She had a red Ferrari,
He a limousine.
And though her car was sporty,
She was as smooth as he had seen.
She walked like ice cream melting,
Smelled like honey in the grass.
And though her dress was plain,
She always had high class.
She never drew a crowd,
He walked and people stared.
And though she wanted this attention,
He never seemed to care.
He lived beyond his means,
She far below the line.
And though they’d never met before,
For their friends, it was about time.
(Listen to it)
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It was easy for her to forget her troubles
On old Broadway street.
They transformed the old theater
To play silent pictures
Instead of a stage for recitatives.
She couldn’t believe her luck
When it opened up–
Fifteen cents a ticket
She could afford to see Hollywood
Practically free!
The stock market fell, but she was as happy as could be
Because the price of tickets dropped dramatically
She still had her house and family
And her job hadn’t kicked her out.
Though the only place you saw her was at the movie house
She loved the films that played
Silent, sound, she’d always stay
The movie staff would push her out
As she craned to get a last glimpse of the film
For her tenth time.
She loved the movies–
Silent, sound, jazz, comedy,
It was better than the stage
She had lost her job at the stage
She worked in a factory and hoped
The films would be better to those actors
Than the stage was to her.
(Listen to it)
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Is there order in our lives?
Can we see past woven lies?
Can we find a pot of gold?
Can we believe everything we’re told?
Is there a limit to too much?
How many hearts can we touch?
How many lives will we change?
How many people will think we’re strange?
Is there a chance to fix the world?
When different flags are unfurled?
And different languages keep us apart?
Can we listen to our central heart?
Is Human nature so long lost,
We won’t weigh the outcome before the cost?
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“When life gives you lemons,
“Make lemonade.”
But lemonade is still a bit sour.
But you can profit by selling it for 25 cents
At a street corner with a cardboard sign.
There really is no perfect way
To fix things with a band-aid.
You’ll never get something sweet from sour,
But you can get something better with a little
Creativity and luck.
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Words can only say so much
Paint can only go so far
Music can only penetrate
The ear of those willing to hear.
So what do we call on to bring a fight
To stop the senseless killing of boys afar
How to we get the world to hear
We’re sorry for stepping in to volunteer
Eventually its all been heard before
And words cannot penetrate broken ears
Paint can not startle overexposed eyes
Music cannot express
The sorrow or pain or cluelessness we feel
Even those who want to express
Can no longer feel the pain
That they once felt before
The years have passed and every person is a statistic
Forgotten and lost
Words can only say so much
Pictures even more
But it’s very hard to impact so much
When we’ve seen it all before.
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It was a little box
With eight corners and six sides,
But when you turned the key in back
It sang out lullabies.
The tunes it played were so sweet
It was desired in all the land,
So the owner of the little box
Kept it in his hand.
The little box would sing all night
Until a string broke one day.
And then the little box
Simply refused to play.
But the owner of that little box
Loved it all the same
And fixed up his music box
So it would play again.
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Lazy summertime
Doing all the things I can’t
When I have no time.
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Ideas are best when freshly caught
Not salted or smoked or preserved
Not old and fermented in jelly jars
Like wine, that’s better with age.
No, ideas bloom with the excitement of capture
And wane when they’ve sat too long.
They’re better when you first look at them
Than when you go back to see how bad they’ve become.
But ideas are rare things these days
And though I’m still looking sharp
My traps are empty, the bait all gone
While I’m still sitting here, waiting.
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Sifting through sand
To find what is lost:
Treasures unnumbered,
Riches beyond cost:
Silver more numerous
Than tons of gold,
Statues more beautiful
Than the eye can behold,
More color in carpets
Than the sky at dusk…
And all of it gone…
The ages turned it to dust.
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They loved to dance.
They didn’t know why.
And when little girls frolicked
And little girls cried,
The little red shoes would glimmer and shine
For that special little girl to say,
“They’re mine.”
They loved to dance
And dance they would.
From the shadowy valley to the sun speckled wood.
They’d never stop dancing,
Through the kingdom they’d go:
Through dandelion powder and cotton wood snow,
Past mountains majestic and meadows so wide,
Past sea foam that tickled the sandy seaside,
Then back again to the girl’s humble abode,
Then out the front door to dance after a toad.
The girl they adored would sputter and pout
As she had to dance ‘til her life was worn out
But the shoes would continue as never before
Longing to dance forever more.
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