The Mountain Splitter
He works in the glen where the waratah grows,
And the gums and the ashes are tall,
’Neath cliffs that re-echo the sound of his blows
When the wedges leap in from the mawl.
He comes of a hardy old immigrant race,
And he feels not the rain nor the drouth.
His sinews are tougher than wire; and his face
Has been tanned by the sun of the south.
Now doomed to be shorn of its glory at last
Is the stately old tree he attacks;
Its moments of life he is numbering fast
With the keen steady strokes of his axe.
Loud cracks at the butt; and the strong wood is burst;
And the splitter steps backward, and turns
His eyes to the boughs that move slowly at first
Ere they rush to their grave in the ferns.
He strips off the bark with slight effort of strength
And stretches it out on the weeds,
And marks off the trunk with a measure the length
Of the rails or the palings he needs.
The teeth of his crosscut so truly are set
That it swings from his elbow at ease;
And the song of the saw—I am hearing it yet—
Has the music of wind in the trees.
Strong blows on the wedge, and a rip and a tear,
And the log opens up to the butt;
And, spreading around through the pure mountain air,
Is the scent of the wood newly cut.
A lover of comfort and cronies is he;
And when the day’s work is behind,
A fire, and a yarn, and a billy of tea,
At the hut of the splitter you’ll find.
His custom is sought in the town by the range;
For well to the future he looks:
His cheques in an instant the storekeepers change;
And his name is the best on the books.
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
The Splitter
IN THE MORN when the keen blade bites the tree,
And the chips on the dead leaves dance,
And the bush echoes back right merrily
Blow for blow as the sunbeams glance
From the axe when it sweeps in circles true,
Then the splitter at heart is gay;
He exults in the work he’s set to do,
And he feels like a boy at play.
Swinging free with a stroke that’s straight and strong
To the heart of the messmate sent,
He is cheered by the magpie’s morning song
With the ring of the metal blent,
But the birds in their terror scatter high
When she falls with a rush and bound,
And the quivering saplings split and fly,
And the ranges all roar around.
Who is lord when the axeman mounts his spar,
And the breeze on his brown breast blows,
When the scent of the new wood floats afar,
And the gum from its red wounds flows?
With the bush at his back he laughs at care,
With a pipe and a right good mate—
There is drink in the billy, grub to spare,
And a bunk in the ten-by-eight.
When the sun’s in the west, from nooks aloft
Where the stringy is straight and tall,
Come the strains of a chorus quaint and soft,
Or the clink of the wedge and maul;
From the gully a murmur of broken talk
Or the song that the crosscut sings;
For the bush is a-dream, and high the hawk
Hangs at rest on his cradling wings.
But at night, by the tent, when tea is done
And when euchre’s begun to flag—
In the bush he may hear a distant gun
Or the neigh of a lonely nag—
Then the splitter has thoughts no longer gay,
And sorrows he cannot drown,
For he dreams of a girl who’s far away,
Or the joys of a spree in town.
poem by Edward George Dyson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Splitter Splatter
Splitter splatter, splitter splatter
The rain tumbles, the rain scatters
Such a day for rubber boots
Such a day for a poncho suit
What a moment to kiss my fella
Under this polka dot umbrella
The muddy puddles, we straddle
Should have brought a wooden paddle
The rain's no more a pitter patter
The rain is now a splitter splatter
Splitter splatter, splitter splatter
The rain tumbles, the rain scatters
poem by Whitney Albright
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Wendell Gee
Thats when wendell gee takes a tug
Upon the string that held the line of trees
Behind the house he lived in
He was reared to give respect
But somewhere down the line he chose
To whistle as the wind blows
Whistle as the wind blows, with me
He had a dream one night
That the tree had lost its middle
So he built a trunk of chicken wire
To try to hold it up
But the wire, the wire turned to lizard skin
And when he climbed inside
There wasnt even time to say
Goodbye to wendell gee
So whistle as the wind blows
Whistle as the wind blows, with me
If the wind were colors
And if the air could speak
Then whistle as the wind blows
Whistle as the wind blows
song performed by by REM
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Song of the Shingle-Splitters
IN dark wild woods, where the lone owl broods
And the dingoes nightly yell—
Where the curlew’s cry goes floating by,
We splitters of shingles dwell.
