1. |
A Trifling Detail
04:11
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I’m here to say, welcome to heaven—
as long as you’re good for the fee.
We’ve got to keep our sponsors happy you know.
You thought you could get in for free?
Well I’ve got some news for you, pilgrim:
everything comes with a price.
Like most of the slackers we get here
you’ve swallowed some stupid advice.
So what if your heart has stopped beating?
So what if you’ve breathed your last breath?
Don’t think for a minute you’ll get off
for a trifling detail like death.
We’ll expect you at work in the morning,
and make sure that you cover that gash.
The customers don’t stand for bleeding
from the corpses that handle the cash.
'Cause I’ve got some news for you, pilgrim:
everything comes with a price.
Like most of the slackers we get here
you’ve swallowed some stupid advice.
They say heaven and hell were once different
in philosophy, customs, and art
but since the last corporate merger
no one can tell them apart.
Here’s a tip you’ll want to remember:
if you ask they’ll pay you in booze.
eternity passes much quicker
with some liquor to deaden the blues.
So what if your heart has stopped beating?
So what if you’ve breathed your last breath?
Don’t think for a minute you’ll get off
for a trifling detail like death.
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2. |
Beaver Point Road
03:50
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The hill out of Fulford is steep and I weep
at the beauty of fields in the rain.
The time that we’re knowing, this journey we’re going
is ours in a way there’s no need to explain.
In a farmer’s green field the lambs graze and we gaze
as the last of our wood fire burns low.
For the day’s getting late and there’s no time for fate
to reveal or conceal what we already know.
The Weston lake waters are pure and the lure
of a swim pulls at all who pass near.
The wind sings a blessing, the clouds are done guessing
their path and you’ll find that there’s nothing to fear.
Blackberries bursting with juice so intense
that the sense of the world seems to spin.
The evenings grow colder, the young year grows older,
till nothing is left but the warmth of your skin.
There are times when I lie awake long after dark
and the spark of a memory sears.
The Beaver Point Hall may be small but its call
reaches down like a river through lifetimes and years.
The last turn to Ruckle comes fast and the past
comes alive like a secret long learned.
I’ll always remember the glow of September days
spent in the woods as the maple leaves turned.
Come wander once more down a path to the shore
where the fawn lilies bloom in the spring.
There’s long miles behind us but fresh trails remind us
that lives can return like the shape of a ring.
What’s sure is today and there’s no one can say
where we’ll be when the last rooster’s crowed,
but through blessings and sorrow, through every tomorrow
I love you to the end of the Beaver Point Road.
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3. |
Remember Paul Phillips
03:40
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If you pass by a garden where sunflowers grow wild
if you walk in the sun hand in hand with a child
if you’re in Fernwood Square and a busker’s just smiled
take a minute to think of Paul Phillips.
Community gardens, community halls
streets free of car traffic, artisan stalls
cooperatives housed in their own rooves and walls
our city owes much to Paul Phillips.
Never passed up a drink, never shied from a fight.
Always in with both feet for a cause he thought right.
Let the armchair debaters blow hot air all night.
He had no time for fools, did Paul Phillips.
Get up off your ass, pull some nails from a board.
We’ll fix up some housing we all can afford.
The hammer’s your school and hard work’s your reward.
You could pick up the world, said Paul Phillips.
At the end of the day he’d pull out a guitar
in his fine Gaelic voice singing songs from afar
of banks made of marble or wind on the spar
he had tunes in his blood, did Paul Phillips.
At seventy-nine, after working all day
digging his garden plots he hit the hay.
When they found him he’d quietly drifted away.
When I die, let me go like Paul Phillips.
We who came to remember, a hundred and more
packed the small Fernwood hall till we spilled out the door
singing songs, sharing scraps of his humour and lore,
It was good to remember Paul Phillips.
Amid drumming and chanting and memories we
scattered his ashes and planted a tree.
May the fig long bear fruit in the garden where he
feeds the soil he once tended, Paul Phillips.
What he had he was happy to share it with you
expecting that you’d be right generous too.
May his dream for humanity some day come true.
There are few who gave more than Paul Phillips.
If you pass by his garden, Paul Phillips is gone
but in Fernwood and further his vision lives on.
In a good harvest shared, in a chorus sung strong,
there’s a big echo still of Paul Phillips.
Our city owes much to Paul Phillips.
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4. |
Prince of Freedom
04:10
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From unknown westward counties he appeared, a blaze of rhyme,
a ragged voice that echoed through the twisting strands of time.
With angel fire his lines assailed the authors of all crime
and someone cried, “Is he a prince of freedom?”
With driftwood steps he wandered, a minstrel of the rain
and called the tunes of visions that were flashing through his brain.
With lightning tongue he traced the arcs of ecstasy and pain
and named the stars, as if a prince of freedom.
Now in his path a crowd arose to praise him as a king.
They mouthed his words as judgements for the echos they would bring.
“To lead our rebel army ranks, you only have to sing
and claim your rightful throne as prince of freedom.”
But he recalled a letter from a friend he used to know
and longed for empty highways where the vagrant stormclouds blow.
He mumbled in the microphone, “There’s someplace I must go.
I never claimed to be some prince of freedom.”
Now the crowds grew angry and trailed him without pause.
They cursed him as a traitor to every aim and cause.
“You’ve turned your back on history and all her shining laws.
Don’t come to us except as prince of freedom.”
“I don’t who you’re seeking, but I have no such powers of speech.
The visions that flow through me are not something I could teach.
And anyway, what’s true or false looks differently to each.
Look somewhere else to find your prince of freedom.”
As silk too often washed, the rainbow regiments wore thin.
The bard moved to a rhythm that he only heard within.
But still at night he’ll hum the fiery lines he used to spin
in days when he was praised as prince of freedom.
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