ up a march.
Seems a white cop fired a shot that killed
An unarmed teenage boy
Oh yeah, the teenage boy was black,
Escape from Illinois.
Kept walkin’ to the Landing
(Named for Pierre Laclede)
It has most every thing you want
But nothing that you need
Some travelin’ folk told me some news
That made me jump for joy
Memphis maybe had some work
Escape from Illinois!
Found the haunted house called Graceland
And the grave where Elvis lay
Where half a million go each year
(Fifteen thousand every day)
They all want to pay respects
To the rockin’ – rollin’ boy
Put their finger in the bullet holes
Escape from Illinois.
Went downtown, knocked on some doors
Once or twice I went inside
But Beale Street was broken
The travelin’ folks had lied.
‘Cuz there ain’t no jobs in Memphis,
Or maybe I’m too coy
So I hitched a ride to Nashville
Escape from Illinois.
Nashville’s a big old meltin’ ***
Lots of great ones started here
But most end up as tourists
Getting’ ****** and drinkin’ beer
So money’s at a premium
And fame’s a fake decoy
End up workin’ in a record store
Escape from Illinois?
From Asheville to Atlanta
From Austin to LA
From Biloxi back to Baton Rouge
Need a place where I can play
I’ll follow all the buskers,
Form a musical convoy
Livin’ day by day and town by town
Escape from Illinois!
I’m a minstrel, like a rubber band
I keep on snappin’ back
I’m gonna make it somewhere
Singing somewhere, that’s a fact
Got my guitar and my music
Gotta do what I enjoy
Find a place to sing my songs for you,
Hell, it may be Illinois!
Phil Lindsey 6/4/15
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 1:46 PM UTC
The Isle of Print
What a place it can take you anyplace you can meet anyone I met Sandra Locke when she wrote about
Her relationship then her break up with Clint she told about as a child how she sold pop bottles at a
General store that was one that took me back but even more exciting was where she was at a place
Called Shelbyville Tennessee I know it firsthand one reason it is seventy miles from Nashville and is the
Tennessee walking horse capital and all so my wife was born and raised there until she was six we would
Take trips there quiet often until two trips we carried her parents to the family cemetery on horse
Mountain we have my wife’s brother fighting Leukemia he said thats where he wants to be buried but for
Now God’s mercy is preventing that I met a guy and I’m sure you have met him many times also his
Name is Samuel Clemens he got a little more famous name when he had one of his many jobs as a Mississippi
River boat captain they called him just like when they measured the rivers depth mark twain he was a
News paper editor in Calaveras County he brought a simple frog leaping contest national notoriety for
Ever after known as the Calaveras bull frog jumping contest I bought three acres for retirement
Unfortunately I made like a bull frog and jumped off the property I drove a truck several times into
Hannibal Missouri you got a quick leap in your heart and head as you thought about the great river
Running by and all of the characters Twain created two losses are recorded there of course twain met
A fiery personage that was even greater than him a space traveler with a glory all together wondrous went by
The name of Haley the other less known but my heart slows when I think of her eight years old blond
Blue eyed her father’s and mother’s pride and joy he was a pastor in northern Illinois she lays in her
Sacred rest in Hannibal until that great waking up day as time goes on I get less and less patient if it
Weren’t for so many precious ones in danger I would be tempted to pray come Lord Jesus. Well not done
By any means just going to stop for now plan on going and doing some hard thinking
Jan 9, 2012
Jan 9, 2012 at 6:27 PM UTC
I wish I had never met ***** ******* mama's boys like Michael Czech and Peter Pans and cheaters like Robert Littlejohn. They prey on innocent women via http://facebook.com and put on pretend face and hurt innocent women who fall them like Elizabeth Stewart Gandy, Emily Warner, and Laura Blackburn. Michael Czech is awould be poet and Robert Littlejohn a would be musician with an impossible dream in Nashville. Check out http://linkedin.com/Robert Littlejohn and see for yourself.
