The stars are cold on my back
And my dreams are bold
though maybe too black
As I walk through the night on the mountain track
Hear the sounds of the owls
And the eyes
The Possum eyes look back
Where will I go?
Where will I go now
Down the long road
Where will I go
now
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
Hear that steam whistle blowing
Over the hills and through the wind
Hear it blowing for you and for him
Hear it blowing for you and for him
And it will blow through the leaves and through the trees
And it will blow through the cobweb of the years
And it will shunt up the tracks ever going
And it will be like the travelling tears
It will ever go from midnight til the morning
And blow through the hills and trees
And yes you can hear that steam train blow out its warning
For it's crying those travelling tears
And sometimes joy in the joining of two people
Sometimes force through the course of the years
Sometimes loss in the pain of separation
Oh they're departing with travelling tears
In the heat in the hour of conversation
They can speak on the platform standing near
And if you wait there for me at the station
You'll be crying those travelling tears
Yes you can hear the steam train blow out its warning
It is a hoot, a toot through the years
It says decide on your final destination
Or you'll feel those travelling tears
Or you'll shed those travelling tears
In the truth of the pale last question
You can ask me about all my fears
Well I'll know when you meet me at the station
You will cry those travelling tears
You will cry those travelling tears
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
I'm on the midnight ferry from Dover
But I can't stop until it's over
Through the spider web of chance
I took my leave to visit France
And all the castles of the Sailing sea
All the shadows hanging over me
From Harfleur to Dunkirk
I left my home in rainy Southport
Well the road lay down in front
And Belgium and Brussels
they were stunts
all I needed was an actor
But what they gave me was a doctor
And the cure was inside of me
As the shore was sure beside the sea
Next the Autobahn of Germany
And the vignettes from BMW
But the man didn't speak a my language
So I lay on a park bench and wept
In exhaustion and fumes from car jets
And the wash of lorries
That drilled like insects
Into the very earlobes you see
As I sped down the E40
Only stopping to meet a friend
A fellow traveller where our paths did wend
And he a carpenter
Like Jesus Christ
Who carried a coffin for his sacrifice
To lay in wooden walls
And think of trees
As he slept in cannabis obscurity
But no rest for the wicked
And the devil drove me
On through picket white fence country
And lederhosen pastorality
Into the Danube bend near Regensburg
Where I took my rest
Like a falcon takes his perch
To lie on pavements
To catch a snatch of sleep
Where Gypsies
ruled the night parking lots
And East Europeans smoked and scuffed
Their trainers against curbs
The morning brought me creaking
To my knees
To pray for good travelling
Of the iron seas
As the tarmac stretched out perfectly
And Austria beckoned
Debts
Of all St Thomas' virtuosity
I met Vienna by the suburbs
And burbled like a spring water reaching surface in Hungary
Where I breathed a sigh of relief
To have a arrived with
Time to spare
Then drove to that county fair of Veszprém's
Sweet climes
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.