Looking for my own

Load the song, sing out each note.
Call it spring but grab your coat.
Nobody so far can know
Who is headed north.

One eye forward, one eye back
They always play, we watch, like that
Spring can have ties, we stay on track
Till summer will return.

Oh Brooklyn, Brooklyn, wait to fade.
Are you aware where new teams played?
The pyramids and the parades
Oh Brooklyn, Brooklyn, wait to fade.

When at first I learned to read
I used all the words behind me
Them and then and you and three
Still need to find my time.
And how I take my time.

That singer had a voice that shines
Like stolen cash and shoehorned rhymes.
Romanticism can be fine
No season is a mourning time.

Oh Brooklyn, Brooklyn, wait to win.
Are you aware the shape we’re in?
The turns we take, the clocks they spin
Oh Brooklyn, Brooklyn, wait to win.

Three names that became hard to say
Looking for my own.
What he was then I’m not today
I haven’t changed, but grown.

Oh Brooklyn, Brooklyn, wait to sing
For no one knows the shape of spring.
With hands they snag, with bats they swing.
Oh Brooklyn, Brooklyn, wait to sing.

Oh Brooklyn, Brooklyn, wait a year.
Are you aware what counts as “here”?
Who’s to say who is far or near?
Oh Brooklyn, Brooklyn, wait a year.

I find my voice with time and age.
The present will not be a cage
I won’t have to turn to a stage
Since now we have the game.

Three words that became hard to say
Looking for my own.

Song for Spring

Another archive post in lieu of new content, but as it’ll probably be new to you, all the easier for me! A few years ago, I wrote (very short) instrumental pieces for the “four seasons” of the baseball year–the weather and calendar don’t exactly suggest it, but in honor of spring training, enjoy the spring song.

Lipogram musical–snip II

Sorry for lack of blogging, my inspiration is focusing on actual writing for a class I’m in. But this is also a song from my WIP musical. In which Scott, our protagonist, shows us that his anthropological ability is…not good at all.

(Scott climbs out of that cart, but spills a bunch of food and falls down.)

Not a flying start
Toppling this cart.
Just a painful fall
Down against a wall.
Bruising, lying down,
This is not my town.

(Scott, clutching his limb, climbs up against a wall.)

This is not my town…

Tabula rasa!
I don’t know what’s going on.
Tabula rasa!
Working blindly until dawn.
Tabula rasa!
Laws that I know might not hold.
Tabula rasa!
So it’s okay if I’m bold!

So what if food’s just up for grabs?
Who knows? Fal might want it this way.
That’s not how I find food, but my
Local traditions shouldn’t hold sway.

I can’t honor cultural norms
Such as Fal’s, until I know what
Is good and is not. So tonight
I can act without “why”, “should” or “but”!

Tabula rasa!
If I could stand up, I could
Tabula rasa!
Without thoughts of “bad” or “good”
Tabula rasa!
Do anything that I want.
Tabula rasa!
I’d go on a midnight jaunt.

I could simply start
By taking this cart.
Munch on all this food
If in such a mood.
For a mild thrill,
Go around and kill
Anybody I
Would randomly spy.

Tabula rasa!
Nobody around can say
Tabula rasa!
What I do is not okay.
Tabula rasa!
I could just act on a whim
Tabula rasa!
If it wasn’t for this limb.

Tabula rasa!
Nobody’s around tonight
Tabula rasa!
To say what is wrong or right
Tabula rasa!
Who’s to say Fal has my thoughts?
Tabula rasa!
Who’s to say Fal has my oughts?

Tabula rasa!
For tonight, until I know
Tabula rasa!
What is normal, I can go
Tabula rasa!
Joyriding, killing and
Tabula rasa!
(molto ritardando)…but how it hurts to stand.

Snowpocalypse report

So maybe they’re like snow and I’m like ice.
Snow bears the imprints of all kind of feet;
Light, heavy, scared, brave, rushing, ambling, nice,
Hard-checking, winners, those who know defeat.

And ice is trodden down upon, it knows
Each taken step; unmoving, knows each crack
Could spell the end. The wind-buffeted snows
Clump together at the end, heading back.

The snow will drift away, move on, forget
Losses and forfeit wins (no one can say
If they would remember real ones), and yet
The ice endures, waiting to melt away

In the warmer season, after the games.
I still do not know all my teammates’ names.

I still do not know all my teammates’ names.
How can I see the game this far away?
Glasses intact (this time), but still the frames
Don’t let me get a good view of the play

Until I hear “Neither goal counted!” and
Resume my post (but near? far? which?) with pride.
Deflects, reflex, kick saves, crouch, slap, or stand;
I haven’t messed up yet and we’re still tied.

I sit out the second half. There’s no more
Scoring; we lose a penalty shootout.
The next week our team manages to score—
The game is unofficial, and a rout

The wrong way. Officially, though, we won;
Forfeits are easy points, but they’re no fun.

Forfeits are easy points, but they’re no fun.
“There aren’t enough of us to play,” they told
Me. Glowering, the season almost done,
I thought of the ref out there in the cold

Waiting in vain for our team just to show.
I went to tell her, not even a hassle.
Grass poked its way up through the melting snow
Then—no mirage, reflection, or ice castle—

I see my teammates. There they’ve come! It’s real!
But all too soon they say it’s not enough,
We’ll have to forfeit. It’s not that I feel
Usual frustration; each loss is tough

But after such joy, descent without fight?
Legends were made for this kind of a night.

Legends were made for this kind of a night
Or maybe it’s the other way around.
The wind blows snow up against each streetlight
As usual, but they say we’re snowbound.

It’s been two years. Don’t think we’ve scored a goal.
Maybe others don’t mind snowouts—I mind.
And now the Wrigley roof is less than whole—
For this I left the Metrodome behind?

There’s more to life than games, my teammates know;
(Some of whom don’t respect the game at all)
But I am not as rootless as the snow.
I want to stand my ground, to play broomball.

Risking cold isn’t that great of a price.
So maybe they’re like snow and I’m like ice.