1999

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Stand Beside Me

 

You still stand

Upon the sands of my mind

Time thinks that you might be

Better off left behind

 

But I knowthat straight as the heart flies

As the sun bleeds in blue skies

You’ll come back to me

To stand beside me, stand beside me.

 

If one thought could trace

The miles between us then I could

Taste the smile upon your

Face again, and

 

Know that straight as the heart flies

As the sun bleeds in western skies

You’ll come back to me

To stand beside me, stand beside me

 

Left alone I finally found

Where you stop and I begin o

 

Let the tears fall down

Let the wheel turn back around

So that what I’ve found I might find again

Why did circumstance take you away from me

Leavin’ me to wonder why

 

But I know that straight as the heart flies

As the sun bleeds into blue western skies

You’ll come back to me

To stand beside me, stand beside me

 

 

 

April 24 1999

 

 

Little Bad Brood

 

Tears from the invisible choir fill the cup of anguish-

Dear Angels, our little ones walk with the Brothers of Darkness!

Our children brandish the sword of environmental oppression,

And they drink as if from the breast of evil.

Black wings seem to coddle the infant that nests in darker thoughts.

Once innocent fledgling, now fiendish changeling.

Tied to the apron strings of the devil,

Weaned by the hounds of hell
Where our Light and love meet such adverse forces.

Who are these demons who trespass through our world

And into the hearts of our unsuspecting children?

Not even a mother’s love can put a healing finger to the lips

That pass the chilling breath of corruption in their words.

Abcess of society and malevolent visitation.

The wind whispers and sighs of decaying youth,

And when the Evil One exhales our young fruit dies on the vine.

Young blood, cold blood and skeleton heart

The little bad brood tear each other apart.

God bless the toddler’s toddler victims...

Forgive us Lord, for we may love,

Yet know not what we breed.

 

 Lisa Swarbrick, 1999

In memory of little James Bulger, age three, killed by two other children.

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I HEARD FROM YOUR GUITAR

 

 

 

 Well I heard from your friend

That the bottle drank you down

You’d been fighting with my memory

That you never could drown

 

And I heard from your guitar

You keep me locked in a song

Don’t you know where I belong

Wherever you are.