And all day through, from the time of the dew
To the hour when the mopoke calls,
Our mallets ring where the woodbirds sing
Sweet hymns by the waterfalls.
And all night long we are lulled by the song
Of gales in the grand old trees;
And in the breaks we can hear the lakes
And the moan of the distant seas.
For afar from heat and dust of street,
And hall and turret, and dome,
In forest deep, where the torrents leap,
Is the shingle-splitter’s home.
The dweller in town may lie upon down,
And own his palace and park:
We envy him not his prosperous lot,
Though we slumber on sheets of bark.
Our food is rough, but we have enough;
Our drink is better than wine:
For cool creeks flow wherever we go,
Shut in from the hot sunshine.
Though rude our roof, it is weather-proof,
And at the end of the days
We sit and smoke over yarn and joke,
By the bush-fire’s sturdy blaze.
For away from din, and sorrow and sin,
Where troubles but rarely come,
We jog along, like a merry song,
In the shingle-splitter’s home.
What though our work he heavy, we shirk
From nothing beneath the sun;
And toil is sweet to those who can eat
And rest when the day is done.
In the Sabbath-time we hear no chime,
No sound of the Sunday bells;
But yet Heaven smiles on the forest aisles,
And God in the woodland dwells.
We listen to notes from the million throats
Of chorister birds on high,
Our psalm is the breeze in the lordly trees,
And our dome is the broad blue sky,
Oh! a brave frank life, unsmitten by strife,
We live wherever we roam,
And our hearts are free as the great strong sea,
In the shingle-splitter’s home.
poem by Henry Kendall
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Skeleton Flat
HERE’S never a bough to be tossed in the breeze,
For it’s long since the forest was green;
And round all the trunks of the naked white trees
The marks of the death-ring are seen.
The solemn-faced bear, who had looked on the blacks
From his home with the ’possum and cat,
Blinked anxiously down when the death-dealing axe
Was ring-barking Skeleton Flat.
And, strange to be seen in the evergreen south,
The gums for ten summers have stood,
And dried in the terrible furnace of drouth,
Till harder than flint is the wood.
Now tall grows the grass at the roots of the trees,
But a beautiful forest it cost;
And the heart of the splitter is sad when he sees
And thinks of the timber that’s lost.
Here flies, through a sky that is glazed, the black crow,
And the eagle goes circling around,
Or evilly sits on a branch that is low,
With his gleaming black eye on the ground.
And loudly the jackasses chuckle in mirth,
When a comrade flies upward, until
Like a fragment of thread, in its height from the earth,
Is the writhing brown snake in his bill.
O fit for the place are the curlews that wail
On the banks of a distant lagoon,
Or round by the swamps that are shallow and pale
In the light of the nights of the moon;
When glist’ning and white are the frost-covered trees
That dead for ten summers have stood;
And the stranger, benighted, might fancy he sees
The skeleton wraith of a wood.
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Butt Town
The cops are well-groomed, with
Muscled physiques in butt town
Their tan uniforms are tailored in chic
In butt town
Any young black male who walks down the street
Is gonna get stopped by a car full of meat
But the girl with the hair
Flies by in her underwear-
Shes done nothing so far to deserve that car
When you live in butt town
You gotta get down
But in butt town Im learnin
In butt town Im earnin
In butt town Im turnin
Into my worst nightmare
Im tellin you, its a motley crew in butt town
Monday youre new, and friday youre through
In butt town
The producer is wily, and owns what he sells
The talent is eager to go straight to hell
Th tits are amazing, and everyones gazing
At some body part-
Thats the nature of art in butt town
All over butt town dreams have a show down
All over butt town values are thrown down
But in butt town Im learnin
In butt town Im earnin
In butt town Im turnin
Into my worst nightmare
In butt town baby
Im gonna be a star
Im gonna shake my butt far
Now here we go
Im gonna shake my butt
Shake my butt shake my butt
In butt town
song performed by by Iggy Pop
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The heart of a tree
With branches reaching out as if for a embrace
The tree may bow to nature with grace.
