We’re All The Losers Now, #SongLyricSunday



Okay, so I’m not following the recommended prompt this week, as I have my mind on something else:

I want the powers of this world to
out of things they have no business inserting themselves, and us, into.

While missiles fly, their makers so proud, I wonder, what it’s all really for.

To stop more innocent lives from chemical weapons…I sure hope that’s all, but I fear there’s more to it than that.

From whom do we trust our correct information to come?


Who will save the war child baby? Who controls the key? The web we weave is thick and sordid, Fine by me.
At times of war we’re all the losers, There’s no victory. We shoot to kill and kill your lover, Fine by me.
War child, victim of political pride. Plant the seed, territorial greed. Mind the war child, We should mind the war child.

I spent last winter in New York,
And came upon a man.
He was sleeping on the streets and homeless,
He said, “I fought in Vietnam.”
Beneath his shirt he wore the mark,
He bore the mark with pride.
A two inch deep incision carved, Into his side.

War child, victim of political pride. Plant the seed, territorial greed. Mind the war child, We should mind the war child.

Who’s the loser now? Who’s the loser now? We’re all the losers now. We’re all the losers now.

War child. [X2]



On The Cranberries’ third album
“To The Faithful Departed”
they wrote two songs about war.

I am including this one, but this was in the 90s. I was still young enough then, to be focused on my own problems, mostly unaware of any world affairs.

Dolores and her bandmates wrote “Zombie” on their second album (No Need To Argue) and then, next, they wrote “War Child” and
because of the conflict that was going on in the 90s, as they wrote.

This second song about the frustration of wars is epic:

“When do the saints go marching in?”

And other lyrics are just as heartbreaking, about the innocent children, and using the choir of young voices, ending the song with a music box, playing Brahms Lullaby, as if people were wiped away and all that remained was a child’s toy.

Talking accomplishments, winners and losers, and I say we’re all losing here.


Don’t Let It Get Away, #SongLyricSunday

I had lots of ideas for a song and its lyrics last week, but I needed a bit of a break.


I skipped out on last week’s
Song Lyric Sunday,
probably because the theme was
and I suspect the whole thing was a little too close for comfort at the time.

I wouldn’t normally be so sensitive to reality, but I’d just received some news, a few days earlier, and I didn’t feel like hearing all the songs about seeing and eyes. My blindness is usually more of a background noise that I use music, of all kinds, to help me cope with. I am curious about all the song choices that were thought up.

But I’m back with this favourite of mine:

This one always cheers me up and brightens my day.


The heart is a bloom
Shoots up through the stony ground
There’s no room
No space to rent in this town
You’re out of luck
And the reason that you had to care
The traffic is stuck
And you’re not moving anywhere
You thought you’d found a friend
To take you out of this place
Someone you could lend a hand
In return for grace

It’s a beautiful day
Sky falls, you feel like It’s a beautiful day
Don’t let it get away

You’re on the road
But you’ve got no destination
You’re in the mud
In the maze of her imagination
You’re lovin’ this town
Even if that doesn’t ring true
You’ve been all over
And it’s been all over you

It’s a beautiful day
Don’t let it get away
It’s a beautiful day

Touch me
Take me to that other place
Teach me
I know I’m not a hopeless case

See the world in green and blue
See China right in front of you
See the canyons broken by cloud
See the tuna fleets clearing the sea out
See the Bedouin fires at night
See the oil fields at first light and
See the bird with a leaf in her mouth
After the flood all the colors came out

It was a beautiful day
Don’t let it get away
Beautiful day

Touch me
Take me to that other place
Reach me
I know I’m not a hopeless case

What you don’t have you don’t need it now
What you don’t know you can feel it somehow
What you don’t have you don’t need it now
Don’t need it now

It was a beautiful day

(Songwriters: Paul David Hewson / David Howell Evans / Adam Charles Clayton / Laurence Joseph Mullen)


U2 was playing a lot, in my earlier days, as the band was a favourite of my brother at one time.

Whenever I require a bit of perking up, though I am no real U2 fan myself, this one is still guaranteed to lift my spirits and make the day seem full of possibilities.


A Day as an Emerging Writer

Stories that won’t let their writers’ go.

BREVITY's Nonfiction Blog

A guest post from Rachel Greenley:

I didn’t realize how difficult it would be. To simply sit down. Every day. And write. To learn the novice mistakes. To correct them. To learn more novice mistakes. To correct them. It’s an endless cycle.

