Singing All Day,Jethro Tull

ok :-)

John Coltrane ,Come Rain Or Come Shine

Our Spanish Love Song, Charlie Haden, Pat Metheny

Who knows where the time goes , Fairport Convention

Across the evening sky, all the birds are leaving
But how can they know it's time for them to go?
Before the winter fire, I will still be dreaming
I have no thought of time
For who knows where the time goes?
Who knows where the time goes?
Sad, deserted shore, your fickle friends are leaving
Ah, but then you know it's time for them to go
But I will still be here, I have no thought of leaving
I do not count the time
For who knows where the time goes?
Who knows where the time goes?
And I am not alone while my love is near me
I know it will be so until it's time to go
So come the storms of winter and then the birds in spring again
I have no fear of time
For who knows how my love grows?
And who knows where the time goes?

Charles Mingus , Mood Indigo

Charlie Haden , Pat Metheny ,Beyond The Missouri Sky

on poems written....to the wind..inside

first there was voice.
then words.
they were too many, words.
i started to paint.
i saw myself in love.
i started to write.
it is like with a painting,
a photo or a face:
everybody sees something else.

language is much worse:
everyone hears something else
and all of us rarely can listen to the other:
where feeling cannot be shared,
poems of love will all fail
to reach.

then the only true shared feeling
will be in the intensity of pain, sadness,
and melancholia.

and poems will change to reflection,
words dug out of the flesh and the
hollow place inside filled with memory
and conflict, they will turn boring
during the act of writing them,
the writer turns deaf and dumb,
and perversion wants again that only
the blood of pain enters communication
and not the flow of joy.

so words must learn to dance in the
wind and we must go back to voice,
to touch, to now,
and when nobody listens
as we need to be listened to
and when nobody hears away
as one must hear away from us
and when no silence can grow
to listen to the wind and the pauses:

we must paint a listener.
use our fingers to draw
and our own blood.
and laugh. laugh. laugh.
laugh our brains out.
until we will not speak anymore.
then sleep comes. sweet sleep.
maybe music forever.
peace.