He stands alone when the wind blows strong.
The leaves may fall, but the tree stands tall.
There are some things that the eyes can't see.
Like the heart of a tree.
In winter's cold chill, You can see the tree stand still.
Leaves are gone but the tree stands strong.
Until winter turns into spring and the birds begin to sing.
The leaves may fall, but the tree stands tall.
There are some things that the eyes can't see.
Like the heart of a tree.
Through storms and the wind. Bowing with a graceful bend,
Until the sun shines again, still standing at the end,
The tree is like a true friend.
The leaves may fall, but the tree stands tall.
There are some things that the eye can't see,
Like the heart of a tree.
The old Tree's secrets
How many lovers sat together under the old tree?
If only the tree could speak.
The stories would be of weary travelers
finding a place of peace, and dreams in their sleep.
Stolen moments of lovers, perhaps a sweet caress.
A young man with a ring, a young girl said yes.
Tree I only imagine, I enjoy the guess.
Gentle breezes that lifted the leaves
to let them gently fall to earth.
Misting rain to meet the tree's thirst,
Perhaps two trees inter-twined are
Two lovers that were curst.
poem by Judy Arline Puckett
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Wind From... Elsewhere
The wind blows here... the wind blows there
The wind seems to blow from... everywhere.
But the wind I love... when it blows... blows fair...
This wind... when it blows... blows from... ELSEWHERE! Can you see its graceful fingers... playing in your hair?
Nay! You cannot see the wind... e'en though you know it's there.
It's flitting... it's flirting... it's prancing everywhere
This wind... when it blows... blows from... ELSEWHERE! It blows unexpectedly... with a gentle breeze... it blows...
The Great Hand of Miracles... brings it... then it goes
To greet the early morning sun... to dance to and fro
From the highest, loftiest mountain heights... to valleys... far below. 'Who is He that sitteth upon the circle of the earth...
Who gathereth the winds in his fists—Who maketh a wind to pass over...
Thou hearest the sound thereof...
But canst not tell whence it cometh... and wither it goeth.' The wind blows here... the wind blows there...
The wind seems to blow... from everywhere.
But the wind I love... when it blows... blows fair—
This wind... when it blows... blows from... ELSEWHERE!
poem by Elga Haymon White
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The Stringy-Bark Tree
There's the whitebox and pine on the ridges afar,
Where the iron-bark, blue-gum, and peppermint are;
There is many another, but dearest to me,
And the king of them all was the stringy-bark tree.
Then of stringy-bark slabs were the walls of the hut,
And from stringy-bark saplings the rafters were cut;
And the roof that long sheltered my brothers and me
Was of broad sheets of bark from the stringy-bark tree.
And when sawn-timber homes were built out in the West,
Then for walls and for ceilings its wood was the best;
And for shingles and palings to last while men be,
There was nothing on earth like the stringy-bark tree.
Far up the long gullies the timber-trucks went,
Over tracks that seemed hopeless, by bark hut and tent;
And the gaunt timber-finder, who rode at his ease,
Led them on to a gully of stringy-bark trees.
Now still from the ridges, by ways that are dark,
Come the shingles and palings they call stringy-bark;
Though you ride through long gullies a twelve months you’ll see
But the old whitened stumps of the stringy-bark tree.
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Swingin' Douglas
There's a breeze about the mountains, it is singin' in the trees
A song to mock the little men who chose to live at ease,
Or play at toil or pleasure where their fellows crowd and push;
But put my good axe in my hand and leave me in the bush
And it's: Hey, boy!
