fileg (fileg) wrote,


Dave Carter, writer and illuminated being, once told me “Music and Love are the only two kinds of magic most people are not afraid to admit they believe in.” And in one of his writing classes, he offered "The only way to write rhyming poetry today and be taken seriously is to be a singer-songwriter."

Alas, I want to write poetry, but I do not have in me the music component. So, tonight I will share one of Dave's. And perhaps tomorrow, since I have been reading and combining old folders, I will share one one of mine...

Tanglewood Tree
©2000, Dave Carter/
Dave Carter Music (BMI)

love is a tanglewood tree in a bower of green
in a forest at dawn
fair while the mockingbird sings, but she soon lifts her wings
and the music is gone
young lovers in the tall grass with their hearts open wide
when the red summer poppies bloom
but love is a trackless domain and the rumor of rain in the late afternoon

love is an old root that creeps through the meadows of sleep
when the long shadows cast
thin as a vagrant young vine, it encircles and twines
and it holds the heart fast
catches dreamers in the wildwood with the stars in their eyes
and the moon in their tousled hair
but love is a light in the sky, and an unspoken lie
and a half-whispered prayer

i'm walkin' down a bone-dry river but the cool mirage runs true
i'm bankin' on the fables of the far, far better things we do
i'm livin' for the day of reck'nin countin' down the hours
i yearn away, i burn away, i turn away the fairest flower of love, 'cause darlin . . .

love is a garden of thorns, and a crow in the corn
and the brake growing wild
cold when the summer is spent in the jade heart's lament
for the faith of a child
my body has a number and my face has a name
and each day looks the same to me
but love is a voice on the wind, and the wages of sin
and a tanglewood tree

love's garden of thorns, how it grows
black crow in the corn hummin' low
brake nettle so pretty and wild
and thistles surround the edge of the
dim dark hour as the sun moves away
lamenting a lost summer day
who nurtures the faith of a child
when nothing remains to cover her eyes?

my body has a number, maybe my face has a name
each hour like each hour before
this longing is a voice on the wind
she cultivates the wages of sin
in a tanglewood tree
Tags: music, poetry

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