1. |
Where We're At
03:33
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There’s not enough time to write the perfect line or shape it into a stone.
And there’s not enough purpose or tension on the surface to skip it across when it’s thrown.
And there’s not enough this, there’s not enough that.
And what does it matter? We are where we’re at.
We are where we’re at.
There’s not enough motion or waves on the ocean to turn the moonlight to sand.
There’s not enough worry or get-up and hurry to hold fast to time on your hands.
And there’s not enough this, there’s not not enough that
And what does it matter? We are where we’re at.
And sometimes there’s singing and the wind in the trees, the quaking of leaves.
And sometimes there’s breathing, in and out in the night. You’ll be alright.
Your heart is beating.
Your heart is beating.
Your heart is beating.
Your heart is beating.
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2. |
Water and Light
03:01
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Water in my cells, coursing through my blood,
in my rice, in my tea, in the grass and in the mud.
Water seeping from my eyes, or dripping in the sink.
sliding down an empty glass, or slipping to the sea.
Refracting light, tilting sight,
and all that it bends in me.
Water and light are dancing, bending the world with their steps.
A sheen on a lens, ink from a pen,
capillaries and chlorophyll,
chrysanthemums and daffodils.
And the mystery of your heart beating next to mine,
through the streetlight on the windowpane
where the moonlight touches rain.
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3. |
A Little Room
04:07
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I’ve taken a page from a spiral-bound notebook notebook,
I’ve filled it with circles and lines.
And when it’s all dressed up, from top to the bottom,
I’ll make it a box and crawl inside.
Just a little space to breathe,
Just a little room to be what I think of as me.
Somewhere between the blue lines and the fibers,
beneath the cardstock and the ink,
I’ve etched out a tunnel to crawl through to quiet
to hear my own thoughts as they think.
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4. |
Down to the Bone
05:52
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Hanging, like laundry on the line,
Waiting for sun to shine
Waiting for you.
Falling, a tumbling of leaves,
Caught up in the breeze,
Caught up in you.
And you pull me down, down, down, down, down,
down to the bone,
to water and to stone.
You lay me out, out, out, out, out,
like paper worn thin. You see where I begin, and
you pull me in.
you pull me in.
you pull me in.
Floating, a pendulum in space,
drawn off its pace,
drawing to you.
Stumbling, a clock drunk on wine,
taking all the time,
taking to you.
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5. |
Featherstitch
02:56
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Dance with me, circle through all the patterns that are holding you.
The arc so smooth and gradual, rotation seems so casual.
The steps are marked upon the floor, and you can’t help but take some more,
but maybe they are taking you?
Expectations and conventions, over, under, good intentions,
feel the artistry, and the thread that’s pulling me.
A turn towards peace, then back to war.
We give and then we take some more.
We find God and ecstasy, then we smite our enemies.
Up and down, passing through, brushing fingers, touching you.
An embroidery hoop of history, a featherstitch of mystery.
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6. |
Living Fiction
04:40
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Swinging in the apple tree. Riding on tricycles, you, waiting for me.
The tall bathroom sink, and green carpet everywhere.
The tilt and the creak of the big rocking chair.
Driving home late with the radio on.
Boredom and homework, and that one really good song.
Hoping and sinking, becoming resistant.
Learning too slowly what love is and isn’t.
We’re all living fiction, historical contradictions,
connecting the dots with sidewalk chalk that washes away in the rain.
We’re all hearing voices, echoes of memories, echoes of choices,
reflecting off the years, and filtered through our laughter and tears.
The first time you held my hand. That thing I said, that time I was mad.
Doors slamming shut, then opening again.
And who did the dishes. And silly jokes at 4 a.m.
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7. |
Half-Wild
02:07
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September spoke softly of warm summer days.
We found ourselves watching small children at play,
sitting in the green grass as the sun settled low,
over open fields and apple trees, row upon row.
And the wine sang a song of a love that could be
Half sculpted and tended, half wild and free.
She sang.
We hummed along softly, your hand on my knee.
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8. |
Who Knows
02:29
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Knock. knock.
Who’s there?
Who knows.
Who knows who?
Who knows who knows
Who knows who knows
Who knows who knows
Who knows
Knock. knock.
Who’s there?
You are.
You are who?
You are who knows
You are who knows
You are who knows
Who knows
Who knows
Where I put my car keys
Who knows
Whether it will rain today
Who knows
If I’ll ever fall asleep
Knock. knock.
Who’s there?
Who knows.
Who knows who?
Who knows who knows
Who knows who knows
Who knows who knows
Who knows
Knock. knock.
Who’s there?
I am.
I am who?
I am who knows
I am who knows
I am who knows
Who knows
Who knows
If purple looks the same to us
Who knows
If you are who I think you are
Who knows
If what you really love is really what I am
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9. |
Waiting for the Waters
04:27
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I gave all that I had to the river last week.
Now my banks are running dry.
I’m waiting on the spring and the melt that it brings.
I’m waiting for the water to rise.
I’m waiting for the waters to rise
and carry my off in its flow.
Walking this dry bed with weary feet and heavy head
is a lonesome and a long way to go.
Well, everyone’s thirsty and everyone’s tired,
And everyone just wants a drink.
I poured cup after cup, til the faucet gave up
And the dishes piled up in the sink.
I’m too tired to daydream, and I’m not fit for sleeping.
Walking is all I can be.
But someday, the rain will call. She’ll pull me up inside her fall.
She’ll take me, so sweet, to the sea.
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10. |
Empty as a Heartbeat
04:21
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Empty as a heartbeat, as the vast blue sky,
as the space between atoms, in the blood rushing by.
Empty as the vapor that congregates and dissipates.
Empty as a heartbeat that gives, then waits.
Gives, then waits.
Gives, then waits.
Gives, then waits.
A jar on the shelf that once held pennies and buttons and lentils, and now stands empty.
Hands that washed dishes, mailed postcards and braided hair, rest on the arms of the living room chair.
And the poetry is fleeting. Flashes of insight, and laughter and weeping.
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Kristin Gordon Portland, Oregon
Kristin Gordon is a singer/songwriter/multi-instrumentalist living in Portland, OR. She loves coffee, singing in harmony, laughing, and looking for meaning in everyday things. When she’s not writing words & melodies, she’s often directing choirs or teaching young fingers to play the piano. ... more
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