Hi, boy!
Heave it in the wood!
Oh, the green bush is around us, and the smell of it is good,
The great bush is before us, and a giant's task to do,
And hearty men and hefty men alone may see it thro'.
So it's: Ho, boys!
Hey, boys!
Swing it with a will!
For the saws are howlin' hungry for logs down at the mill.
The hope for man is honest work, an' out-o'doors his place,
The good brown earth beneath him an' the clean breeze in his face;
The work for man is with his hands, his muscles strong as steel,
When health an' strength within him make him feel as he should feel.
Oh it's: Hey, boys
Shake her up!
Twenty logs to get!
The tail-rope's fouled a saplin' an' the boss is in a sweat.
He's swearin' like a trooper, for they're falling grubby wood;
The boy has broke the whistle-string, which isn't for his good.
But it's: Hey, boys!
Slog along!
Watch her when she goes!
An' ringin' down the gully runs the echo of the blows.
High above us, on the hill-top, where the tall trees rake the sky,
The cockatoos are craaking and the crimson parrots cry.
From below us, where the sawdust by the mill is gleamin' brown,
Comes the dronin' of the twin-saws while the boys are breakin' down.
An' it's: Ho, boys!
Let her go!
Watch her, how she sways!
An' the loggin' truck goes lurchin' down the crazy wooden ways,
With the driver at the brake-rope - Oh, that truckie has a nerve!
An' he howls a merry 'Hoop-la!' as she swings around a curve.
Then it's: Hey, boys!
Plug ahead!
Feed the greedy mill!
We have fed her logs in dozens, but she's shriekin' for 'em still.
When you test the strength that's in you, oh, it's good to be alive
In the green bush, the clean bush, an' with your fellows strive...
There's Simon, of the sniggin' gang, in trouble with his log.
An' he slews her with a cant-hook as she wallows in a bog.
But it's: Hey, boys!
Steady, boys!
Haul away the slack!
An' the shackled giant's snakin' down the deeply-furrowed track.
Now the boss he swears to heaven that the timber's all bewitched,
An' Simon toils like seven men to get the tackle hitched.
An' it's: Ho, boys!
Right away!
Slew her at the nose!
An' the old winch coughs an' clatters every time the whistle blows.
The crowded world may call at times, but here I'd rather be,
With the strong men, the brown men, who work along with me;
With the good tan on their faces an' the clear look in their eyes
That come to men who ply their trade beneath the open skies:
The rough men,
The straight men,
With coarse words on the tongue.
An' hearts that work can never break an' minds that must kepe young.
Oh, it's swingin', swingin' Douglas with a strength you glory in,
Where willin' hands are honoured hands, an shirkin' is the sin -
An' it's: Hi, boys!
Clear, boys!
More to feed the mill!
An' the great tree whistles downward to a crash that shakes the hill.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Flames
It's human nature for a bashful bloke
To bottle up, an' hesitate, an' doubt
Till grinnin' Fate plays him some low-down joke;
Then, in excitement, he goes blurtin' out
The tale his sane mind never would impart,
So all the near-by world knows it by heart.
Good luck for me, the near-by world that day,
When I ran sobbin' thro' the scorchin' fern,
Held few to hear the foolish things I say;
No one was there my secret thought to learn,
As I went shoutin' down the mountain spur,
Only the scared birds, an' the trees, an' Her.
In fancy, many men have been thro' Hell,
Tortured by fear, when hope has amost died;
But few have gone thro' that, an' fire as well
To come on Heaven on the other side
With just one angel in it, safe an' well -
A cool, calm angel by the name of Nell.
The day the fire came sweepin' down the hill,
Lickin' the forest up like some mad beast,
We had our work cut out to save the mill;
An', when the wind swung round into the East,
An' blew the roarin' flames along the spur,
Straight for 'The Height,' I gets quick fear for Her.
