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1. |
Note to the Listener
02:50
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Note to the Listener
It feels like a cloudy sunrise.
It feels like a caged bird.
It feels like a lonely baby.
That's how it feels.
That's how it feels...to sing...
to sing songs,
to live life,
to be in time.
But—if you're there—
be the eye to my light,
and the hand to mine,
and the ear to my song.
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2. |
A New Dawning
03:55
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A New Dawning
In winter's feeble light
broken rays, like forgetting,
claim our afternoon,
and in the turning
earth clothe our sleeping seeds
with foretastes of spring.
Sweet sleep of promised life--
you soon will end in morning!
After these long nights,
and in a new dawning.
Then will we be strong.
Then will be be strong.
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3. |
Grandfathers
04:04
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Grandfathers
My mother's father lives in a Polaroid
and he's buried in a VHS.
My strongest memories of him are of those scenes—
a little more and just a little less.
Of our feet shuffling along the sidewalk
in front of his small Michigan home.
Of me leaning hard against his parked Ford
pushing with all of my boyish might.
Of him on our couch, striped denim blue
alongside a shade of working class gray,
with his arm around my five-year-old shoulder
and my knees pulled up against my chest.
He died before I turned six years old.
And all the stories he told
slowly fade.
My father's father lives in some oil paint
that his son brushed out before I was born.
That lay for years unhung and unseen
in the attic of my parents' house.
I know little more than what's in that frame,
little more than what I'd so seldom seen.
But I'd like to think that it shows me something
about the man that I will one day be.
'Cause in his left hand he held a fishing rod
and he wore a neat blue cardigan.
The way my father wept at The Death of a Salesman
told me much about what his dad did.
They say we all want to live
even after we die...
that in this information age
we'll really find a way.
But, I just don't know.
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4. |
Robot Man
03:36
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Robot Man
If I were a robot man
I think I'd give myself new eyes.
I'd use them to see into
the dusty halls of time.
Looking back I'd seek your face
among the paintings on the wall.
I might find you in
some unnatural pose
made to conform to
an ideal no one knows.
I might see it in your face—
in an incidental line—
that disappointment
that would show up more in time.
If I were a robot man
I think I'd just replace my mind
with one that was fast and true—
the only one of its kind.
I know I'd figure a new way
to clear the dust from what has been.
I might find things
no one else has known—
like a doorway
through which no one has gone.
I might see the
very end of time
where paint and canvas
give way to a new mankind.
If I were a robot man...
some kind of robot man...
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5. |
Moon Song
03:48
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Moon Song
I watch that big, bright face in the moon
grow small as my lifetime waxes long,
and I remember that they call it "new"
and I wish that that age-old term were true.
Because March's moon I'll lionize—
see him larger than my tiny life—
with all the swelling buds
of the springtime thaws
chilled by the last breath of that old man...
But, by April I've grown sheepish again.
It seems by the time
the moon comes around
there is nothing new that I have found.
Just the same damn boys and girls of Father Time
wound up in their mother's fateful line...
To the end we may twirl on this little blue ball—
summer after spring,
winter after fall.
Storming in with the rain,
toiling under the sun
to make something of all we think we have begun.
What comes in like a lion goes out like a lamb.
I've seen that over and over and over and over again.
So I watch that big, bright face in the moon
grow small as my lifetime waxes long,
and I remember that they call it "new"
and I wish that that age-old term were true.
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6. |
The Days
01:25
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The Days
Adapted from Ezra Pound: “And the Days Are Not Full Enough”
And the days are not full enough—
not full, not full enough.
And the nights are not full enough—
not full, not full enough.
And life slips by, slips by
like a field mouse—
not shaking the grass—
not shaking the grass
not shaking the grass.
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7. |
Bird
03:54
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Bird
You watch that bird as it arcs across the sky
and gracefully dives into a scar
in stone long exposed by the blade of a highway.
I wonder if, like it, we'll find a place to rest
where no one will find us or care
to know that we are or just where we've been.
Just maybe more than we have seen that bird and stone
from this highway filled with restlessness,
worn and cracked beneath the press of all our weariness.
Is there someplace to call home?
I know beauty rose in that flight, triumphant
though meek in her mercy to sing the strength of her way—
unbounded and free.
Her quiet sacrament calls
with neither whisper nor word
and cuts through our noise—I here her within.
Just maybe more than we have heard her wordless song
from this highway filled with restlessness
worn and cracked beneath the press of all our weariness.
There must be someplace to call home...
to call home...
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8. |
We're All Broken
02:58
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We're All Broken
We tossed a stone
into the creek—
rain-swelled, earth-filled
bold as a newborn cry.
It pushed, it shoved—
greedy as Hell.
That stone sank to
the bed down below:
broken bits of bedrock,
split by the earth,
drawn out by the rain.
We heard water
join in from the banks—
carrying down displaced soil
and fallen trees—
like listening to some parable
about you and me:
we're all broken,
glory and shame.
