Tag Archives: ballad

From Black To Blue

From Black To Blue

You can make the wrong decision,
at the time it seemed right.
You can train to be a pilot
then freak out on first flight.

But life has a habit
of making each day new,
to change the view
from black to blue.

You can look cool in sun glasses
but then it starts to rain.
You can pass your health check up,
then feel a sudden pain.

But life has a habit
of making each day new,
to change the view
from black to blue.

You can dream you are a mammoth
then wake up as a snail.
You can earn your certificate,
and still feel doomed to fail.

But life has a habit
of making each day new,
to change the view
from black to blue.

You can vote for politicians,
see not one promise kept.
You can see a far off widow
who has all her tears wept.

But life has a habit
of making each day new,
to change the view
from black to blue.

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Worthy Of A Song

Worthy Of A Song

( A ballad for my wife, Anahit Arustamyan, poet of Armenia )

They say the bridge is broken, not safe to cross,
the girders are not strong,
and they worry that the roads were built too wide,
the time taken too long,
but our documents led to our wedding rings,
already our love is worthy of a song.

The winter wolf has woken, leaps from his lair,
leaves paw prints in the snow.
The voters are unhappy with their leaders,
but have nowhere to go,
still the ministry of justice have agreed
we are together, our love is free to grow.

Yes, already, already,
already our love is worthy of a song.
It will be a quiet ballad,
not a rowdy sing a long.
We can sing it in the bath tub,
tap its beat out on a gong.
We will craft the rhyme and rhythm,
and make sure no word is wrong.
Already our love is worthy of a song.
Yes, already, already,
already our love is worthy of a song.

Song For The Sparrows

Song For The Sparrows

Thank you sparrows for staying,
for not going with swallows and swifts,
for chirping in my garden,
while the cold wheel of winter shifts.

You are taken for granted,
so common, not a surprise to see.
Bird watchers search not for you,
you are not a rare sight on a tree.

Humble and ever alert,
you scout out your kin in the air.
I thought I’d just like to tell you,
I am very glad you are there.

Well, I’m getting myself together,
to reform my one man band,
so I can take any rough weather,
so I can make a strong stand.

Maybe this is the middle,
I don’t know how this story will end.
I listen to the sparrows,
as with rain branches blacken and bend.

This song is for the sparrows,
few are faithful and humble as them.
When you admire the flower,
remember the root and the stem.

October Song For Socrates

October Song For Socrates

So I went for a walk
in the wind and the weather,
a misty, windy walk,
in the month of October.
The earth acorn brown,
and the leaves they were turning,
a blue, smoky gown
rose from twigs that were burning.

Now when wise Socrates,
he went down to the market,
all worldly things to please
tempted him for to buy it,
and he was amazed
to find little he needed,
with joy he was dazed,
like a plant newly seeded.

Wheels were turned by his words.
Spring blue bells I remember,
and the nest building birds,
as light dims to November,
and I had to smile
at boys hunting for conkers,
their dream is a pile
of the fruit from the branches.

So down the road I strode
with no load on my shoulder,
to the bright woodland gold,
and the wind it blew colder.
When the mountains call,
my wings will fledge and feather,
and I’ll leave it all
for the wind and the weather.

When Through The Bright October Leaves

When Through The Bright October Leaves

When through the bright October leaves,
the west wind trails a misty rain,
though now your way by dim light weaves,
the jewel lamps are lit again.

Watch on hills first snows sweep to fall,
hear flakes tap on your window pane.
Love may still warm you like a shawl,
for what you pine you may yet gain.

Leaves of gold, of silver grey,
of yellow, bronze and copper red,
on straining branches fret and stray,
you need not grieve, though summer’s fled.

Now Robin Hood he loved a maid,
more fair than words from poet’s pen.
He met her in a woodland glade,
the archer led her to his den.

Enchanter of mountain pine,
of willow, birch and forest oak,
will fill your cup with autumn wine,
leave you to wear your winter cloak.

The Ballad of John Barleycorn and Annabel Lee

The Ballad of John Barleycorn and Annabel Lee

John Barleycorn, when will your harvest be done?
So long at work, even for a good countryman.
John Barleycorn, when will your harvest be done?
So late in the fields, far from me, my countryman.

Our daughter, Mary, weaves a shawl by lamp light,
our son, Giles, drinks in the inn with the shepherd men.
From far waters, I watched flocks of geese in flight.
John Barleycorn, when are you coming home again?

I was a quiet, homely maid when we met.
You’re the man come to court me, silent even then.
We walked in the dawn, the grass with dew still wet.
John Barleycorn, when are you coming home again?

So called the countryman’s wife, Annabel Lee.
Her long hair and shawl blowing in the harvest breeze.
He put down his hoe, to her he turned to see.
John Barleycorn come walking home beneath the trees.

Annabel Lee, now my harvest work is done.
I left my plough in the field by the cherry tree.
Annabel Lee, seeds may fry brown in the sun,
my mouth warm and dry, like the cider you gave me.

Annabel Lee, the sheaves stand high in my cart,
now here I am beside you, come walk home with me.
Annabel Lee, you wore a hood round your heart,
you lived in a cottage in a coombe by the sea.

Annabel Lee, help me remember first days,
ballads I sang for you while you made apple pie.
Annabel Lee, I know your holy wife ways,
with you by me, summer will never leave the sky.

Annabel Lee, like a linnet on a reed,
you sing in the dawn and dance in the woods for me.
Annabel Lee, I’m your Tom Appleseed,
when we fill baskets with fruit from the orchard tree.

John Barleycorn, home now your harvest is done.
So hard you work, even for a good countryman.
John Barleycorn, home now your harvest is done.
Stars shine on the fields, come to me, my countryman.

Mind You Take Care

Mind You Take Care

I fiddle round with chords
with my finger and my thumb.
A squirrel’s acorn hoards,
like my bag of songs to strum.
I hear a hurdy-gurdy
and viola in the air.
Mind you take care.

Attend to lute and lyre,
hear the poet speak the lines,
saved from wreck and fire,
savour them like summer wines.
Some hearts are like a desert,
lost of all they had to share.
Mind you take care.

It’s not just you,
it’s all of us,
scattered fragments everywhere.
Mind you take care.

O, Saint Columba,
let us sail our boats to your shore.
O, Saint Columba,
may we see angels at your door.

Now where did that prayer come from?
Was it waiting way out there?
Mind you take care.

Words are drawn out from me
and they fall like parachutes
or leaves from my self tree,
memory gathers round my roots.
My song is barely woven
when a wind begins to stir.
Mind you take care.