Flat out I was fightin' all day long
(We saved the mill-shed, but the huts were done)
When some bloke, weak with sprintin' comes along
Comic, it seemed, to me the way he run)
Shoutin' that someone's missin' from 'The Height,'
An' all the forest at the back's alight.
I don't what he thought, an' never cared,
When I grabs at his coat an' starts to yell.
I only know that I was dreadful scared. . . .
In half a minute more, I guessed 'twas Nell.
He tell me when an' where they thought she went,
An' of the useless searchers they had sent.
I never waits for more; but turned an' ran
Straight for the spur, along the scorchin' track.
Behind me, as I went, I hear some man
I think it's Pike - bawlin', 'You fool! Come back!'
What plan was in my mind I cannot tell;
I only know I want to find my Nell.
Next thing I mind, I've left the track, an' turned
Into the blackened scrub - my eyes feel bad -
Above my head the messmate trees still burned.
An' Lord, them awful fancies that I had!
I seen her lyin' there - her face - her hair. . . .
Why, even now, them thoughts give me a scare.
I stumble on. Against a red-hot butt
I burn my hand, but never even swear;
But keep on sayin', 'Make the splitter's hut,
The splitter's hut! Get to the clearin' there.
She's at the splitter's hut; an' if she ain't . . .'
My heart turns over, an' I feel dead faint.
An' as I plug along, I hear some fool
Repeatin' words till they sound like a spell.
'I'm goin' mad,' I thinks. 'Keep cool! Keep cool!'
But still the voice goes on' 'My Nell! My Nell!'
I whips round quick to see who he can be,
This yappin' fool - then realize it's me.
They say I must have gone thro' blazin' ferns.
Perhaps I did; but I don't recollect.
My mind was blank, but, judgin' by my burns,
There's something got to me that took effect.
But once, I know, I saw a flamin' tree
Fall just behind me; but that don't trouble me.
I don't know how the reached the splitter's hut,
I only saw the ragin' fire - an' Nell.
My clothes were torn, my face an' hands were cut,
An' half a dozen times, at least, I fell.
I burst into the clearin' . . . an' I look. . . .
She's sittin' on a log there - with a book!
I seem to cross that clearin' in a stride,
Still sobbin' like a kid: 'My Nell! My nell!'
I was clean mad. But, as I reach her side,
I sort of wake, an' give that song a spell.
But, by her eyes, for all she seemed so cool,
I know she must have heard, an' feel a fool.
'Why, Mister Jim? You do look hot,' says she.
(But still her eyes says oceans more than that).
'Did you come all the way up here for me?'
Coolness? I tell you straight, it knocked me flat.
By rights, she should fall sobbin' in my arms;
But no; there weren't no shrieks an' no alarms.
I pulls myself together with a jerk.
'Oh, just a stroll,' I says. 'Don't mention it.
The mill's half burnt, an' I am out of work;
They missed you so I looked around a bit.'
'Now, that was good of you,' says she, reel bright.
'Wasn't the bush-fire such a splendid sight?'
She looks me up and down. 'Why, Mister Jim,'
She says to me, 'you do look hot, indeed.
If you go strollin' that way for a whim
Whatever would you do in case of need?'
That's what she said. But with her eyes she sent
More than her thanks; an' I was quite content.
I seen her home; or, rather, she seen me,
For I was weak, an' fumbled in my stride.
But, when we reached 'The Height,' I seen that she
Was just in breakin'; an' she went inside. . . .
I stumbles home. 'Well, Jim, lad, anyway,'
I tells myself, 'you've had a fine, full day.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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You Say The Battle Is Over
This song appears on two albums, and was first released on the autograph album, and has also been released on the wildlife concert album as a live track.