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 8:00 PM UTC
People often say now I understand
When they hear that I'm from Paree
Not Gay Paree silly, but redneck
In the heart of Tennessee
I am the newest style of hairdressers
Here to lay out all the facts
I no longer work on the tops of heads
But straight out of the pits
It all happened when I got bored
With the every day to day
Trimming of the head left me feeling dead
That's when it hit me..."Underarm Braid"
That right there was my life saver
That right there was my turn around
If it didn't make me world famous
At least it did on this side of town
Now people come from as far as Nashville
To have their underarms done
I even gave a left and right pit Mohawk
To the Governor's daughter and son
What? Did you think I only braided?
There's so much more that I can do
Just ask the Punk Rock Chick's that wait in line
To have their armpits colored blue
My older clientele have let there hair grow out
Since it is they learned
I'm now specializing in for both women and men
Their favorite sets and perms
So feel the freedom of the pits
That hippie chicks have long since known
Here at Michael's Salon Of Pits
We'll do something special with that growth
Sep 21, 2013
Sep 21, 2013 at 8:42 AM UTC
Nashville was never your home
you spoke of Dublin, as if
it were your mecca, your promised land
and now you can run through it's streets once more
Give Anais a kiss for me, you're home
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 4:37 PM UTC
I never thought that I would have my heart broken by a city.
It wasn't just the men and the music;
It was the eternal hope and subsequent disappointment.
I didn't go there with dreams in a guitar case.
My hands have always been too small to wrap around the neck anyway.
I went for the experience, with a notebook to my name.
The most incredible voices echo through the streets
Like wind through bare New England oaks;
It's haunting, comforting, met with silence.
I leaned over the edge of a balcony and thought,
How many people have jumped?
Because the thing is: you don't make it in Music City.
You try and try and try and try and then you go home.
I met a man on a street corner, a shy, sweet little thing.
Two months later he was back in Dublin, playing in pubs.
A raspy, long-haired rock-and-roll singer howled into the night,
And he didn't sing again for months.
Not until his vocal cords recovered.
Five Scotsmen took the breath away from a hundred people;
They went on "hiatus" a few weeks ago.
But there was such hope in their voices, in their smiles.
And it broke my heart.
I long for Nashvillian streets beneath my feet once more.
I want to feel the desire and passion in the air,
Circulating like cigarette smoke outside the smallest venues.
I risk my sanity by inviting the hopeful and the hopeless into my heart.
At least I'll get a poem or two out of it,
And maybe they'll get a song.
Nov 1, 2015
Nov 1, 2015 at 12:01 PM UTC
Greenland's fjords
Native tongues
Thai curries
Tundra calls
answer
Let me answer
Earth, all of this
great
I'm grateful
To be here
Warm showers
Nashville towers
But all of this
All of this
Earth
calls
Jul 20, 2015
Jul 20, 2015 at 1:48 PM UTC
Nashville lights, twilight sights
The dancer's dream, the faded stream
perfumed ally, vagrant sally
The words that call, the deadly fall
Embraced indifference, padded surveillance
The silent dreams, The nightly screams.
Whispered messages, diluted references
Fresh bound hopes, depravity copes
indecent alliance, vengeful compliance
dressed for show, momentum's flow
A southern will, the bitter pill
These little flickers that embrace
The dreams of fame's tormented face.
Alisdaire O'Caoimph
Mar 24, 2011
Mar 24, 2011 at 1:23 PM UTC
Sung and did not miss, watch this, where'swung
a dub when we need vees lots and lots of vees
the first friendly used many vees where we use double yous
vees and bees sound so much alike, s'ard to tell
Simultaneous, as always,
other-ther things begin and end while I am contrating on
a single point being made
on a single pin,
which is
bearing witness to my assertincertainty that at least
one thousand three hundred and ninety-two messages in lieu of angels,
numbering in the billions if Sagan was right,
fit
per pineal node post initial exterior inhalation and that first draft
look at this will you wontyou willyou wontyou
one thousand three hundred and ninety-two
guitar pickers in Nashville,
Ten percent of whom are sworn to sing Rocky Top
at every open mike in town every Saturday night
and we survived, didn't starve or go plumb crazy, though we tried.
