Phoebe Snow (born Phoebe Ann Laub; July 17, 1950 – April 26, 2011 was an American singer, songwriter, and guitarist, best known for her 1975 song “Poetry Man”. She was described by The New York Times as a “contralto grounded in a bluesy growl and capable of sweeping over four octaves.” Professional life It was […]
“Phoebe Snow – Poetry Man” — AMERICA ON COFFEE
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Just before dawn, a walk in the woods.
My senses are heightened, if only I could
Watch the wee faeries skip from tree to tree.
In the cloudy mist, I can almost see
Sparkling colors dancing in the sky.
But it fades away when I blink my eyes.
Just a trick of the light with the coming dawn.
There are no glowing pathways through the fog.
But do I hear a tiny giggle or is it the wind?
I can’t hear when it ends or where it begins.
Just the echo of a whisper from a dream
Or the laughter of a gurgling stream.
Small birds and animals are chirping and chattering.
Why does it sound like ethereal voices singing?
Just a glimpse of color, a hint of a song.
Then the sun rises and I had it all wrong.
There are no faeries; the laughter is gone.
Faeries dwell among us!
A Little Knook and Cranny is All I Need to Go Anywhere and Do Anything!
I write when I’m happy.
I write when I’m sad.
I write songs just for me
Or to share all I’ve had.
I write what I see.
And words to inspire.
I create a fantasy
In my mind to desire.
I don’t have to take my car
Or a train or a plane.
Just let things be as they are.
My thoughts are the refrain
And my dreams write the verse.
I never have to rehearse.
I can see or be anything I choose.
I can always win, never lose.
I can be young or old.
Create stories never before told
And travel to other times.
All mimicked in rhyme.
Such is the view
From without and within
I’ll write them to you
To show you where I’ve been.
–Deborah A. Bowman
The Quill And Ink…
Quill and ink are like a frail, dark rose
Beautiful, elegant, unsurpassed;
But the thorns draw blood and clots as ye go.
The delicate flowers will not last.
But the glorious rose will bloom another day
In the warmth of the Spring’s golden rays.
The quill, the black feather, can turn on you
Blotting out the sun on the white pristine page.
Leaving coarsed lines and thickened loops,
The point skims across the grain of the parchment’s gauge,
Sprinkling blotches of Indigo ink,
Falling raindrops and tears as you blink.
The quill and the ink;
The rose and the thorn;
Teaches you patience and reticence.
So strike up the flint and raise up the flame
To drip the wax and seal the blame.
Copyrighted by Deborah A. Bowman, 1998