And you say that the battle is over
And you say that the war is all done
Go tell it to those
With the wind in their nose
Who run from the sound of the gun
And write it on the sides
Of the great whaling ships
Or on ice floes where conscience is tossed
With the wind in their eyes
It is they who must die
And it's we who must measure the loss
And you say that the battle is over
And finally the world is at peace
You mean no one is dying
And mothers don't weep
Or it's not in the papers at least
There are those who would deal
In the darkness of life
There are those who would tear down the sun
And most men are ruthless
But some will still weep
When the gifts we were given are gone
Now the blame cannot fall
On the heads of a few
It's become such a part of the race
It's eternally tragic
That that which is magic
Be killed at the end of the glorious chase
From young seals to great whales
From waters to wood
They will fall just like weeds in the wind
With fur coats and perfumes
And trophies on walls
What a hell of a race to call men
And you say that the battle is over
And you say that the war is all done
Go tell it to those
With the wind in their nose
Who run from the sound of the gun
And write it on the sides
Of the great whaling ships
Or on ice floes where conscience is tossed
With the wind in their eyes
It is they who must die
And it's we who must measure the loss
With the wind in their eyes
It is they who must die
And it's we who must measure the cost
Words and music by david mallett
song performed by by John Denver
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Daughters Of War
Space beats the ruddy freedom of their limbs,
Their naked dances with man's spirit naked
By the root side of the tree of life
(The under side of things
And shut from earth's profoundest eyes).
I saw in prophetic gleams
These mighty daughters in their dances
Beckon each soul aghast from its crimson corpse
To mix in their glittering dances :
I heard the mighty daughters' giant sighs
In sleepless passion for the sons of valour
And envy of the days fo flesh,
Barring their love with mortal boughs across-
The mortal boughs, the mortal tree of life.
The old bark burnt with iron wars
They blow to a live flame
To char the young green clays
And reach the occult soul; they have no softer lure,
No softer lure than the savage ways of death.
We were satisfied of our lords the moon and the sun
To take our wage of sleep and bread and warmth-
These maidens came-these strong everliving Amazons,
And in an easy might their wrists
Of night's sway and noon's sway the sceptres brake,
Clouding the wild, the soft lustres of our eyes.
Clouding the wild lustres, the clinging tender lights ;
Driving the darkness into the flame of clay
With the Amazonian wind of them
Over our corroding faces
That must be broken-broken for evermore,
So the soul can leap out
Into their huge embraces,
Though there are human faces
Best sculptures of Deity,
And sinews lusted after
By the Archangels tall,
Even these must leap to the love-heat of these maidens
From the flame of terrene days,
Leaving grey ashes to the wind-to the wind.
One (whose great lifted face,
Where wisdom's strength and beauty's strength
And the thewed strength of large beasts
Moved and merged, gloomed and lit)
Was speaking, surely, as the earth-men's earth fell away ;
Whose new hearing drank the sound
Where pictures, lutes, and mountains mixed
With the loosed spirit of a thought, Essenced to language thus
'My sisters force their males
From the doomed earth, from the doomed glee
And hankering of hearts.
Frail hands gleam up through the human quagmire, and lips of ash
Seem to wail, as in sad faded paintings
Far-sunken and strange.
My sisters have their males
Clean of the dust of old days
That clings about those white hands
And yearns in those voices sad :
But these shall not see them,
Or think of them in any days or years ;
They are my sisters' lovers in other days and years.'
poem by Isaac Rosenberg
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When Orpheus Sweetly Did Complayne
When Orpheus sweetly did complayne
Upon his lute with heavy strayne
How his Euridice was slayne,
The trees to heare
Obtayn'd an eare,
And after left it off againe.
At every stroake and every stay
The boughs kept time, and nodding lay,
And listened bending all one way:
The aspen tree
As well as hee
Began to shake and learn'd to play.
If wood could speake, a tree might heare,
If wood could sound true greife so neare
A tree might dropp an amber teare:
If wood so well
Could ring a knell
The Cipres might condole the beare.
