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being myself the best way I can

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40 Days

Ridin’ on a dark road

‘most forget the light

Lookin’ at the long goodbye

Do not miss that fight

I’ll climb on up toward Zion

Make the journey mine

Relax into the promise

One dream at a time

   Forty days… longtime gone

   Forty days… waitin’ for the dawn

Doesn’t make a lot o’ sense

But love sometimes just don’t…

Keep you in the present tense

And bein’ honest won’t…

Make you rich or make you brave

Win the day or make the save

But honest is its own reward

When you’re walkin’ forty days

   Forty days… longtime gone

   Forty days… waitin’ for the dawn

When the thirst and loneliness set in

You want to hold a hand

Reach for a drink of love

In the eyes you name as friend

Scuffle down a dirty road

But best not go alone

When you’re walkin’ forty days

From nameless into known

   Forty days… longtime gone

   Forty days… waitin’ for the dawn

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Who Am I?

advent 1

Who am I, in the light of a candle
burning in a circle of evergreen
Who am I, as I wait on the mystery
coming to us as a promise unseen

Wondrin’ and waitin’, I watch the light
of a star that’s shinin’ in the heavens at night
Could it be possible that I’m loved by you?
Is the candle burnin’ a message true?

It’s easy to doubt, it’s easy to fear
Often I wonder if I’ve got it clear
The living rumor of a love so pure
is the healing my heart needs for sure

Candles burnin’, north, south, east, west,
with the light of the center candle, confess
Shinin’ a call for peace on earth
rekindling in each the spark of our worth

Who am I, in the light of a candle
burning in a circle of evergreen
Who am I, as I wait on the mystery
coming to us as a promise unseen

Who am I…

Who am I?

Moonshine Jesus

Good ol’ boys tellin’ terrible lies

Temptin’ me to a quick despise

Then I see from the corner of my eye

A white lightnin’ sippin’ sight for sore eyes

 

Moonshine Jesus, no pie in the sky

Moonshine Jesus, bourbon or rye

Moonshine Jesus, a surprising delight

Moonshine Jesus, wont’cha shine a light

 

It’s easy to judge ‘n’ rail ‘n’ shout

It’s easy to think you’ve got it all figured out

It’s easy to think there’s only one right way

But listen closer and you’ll hear me say…

 

Moonshine Jesus, no pie in the sky

Moonshine Jesus, bourbon or rye

Moonshine Jesus, a surprising delight

Moonshine Jesus, wont’cha shine a light

Arm In Arm… by Randy Creath

waitin’ for a cue and warmin’ it up
lookin’ for a secret in an empty cup
runnin’ from the dark into the light
claimin’ I’m brave to stave off the fright
surfin’ out ahead of a hurricane
hangin’ on the edge of the wave’s chicane
ugly stares from the far right-wing
as I open my heart and start to sing
pretty words to tickle the ear
lies and innuendo to feed the fear
take your pick of poisons my friend
the message you choose, you’ve got to send
mystic bullshit or specious hope
drinkin’ brown liquor or smokin’ green dope
drown in the cesspool or make a choice
use your words or lose your voice
the time-liars tell you it’s all gonna end
the truth is more like it’s time to make friends
be like the good guy you’d like to be
walk out of the darkness, choose to be free
ain’t no shadows gonna hide the truth
ain’t no lies to deny the proof
just livin’ wise and spreadin’ sails
arm in arm on an unseen trail…
into tomorrow

Broken Heart Sigh

Listen for the doorbell, waitin’ for delivery

Wonder what the mail might bring

Lookin’ at the clouds and wondrin’ ‘bout the weather

Feel I’m on the ragged fringe

Anxiety is pumpin’ like a diesel thumpin’

Poundin’ down the daily grind

Lost and found in boxes, skittish as the foxes

Seek but kinda hope I won’t find

Torn but whole, oh a broken soul

Mournful blues and rockin’ heart

Life is goin’ great, but guess it soon’ll break

Grimly hope and play my part

Dark on the horizon, I see trouble risin’

Down the heart of Dixie way

The status quo is breaking into vapid faking

It’s a dying liberal day

Resurrection Jim Crow, hating on the down low

Remember your way back when

Make the Bible tell lies, another innocent dies

History repeats again…

Can you tell me why?

Feel the tear tracks dry,

Burning cheeks,

Lips so dry,

Hear my broken heart sigh…

So Many and So Many Times

Some days I mourn for the might have been

And long for the things that seem lost

The fame, the road, and the roaring of fans

The romance, the lights, and the kisses they’d toss

 

I wonder if I’d have made a different choice

Would I be who I have become?

And then the keys or guitar or the woman I love

Calm my fears and they welcome me home

 

Living as me is a puzzle I’ve found

Battered and buffered in the waves of sound

The roaring of wind and sighs of the sea

A shattered canoe but yet again found

 

I’ve tried and I’ve tried as hard as I know

In a sea the color of rhymes

The storms and calm times they’ve ebbed and they flowed

I’ve failed so many and so many times

 

Quiet at night I listen to her breathe

And I rest near the touch of her skin

The dreams and nightmares all fade away

As I look toward tomorrow again

Martha

Martha, oh Martha where’s the ketchup?
Martha, oh where’s the blueberry jam?
Martha, you do it all and then some
Oh but Martha, do you know who I AM?
Oh Martha.., better ask who I AM!