It's good to be alive and remember imagining being
abundantly more alive, and
you know
or not, I can't say.
Did you read how Paradise, California burned for lack of rain?
We heard, Down here in the Lagunas.
All kinds o' folks prayed all kinds o'ways, and it rained.
Mud-makin rain.
Is it wrong to think the rain was called, if you can't imagine
rain obeying a request for the jetstream to dip?
Not here, we think right happens
right here on purpose
if you can imagine that a prayer,
wave of a wing tip, an eagle's
with permission.
this is the eagle wing effect, rightused,
should any attribute this to butterflies in China or Brazil.
The eagle acknowledges the Pine Valley hummingbird
who consented to make its final migration,
so the rain had a path to follow.
Dec 6, 2018
Dec 6, 2018 at 8:21 PM UTC
Mysterious , Tennessee nighttime wind , what fables do you bring on a cool Spring eve .. Tales of Mountain 'lore , of whispering rivers and moonlit hollers , black Bear antics and coonskin chapeaux , pristine valleys and hillside shanties , Memphis Riverboats and Elvis Presley .. Cascading brooks , foggy morning dales and Bluegrass pickers , Dulcimers , twisting highways and Nashville Telecasters ..
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 8:52 PM UTC
I belive it was in a rest stop outside of Nashville when I first discovred just what lost truely
was.
The people moved ants to a hive.
Ghost's to the shell so to speak.
Looking up routes streching worn stiff leg's and existing in personal bubbles.
Affraid a seconds conversation would burst a moments ******** cast
existance.
But I only sat watching happy to be a viewer to many seperate acts in a bound for nowhere
play.
Hey you have the time?
I dont even have a watch.
I replyed to some lost south bound kid more ******* up looking
than myself.
He said nothing more as he simply faded into the herd.
They were all bound for somewhere and me I was just killing time.
My home was wherever I could catch a few hours sleep.
And hopefully I'd be outta this state befor long.
I was a nomad most called me a ***
A traveler of fate and a lazy ******* to caught up in my own personal gains to settle down.
The voices of reason would seem to echo through strangers.
Whenever I'd take time to speak like some twisted record player
they'd always repeat.
So where you heading?
Nowhere and hopefully it has a bar.
Why you on the road?
Well really I just decided to take a walk one day.
Where from?
North Carolina.
Wow why you in Texas.
It's a long walk.
Man your weird!.
Arent we all in some way?
And with that the conversation would fade into my beloved silence.
And I would view the highway and it's ever changing landscape.
The mountian sunset's ,the desert in the moolight ,
A city slum to a rest stop outside of Nashville where you find me now.
I'd seen Americas watercolors and her sharp edges and still charming sleeze.
And from a shared ride to a cold park bench.
I was embracing the forbidden fruit spoken of by
far better fools and writers than me.
For true freedom was seldom safe.
But I viewed this world a travller a stranger to all including myself.
And from strange looks to even more bizzar remarks from thoose who couldnt fathom
someone existing with no true purpose.
The question always was asked
from so many forgetable faces.
So where are you going?
Im just taking a long walk home.
Sep 25, 2012
Sep 25, 2012 at 8:23 PM UTC
there was a little lark a music fan was he.
to be a great musician he just long to be
he took a trip to Nashville down in Tennessee
writing country songs and singing them for free.
hoping for a contract and be a country star
singing songs he wrote while playing his guitar.
lark he got his chance at the grand ole opry hall
a venue for the country stars the best one of them all
lark he was hit and got his record deal
overnight sensation and a country star for real
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 8:48 AM UTC
When I was ten, I met a man who sailed the ocean far;
he came across from England with his suitcase and guitar.
He dug graves for a living, but no man was more alive.
