Songs

My first stories came in the form of song. Here are a few I hope you enjoy. Please drop me a note if you do. I have more!

The Stone

I saw the stone. Chiseled on one side was 1867 to 1925.
He followed after, one month to the day.
I wondered what had happened,
There's no one left to say.

Was he just lonely, no one left at home?
Did he go to join her?
The answer's locked inside of the stone.

How many babies? I saw they buried three.
What disease had taken them? Part of the mystery.
I felt their sorrow, helpless by those graves.
Well-meaning words of comfort, "You'll see them again some day."

Did they have others? Who grew up and started homes,
Who stayed behind and lived their lives,
And placed their loving hands on the stones?

Little bits of stories, scattered hints of glories in the stones.
Mothers, fathers, soldiers...babies, sisters, brothers in the stones.

Let's not wait for history--make life what it's supposed to be.
Live and love and set our hearts on home.

The ring slipped on her finger, the wedding good and right.
Her pretty face was beaming in reflected light, from the stone.

Odds and Innocents

His mother taught him how to pray and how to be a friend.
Then she sent him off to school, he was her little man.
He opened up to everyone, but to his surprise,
The other kids made fun of him and even told him lies.

He worked up the courage when he was seventeen,
To ask a girl out, the prettiest he'd ever seen.
He didn't understand her father, when they met at the door.
He said, "I hope you're not like the ones who've come before."

Into this world there are a few born with a different view.
To fit its mold they will not bend.

All the different kinds of people--when it comes time to sort us out,
God has a special place for odds and innocents.

His wife and kids were cared for, they could tell it from his touch.
And though they never had a lot, they did not want for much.
Through life he lived with principle, and tried to keep from sin.
He believed the best in others even when they cheated him.

Into this world there are a few born with a different view.
To fit its mold they will not bend.

All the different kinds of people, when it comes time to sort us out,
God has a special place for odds and innocents.

The gentle voice said, "Come on in, now that your life is spent.
You know we've got lots of room for odds and innocents."

The Horse and The Cowboy

He was an old cowboy, once arrow straight and strong.
His body now twisted, working hard for so long.
The fiddle once masterfully played by that man
Lay silent and lonely, waiting on his stiff hands.

He'd tell without bragging, his voice rough and low:
When he was a good cowboy, all those years ago.

His mother died early, on his own at thirteen.
He worked where he could, lived the cowboy's dream.
He did for himself for most of his life.
Through no plans of his own, he found himself with a wife.

His children would ask him to get the fiddle and play.
And farming for a living, five of them did he raise.

And he would get out his fiddle and resin up his bow.
Pick out a good tune and away he would go.
Songs he learned on those ranches made us tap our toes.
They set our hearts to dancin' as our spirits rose.

Though sometimes life was rough and we lived day to day.
We couldn't really worry as we listened to him play.

Out visiting a neighbor, he went for a walk.
He roamed the old place while we sat and we talked.
I found him out leaning on the old fence, of course.
Standing and staring at a broken down horse.

I wondered what they thought as the horse looked at him.
I imagined them on one last ride in their dreams.

He was an old cowboy, he was through and through.
And I know that in heaven he's one there too.
And I know that in heaven he's one there too.