Haunted by dreams of the might have been
Keep on tryin’ and then try again
Look back in time, put your nose to the grindstone
Get it all done and do it all alone

You got lists, others make lists for you
No time for you to ponder about
Put one foot just in front of the other
Always angry but you can’t let it out…

Sometimes it seems others do it different
Sometimes you think you might change things up
But people are beggin’ for your time and know-how
They want you to fill their empty cup

Martha, oh Martha where’s the ketchup?
Martha, oh where’s the blueberry jam?
Martha, you do it all and then some
Oh but Martha, do you know who I AM?
Oh Martha.., better ask who I AM!

Armor…

Somehow the idea of being someone else’s idea had never occurred to him. 

It was a crack in his rigorous and well-developed armor that began to let the light of a larger vision into an otherwise well-blindered world. 

The breeze that whistled through that cranky bodyshell produced only the slightest amounts of cooling and comfort. 

But, a starting point is all it takes.  It’ll be enough; or so he thought…

My Mother

My mother is not an angel.

My mother is a saint – but so are most folks who put their trust in a higher power and she has shown me her faith time and again.

My mother is not a beauty queen.

My mother is one of the prettiest, even among the most beautiful people alive – and I’ll fight anyone who wants to argue with me on that count.

My mother is not perfect.

My mother is the woman who gave birth to me, fussed over me, talked to me, helped to free me from my immaturity with dogged determination, laughed at and with me, sat with a flyswatter in hand while I refused to take a nap, and walked into and out of the Grand Canyon with my brother and sister and me.

My mother is not all-knowing.

My mother put up with my questions, factual, hypothetical, and personal beyond all reason and into the realm of the noble – since I am still alive to ask questions.

My mother is not a mechanical genius.

My mother knows the proper application of foot-to-butt in order to achieve better than average motivation and preferred results.

My mother is not a poet.

My mother has wrought lyrical emotions from pies and cakes, those she “iced” into things of beauty, those she baked when she was too tired to see straight, those she gave away, and those she served to hungry visitors and strangers, and the one she dropped on Dad’s birthday when all of us cried because she wept.

My mother is not a musician.

My mother allowed me to play any piano I could get close to, paid for lessons, made me practice when the sun was shining outside and my friends were riding their bikes, listened to me with patience when I discovered something that felt new and wonderful on our old piano, and supported me beyond the pale when I couldn’t help myself for love of music.

My mother is not a scholar.

My mother doesn’t have advanced degrees or certificates of this or that although she has read as much or more than most people I know, is curious and yearns to learn, refuses to settle for simple answers, and admits that there is more to discover than she’ll ever have time to manage.

My mother is not a novelist.

My mother has figuratively written at least four books that I can recall; they are the books of the lives of her children as well as a great portion of the life of her beloved husband who wouldn’t have had it any other way.

My mother is not a scientist.

My mother taught me chemistry at her kitchen counter as we measured, sifted, blended, kneaded, mixed, baked, cooked, canned, and experimented our way into fun-food-creativity.

My mother is not a sports star.

My mother comforted me in little league when I couldn’t see the damn baseball because I was blind as a bat, took me to swimming lessons until we discovered that I’m actually part fish, and allowed me to do so many different outdoor activities that should be included in the roster of Olympic events that I can’t even keep track of them all.

My mother is not a historian.

My mother is a story-teller whose knowledge of things that used-to-be is exceeded only by her willingness to answer our questions of her life that is, whenever I’ve the urge to ask.

My mother is not the best mother in this world.

I don’t know that there has to be a “best”.

My mother is.., my mother. Higher praise I cannot deliver. Greater love I’ll likely never know. More thanks I could not offer. My mother is.., and I’m glad.

Poundin’ Down Our Hall

Poundin’ Down Our Hall    by Randy Creath 3/14/2013

 

I heard the thunder rollin’

black helos in the sky

felt like bells a tollin’

and no one tells me why…

just my paranoia

comin’ by to call

jack-booted dreams are on ya’

poundin’ down your hall

 

Can we find an answer

In the daily dark

Can we kick the door down

To unveil the spark

Are the clowns and satyrs

Poised to kill us all

(will) Billion dollar fakers

Bury us at the mall

 

Listen to the earth groan

Under hated feet

Stompin’ through the graveyards

Of thoughtful dead elite

Rising from the ashes

Of the smoking tomes

Burned by fascist pyros

They’re leveling your homes

 

Waited for their passing

Hoped they’d go away

Still can hear them laughing

They’ve come here to stay

Oh the bastard fancies

We let live in our heads

Even though it’s rent free

And my hope is dead…

 

It’s just my paranoia

comin’ by to call

jack-booted dreams are on ya’

poundin’ down our hall

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