“Who knows?”

So, I’ve not written many songs or poetry lately. But, the other day, after doing a five hour loving-kindness retreat the day before, the lyrics to this started coming to me while I was in the shower. I tried to ignore them at first, thinking, this is silly. Then I thought, why not have some fun. So, here is a silly song about who knows what.

I had fun coming up with the rhymes that day, although I can’t vouch for their originality. They worked in my song, too, at least, but I have no idea what part of the sky they fell out of. Today, I came up with variations on the melody for each of the verses. My kitty joined me during one of the choruses, which I thought was cute and didn’t edit out. He knows, too. Sometimes more than I do, for sure.

No one ever knows what to expect in Michigan weather. This year, February had some warm days in the high 60s, and now in March it is freezing. That explains the third verse; the rest I’ll let you figure out.

Here in the shower, spinning in circles,
Trying to warm myself up,
Skin like a raisin,
Eczema blazing,
Knock knock, I know, hurry up;
Knock knock, I know hurry up.

Oh, I know, oh, I know.
Oh, I know, oh, I know.

What do you say to the one who has nothing?
Wow, oh, I’m sorry, that sucks.
As they stare in dismay,
Try to hide the display,
Of your row of impeccable ducks;
Of your row of impeccable ducks.

Oh, you know, oh, you know.
Oh, you know, oh, you know.

February teased us, gratuitous temptress,
Soon spring would be singing along,
March hit us blindsided,
Our hopes are derided,
Icicle weather prolonged;
Icicle weather prolonged.

Oh, we know, oh, we know.
Oh, we know, oh we know.

Be a good hamster, run on your wheel,
Working so hard just to try,
But what is enchanted,
Yet can’t be decanted,
Open your heart to the sky;
Open your heart to the sky.

Oh, who knows, oh, who knows?
Oh, who knows, oh, who knows?

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You will never know me, and I will turn to stone

Behind death walks skeletons. Every skeleton. None escape.
All do the only thing they can — follow death.

Forever walking the endless roads, the same roads on which we walk today.
That is the only path.

We may delude ourselves, but we all will end up in the crowd — skeletons, following death.
Until humanity is a whisper of a memory of what once was and what will never be again.

It all ends the same.

But does it matter? Do we matter? Do I matter? Do you?

Death doesn’t care.
We don’t care.

We make of it what we do, and then it is over.

We are real.

Consigned to the army of death, we have one chance.
One life. One world.

Be real.


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Afraid to Sleep

When you’re afraid to sleep because of what you’ll learn
Anything would be better
Than knowing
But not being able to say a word to anyone
Without forgetting everything.

I don’t know if they are who they say they are or if all this time I’ve been on the wrong side.

They won’t let me know.

Once you connect, there is no disconnecting.

I don’t think I can do this anymore, but I know I have no choice.

And I won’t remember anything. Again.

This will make no sense.

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I can either look death in the face,
Fearful and screaming on my way out,

Or let it stay at my back:
A wise advisor,
Always reminding me
And there is still time.

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I am neither more nor less than I was yesterday
And neither more nor less that I will be tomorrow.
The only change is constant; the only constant is change.

Watching. Waiting. Wishing. Willing. Awakening.
Eyes can only open so wide.

Who am I to judge?
Thank time.

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