His creed: to live, while others just survive.
Old Ben, he was a wanderer who roamed this country 'round
and wove his tales of travel into tapestries of sound.
The tune I borrowed from a song I loved to hear him play;
the words I wrote for Ben one yesterday.
Ben, ye bleedin' Briton, it's been many, many years
since your singing and your picking of the blues has reached my ears.
He dug graves for a living, but no man was more alive.
His creed: to live, while others just survive.
His music whispered magic with its pain and with its joy
and gently cast a spell upon this fourteen-year-old boy.
But as my life was starting, I saw Ben's life start to sour,
and watched him age a year for every hour.
It's hopeless and it's helpless when you just can't understand
how the bottle Ben was draining drained the magic of his hand.
When his voice took to creaking like an ancient barn-door hinge,
he took off on a desperation binge.
Ben, ye bleedin' Briton, it's been many, many years
since your singing and your picking of the blues has reached my ears.
You dug graves for a living, but no man was more alive.
Your creed: to live, while others just survive.
Some say you're in Nashville; others say you're in L.A.,
but if these words should find you, may they find that you're OK.
The tune I borrowed from a song I loved to hear you play;
the words I wrote for you one yesterday.
Ben, ye bleedin' Briton, it's been many, many years
since your singing and your picking of the blues has reached my ears.
You dug graves for a living, but no man was more alive.
Your creed to live...I hope it's still alive.
Jan 21, 2011
Jan 21, 2011 at 10:38 AM UTC
We eat the kale and the smoothies
We love the goji berries
We bathe in the chia seeds
Oh I can't I have to go to yoga
Oh no I can't do that either,
I have to feed the cat
I have used the Nashville filter on this image
Yes it's an image
It's not a photo
I am a photographer don't you understand
Because I am art
I am also an individual
Yep I'm different to you
Wow
My Thoughts
Wow
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 7:31 AM UTC
Nashville is calling me again
Its voice is getting louder everyday
And I find myself thinking about leaving this place
When I hear Nashville calling; calling me again
I have a nice life
A good job and good friends
But when I play my guitar
I start thinking of Nashville again
A long time ago my world came tumbling down
I put my guitar in the corner and for years it did not make a sound
Then my heart was touched and I was inspired
I picked up that old guitar with a new found desire
Now playing my guitar is always on my mind
I'm playing it more and more all the time
And I find myself again dreaming that dream
That Nashville is calling; calling me again
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 10:16 AM UTC
Just mahogany and horsehide glue,
machine heads and a ***** or two.
Plywood top, solid sides and back,
bone and fake ivory, ebony, and shellac.
Steel and bronze wire, to make her ring.
A well placed sound hole to let her sing.
But for love or money I played here every week,
for 30 years she has earned my keep.
Four star restaurants, or beer soaked bars,
or serenading a lover under summer night stars.
A joyous birthday, sad funeral of a friend,
she's always been there, on one I can depend.
Drunken'- Dancin' New Years Eve bashes,
barbequed sun baked poolside splashes.
St. Valentine's Day love songs, wine and roses,
or a smoky old blues club that never closes.
A nursing home sing along on St. Patty's day,
a hurricane party till we all got blown away.
Christmas carols by soft candlelight,
I've played this guitar most every night.
From Florida to Canada, Vegas to NYC,
from Frank Sinatra, to Conway Twitty.
Zeppelin to Bach, JT to Pink Floyd,
anything to keep me from being employed.
One night in Nashville Greg Allman played on her,
And asked me to join him, oh what an honor.
We make people happy, we bring them together,
when I play on her I am as light as a feather.
Some fell in love, and got married from our tunes,
some nights we're alone on sugar beach dunes.
She's filled up my tip jar, and filled up my heart.
Because of this guitar my life got its start.
I've sat up with her all night, when she was sick,
changed strings a million times, broken many a pick.
Caressed her, strummed her, as she dashed my fears,
cussed her and ****** her, as she tasted my tears.
