Middle of the night

And the sky is white,

Just as the land below.

The sound is absorbed

By the deep-crushing stuff

As the chill sinks in to your bones.

Round the edges the world

Seems a dark charcoal shade,

A contrast to the pale above.

The places you knew so intimately

Are changed into feelings anew,

But it’s only in fragment, piece, and part

You can notice the lacework of difference.

The chill of the heavens for once has descended,

The stars scattered in blanketing shards.

There’s a soft-seeming curve and rise

To the surface that wraps over all you see,

And to fall in silence beneath it

Is to disappear, lost to resolve and memory.

They say the moonlight is always deceptive,
but is that so or is it only that to the perceptive
by soft alternate persuasion,
the moon reveals more idealistic creation?

The silhouettes cast are no less real
than those rendered by sunlight and captured by day,
it’s just that the pale chooses to linger on different curves
of these parts of life’s play.

In darkness as in light our perception has limits,
but with the moon your instincts exceed plainer senses.
What you see painted silver must by imagination gain the missing tones,
and therein is revealed the bias of your own.

The world does not lie to you at these moments,
rather it forgives you its own imposition,
and in what you see your own fault is hidden.
But moonlight by this does us no harm—
the fault was already there, so by finding it learn:

what it is you expect can distort your perception,
so take note and balance so as not to fall from your position,
as a heart in this world seeking for truth,
a change in the light is a gift you can use.

Just another singer/songwriter,
you’ve heard them before.
But the thing about strumming your own little tune
is the job of telling the people the truth.

Others might sing and others might strum,
but the sight you have seen as you walked this world
rests on you as a personal sooth.

The stories you see belong to the world,
but without your voice they might go untold.
That’s the job of the singer/songwriter,
just one in a field that reaches far back,
to catch the tears and the smiles
of the ones with whom they interact,

ones who disappear between history’s broad strokes,
except for the moment you saw and you spoke.
For as it was said, by many before,
a song it goes on in the heart and the mind,
far longer than ever a sermon by rote.

I’m waiting for the rays of the morning sun everyday, nowadays.
Can’t seem to sleep before 7, not motivated to rouse before 3,
so I treat my nights like my days and let my rhythm flow free.

I have nights by the river, coffee and stars,
take a book where I go so I’m never too far,
from the thoughts and the voices that guide my reflection
as I spend my time searching for all that we are.
Dear Joe in my ears, I feel tied to no one,
no one to notice should I disappear,
but that my feet may turn in any direction
is my own certain release.

I keep waiting for the morning rays
as my sleepless eyes wander,
and listening to the voices of this world
that have seen more than I can ponder.