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9. |
Mourning Dove
04:29
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Mourning Dove
I found a little dead bird in a lilac.
The bones were caught in a branch
and the wings outstretched.
And on the ground beneath,
scattered by the rain,
were feathers matted all around.
In the limbs above the nest fell in slow motion—
moldy grasses, down, and bits of stolen thread.
It was just three weeks ago
the mother mourning dove rushed away.
Oh, my mourning dove!
Don't fly away.
Oh, my mourning dove!
Don't leave me.
I'm sorry if I made you scared.
I'm sorry that I chose to walk down there.
I lost my child in the back yard.
He hid from me in the shadows
and the trees.
And though I called and called,
my voice returned with nothing
but the breeze.
In the ground beneath I buried all my secrets--
let the grass grow up and tied all the loose ends.
But now I know my time has finally come;
what's gone is here to stay.
Oh, my mourning dove!
Don't fly away.
Oh, my mourning dove!
Don't leave me.
I'm sorry if I made you scared.
I'm sorry that I chose to walk down there.
They told me that the man is the father of the child;
but, now I know the child is the father of the man.
They told me that the man is the father of the child;
but, now I know the child is the father of the man.
Oh, my mourning dove!
Don't fly.
Oh, my mourning dove!
Don't leave.
I'm sorry if I made you scared.
I'm sorry that I chose to walk down there.
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10. |
North Light
05:32
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North Light
I've been searching for north light all my life.
It never comes, but it never seems to go.
I saw him in a canvas with a rod in his left hand
looking for a catch just out of reach.
I saw her in a canvas with her son beneath her hand
watching over quiet fears tucked in to sleep.
I saw you in a canvas with a brush in your left hand
and a gaze that I could never meet.
I've been searching for north light all my life.
It never comes, but it never seems to go.
I saw him in a canvas—an empty rod in his left hand—
unsatisfied with every cast and sweep.
I saw her in a canvas—her own son beneath her hand—
intent on all she hopes to keep.
I saw you in a canvas—a paint brush in your left hand—
and ambitions that I could not defeat.
I've been searching for north light—
It never comes.
I've been searching for north light—
It never comes.
If, in time, you find just what you always want to reach—
If, in time, your love grows strong to be set free—
If in time you finally see the light you always seek—
Will you just promise me,
just promise me you'll tell me how?
'Cause I've been searching for north light.
It never comes.
I've been searching for north light all my life.
It never comes...
Will it ever come?
Will I ever be able to see the light?
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11. |
Long Thoughts (Sleeping)
04:47
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Long Thoughts/Sleeping
If any truth is to be found
it can't be found in the night.
Not in this shiftless—
not in this empty night—
full of silence—
full to filling even me.
But always leading
like a shadow
to some empty silhouette
that stands in my mind—
stands long into the night.
And then there, haunting like the wind that is my will...
Oh!
Oh, if this is truth...
Oh, if this is truth...
If this is truth...
I'd rather not...
I'd rather not know...
I'd rather not know it.
I just want to know...
I just want to know you.
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12. |
30 Pieces (Waking)
03:56
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30 Pieces/Waking
I woke up thirty pieces short
from my jigsaw heart.
Thirty pieces of the finest picture field:
lush and lively—
Oh! but now
it's a wasted void—
a void in which I rest
as a heartsick Judas
down upon its rocks.
Maybe mine are the missing pieces now.
I woke up thirty pieces short.
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13. |
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Frozen Lake
You stepped out onto the frozen lake
and I looked down at the snow,
like a shroud.
I saw my breath
I felt my heart
I heard it in my ears,
in my ears.
And you turned,
you called me to come out.
But, I stood under that gray sky
and watched your feet upon the ice.
Oh, my soul!
For the faith of that child, oh!
To hold me
and to my heart be reconciled.
I feel you holding back.
I feel you holding back.
I feel you holding back.
I feel you holding.
I heard your voice again.
And I heard the snow beneath your feet.
I took a breath...
And I stepped out.
Just like you—
Oh, I stepped out!
Just like you my brave son.
...
Mine is an old life,
but yours is something new.
Just give yourself some time;
you've already taught me
much about myself,
and I know
you will
soon teach
this old world.
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14. |
Beneath the Sun
02:56
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Beneath the Sun
Called by a rush of lonely leaves,
which, seen, are soon quiet with blessed rest—
becoming the free: it falls in shades
of silver and green shimmering leaves.
Can I see this windswept grass,
or these weathered boundary lines
bested by the root,
and the flower,
and time,
and not learn my place
beneath the sun?
Rise and run the course
beyond the mountains
and down into the sea!
And in that death
make all things new...
While our lonely courses wind
beneath the sun.
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Timothy Zieger Factoryville, Pennsylvania
When it comes to music, I try to write better songs than I used to and make better sounds than I used to.
I have kids, house projects, chickens, a '98 Toyota Tacoma, and a that'll-do home studio.
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