With her I wooed my lover, until she married me.
She has been my addiction, and she has set me free.
They applaud for me, but she's really the star.
I know it's just wood and wire, but she's my guitar.
###====(==O==== )###====(==O==== ) ###====(==O==== )
For my Takamine "Lawsuit" I bought in Nashville in 1982.
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 10:30 PM UTC
there was a little lark a music fan was he
to be a great musician he just long to be
he took a trip to Nashville down in Tennessee
writing country songs and singing them for free
hoping for a contract and be a country star
singing songs he wrote while playing his guitar
lark he got his chance and at grand ole opry hall
a venue for the country stars the best one of them all
lark he was hit and got his record deal
overnight sensation and a country star for real
Feb 11, 2014
Feb 11, 2014 at 10:54 AM UTC
Maria likes skyscrapers.
She likes to think of jumping off.
Sometimes she says she's dying.
She closes the door on my face,
but I can still hear her weep.
She says she wants to go back to Nashville
where no one looks like Elvis.
She's tired of the life she lives 'round here.
I know where she's coming from,
because I'm ******* tired too.
Everyone is tired of something.
I think I'll pack my bags and leave,
somewhere in the fog I'll disappear.
If angels are still watching me,
they'll begin to realize that I can no longer tell the difference between right and wrong.
Everything, every lie, every rule I've ever learned has taught me about black and white.
Answers are either right or wrong.
People are either lions or sacrificial lambs.
But it's all beginning to look like white on white to me.
Aug 28, 2012
Aug 28, 2012 at 2:29 AM UTC
there was a little lark a music fan was he
to be a great musician he just long to be
he took a trip to Nashville down in Tennessee
writing country songs and singing them for free.
hoping for a contract and be a country star
singing songs he wrote while playing his guitar
lark he got his chance and at grand ole opry hall
a venue for the country stars the best one of them all.
lark he was hit and got his record deal
overnight sensation and a country star for real
Mar 16, 2015
Mar 16, 2015 at 11:50 AM UTC
As the crow flies south from capital city
With soaring moonshine he coasts into synchronicity
Highways below dissolve into forgotten whispers
Like a rear view mirror sees only memories in its disappearing
Visual ****** initiates and fills this polychromatic cruise
Starting with a quiet historic ruse
Contesting over which of the two
echo shadows for optical repeal
the many leaves of kaleidoscope hues
That keep a running legacy since time before our time
and / or
Buried horizon from endless layers of skyward hills
Hills that have been storing a primitive foundation for the growing of substructure foliage in order to be able to drop its petals and leaves
Resolve is left with the one true and unbiased impartial decider...
the wind
to form a fair measure of mediation
From the human view
All are merely a preview for the impromptu quest
In an attempt to catalyze foreshadow and paint memory for the drive out west
To approach from afar
The destination appears to be a resting
shape of an antiquated location
splashed with opaque aromas,
sensory weaving visuals,
and
Melodic tones of nostalgic definition
Emitting vibrations of soothing tremolo that quiver throughout the body
this multi-strip string of singular select shops
Is the alignment initiative in the countryside
forecasting a manifest
for the hazy occasion
Anointing inspiration over the heartland’s artland
That nearly only hope,
could create
Invisible snows sprinkle over roads like a magic red carpet of threaded tranquility in its coat
Enticing, Welcoming, and Lighting up this neck of the west
And opening into the
Woodland Hills of Little Nashville
———-—————————————-——————————
Oct 3, 2019
Oct 3, 2019 at 6:10 PM UTC
What time is it?
We should be fine,
on time in Nashville.
Muted colors and eyes
heavy, wander in
blind monotone, sing
to waving adolescents.
The light turns orange
with age before brightening
morning sky, the flood
on the tarmac transitions
to scattered blue as seconds
creep closer to the dawn.
Arched window voice in
rolling fields with fences
cry out like grass seed sneezes
from rainy Octobers and Julys.
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 2:38 PM UTC