The standing nobles of the grove
Hearing dead wood so speak and move
The fatall axe beganne to love:
They envyde death
That gave such breath
As men alive doe saints above
poem by William Strode
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Art of Wind
Whether strong, whether sway
Whether irritating, whether couraging
Stormy nights or flash of breeze
Wind goes wherever blows
Whether naughty, whether chill
Whether sudden, whether still
In the leap of joy, in the darkest hour
Wind blows where we can’t follow
The heart pressure, the air emotion
The drift of change, the surging twist
The wing of song, the road of scent
Wind follows whatever goes
Can be seen but uncertain feeling
Can be caught but hard to hold
One breath to caress, one breath to break
Wind is the mischief actor
Flying dandelion, the match maker
Premonition whisperer, the thief of clothes
The kite runner, the chime player
Wind is the carefree rover
poem by Maria Sudibyo
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La Raza Del Sol
born on the east side
In the barrio badlands
Juan cortez walks the streets
Hes a proud man
He loves a girl
With eyes that sparkle like diamonds
Troubled world
Makes him fight for his woman
La raza
From the south blows the wind of la raza
The legends all told
Follow the sun to the great river valley
La raza del sol
Bold & strong
Find a life cross the border
It aint easy hassling with law & order
In the soul stands the strength of the family
Holding on with the spirit and glory
La raza
From the south blows the wind of la raza
The legends all told
Follow the sun to the great river valley
La raza del sol
song performed by by Journey
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Still women love men
Wind in spring blows;
Petals wither.
Wind in summer blows;
Fruits fall down.
Wind in autumn blows;
Leaves are shed.
Wind in winter blows;
Barks get cracks.
Still trees love wind.
Still women love men.
27.10.2008
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Mandolin Rain
(bruce hornsby/john hornsby)
The song came and went
Like the times that we spent
Hiding out from the rain under the carnival tent
Id laugh and hed smile
And it would last for a while
You dont know what you got til you lose it all again
Listen to the mandolin rain, listen to the music on the lake
Listen to my heart break, every time that he goes away
Listen to the banjo wind, a sad song drifting low
Listen to my tears roll, down my face as he turns to go
A cool evening dance
Listening to the bluegrass band takes the chill
From the air til they play the last song
And Ill do my time
Keeping you off my mind but theres moments
That I find, Im not feeling so strong
Listen to the mandolin rain, listen to the music on the lake
Listen to my heart break, every time that he goes away
Listen to the banjo wind, a sad song drifting low
Listen to my tears roll, down my face as he turns to go
Running down by the lakeshore
He did love the sound of a summer storm
It played on the lake like a mandolin
Now its washing him away once again
Once again, once again
Listen to the mandolin rain, listen to the music on the lake
Listen to my heart break, every time that he goes away
Listen to the banjo wind, a sad song drifting low
Listen to my tears roll, down my face as he turns to go
Listen to my tears roll, down my face as he turns to go
song performed by by Pam Tillis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Not Finished
A perfect night
the stars are sparkling bright
staring into the sky,
the little house in the creek
sits nestled under the tall mossy tree
the house aged by nature...beautiful
as the rain starts to pour
the tall mossy tree protects the house and its front door
the mossy tree bears the weight of the sky
as the house is kept dry
more clouds swarm in recklessly
lightning cracks as it sets fire to the tall mossy tree
the tree stands strong....
but i doesn't know if it can last long
as the rain runs down the tree's trunk and roots
like tears
poem by Wandering Scarlet
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Crosscut Saw
By r. g. ford
Im a crosscut saw,
Baby, drag me across your log.
Im a crosscut saw,
Baby, drag me across your log.
I cut your wood so easy for you,
You cant help but say, hot dog!
Some call me woodcutting sam,
Some call me woodcutting jim.
The last girl I cut wood for,
She wants me back again.
Im a crosscut saw,
Baby, drag me across your log.
I cut your wood so easy for you,
You cant help but say, hot dog!
I got a double-bladed axe
That really cuts good.
Well, Im a crosscut saw,
Gonna bury me in your wood.
Im a crosscut saw,
Baby, drag me across your log.
I cut your wood so easy for you,
You cant help but say, hot dog!
song performed by by Eric Clapton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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