I don’t like calling myself an “emerging” writer. Think about what emerging means…to rise up, to come into existence, to develop. Would I call myself a “developing writer?” Apply that to another career choice—a developing plumber. A developing doctor. Who wants to take a chance on a developing anything? I’d say, “Call me back when you’re developed.”

I visually see “emerging” as a butterfly bursting from a chrysalis. When is the transformation complete? When the writer is published? When I stop making rookie mistakes? Never?

A rookie writer submits her pieces too soon. My father, a self-published author who would never call himself “emerging,” but simply a writer…

View original post 708 more words


It’s Been Asked Before, #SoCS

Fine, thanks. And yourself?


I find myself saying this a lot, especially when asked how I’m feeling, with chronic headaches/pain always being there. People (my loved ones especially) ask me because they care. I love them for that, but I sort of know that question so well by now, it’s lost something in its translation.

I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. I have nobody to put all this on but myself, as I choose to avoid talking about myself one second longer, but it’s always there, that question just hanging in the air between two people like it tends to do.

When you ask this question, “how are you?” are you really and truly looking for an answer?

Perhaps so. Perhaps, it’s my own issues with a life lived with chronic pain for so many years, but I wish to retreat from the whole standardized question that keeps on coming up, and up and up and up.

Sure, I could choose to open up, to describe aches and pains that I myself am sick of hearing about, or I could simply wish to change the conversation because some things can’t be magically talked out and moved passed. Some polite inquiries are well-meaning, but overused. If it makes people feel better, as if they are showing they care, I’d suggest that might be better served by asking no questions exactly. Maybe, after years of a question on repeat, there just aren’t any simple, easy answers anymore.

No, I’m not fine, but what then?

I answer, entirely and sincerely, and what comes next?

Instead, I live my life and take action when/where appropriate. I do what I must to feel “just fine” most days, but that hum drum response only causes discomfort, for all involved.

Of course, nothing is served by living in denial of the reasons why things may not be so fine, but at a certain point, it’s been done.

I do not deny “fine” is a relative state of being. At least, it is for me. I choose to focus on things that bring that level FINE up to a more acceptable NOT BAD.

And thus the cycle, the circle of living continues in that continuous loop of years gone by.

Ask, at your own risk.

Stream of Consciousness Saturday, #SoCS

Better off discussing things passed that initial greetings and question period stage of any interaction. The word “fine” loses all meaning in the end.

Oh that question…must I answer? This is going to sound like I’m whining again, but very well.

How am I exactly: I’m Fine.


Schooling Myself On Life, #FTSF

I don’t envy the person in charge of teaching me something, anything, a skill.

My teacher who taught me braille lessons in the second grade, those who’ve taught me how to get around with a cane/guide dog, my yoga teacher, violin teacher, or that of writing.

I tend to resist their lessons, I don’t have enough confidence and belief in myself, and I tend to over-think most things.

I know this should be more about life lessons, but bare with me a sec. Any skill in the world and the time in which it takes to learn it, all of it requires a look at the bigger picture.

When it comes to life’s lessons, I try to see the bigger picture, right when I should be focused on the smaller one, the elements of any skill I wish to learn. Then, I start to over think what it is I’m doing and can’t help trying to capture that bigger picture, all in one little, individual lesson.

It’s like being a photographer, wanting to see everything through a camera’s viewfinder and getting only a fractional snapshot of any one thing.

Stop over thinking everything Kerry. I must tell myself this multiple times a day. I’d say that is one of the biggest life lessons I keep learning and relearning, as if I ever wish to get anything achieved, and I’ll even resort to speaking in the third person as I’m demonstrating it.

Have more confidence in myself is another.

I was trying to learn a concept my violin teacher was attempting to impart to me at our last lesson. How to find something in every piece of music, (whether it’s a colour, place, or a texture) of a feeling, just something to relate to, the thing that makes a piece of music I’m learning on my violin unique and special to me. There’s got to be a better way, to see a piece of music, not as just a series of notes but of something more than that. I should see it, in my own head, as I’m playing. I should feel it in my bones, in my arm and hand and finger bones that hold the bow, but in every other bone in my body.

I am a writer and wish the explanation of the music were easier for me. I’m still trying to learn my notes and my arm angles and my finger placement, but that’s not enough.

Moving all that aside, how does Minuette 3 make me feel when I’m playing?

I don’t play my scales like I mean it, the piece, like I mean it.

This goes back to the part about how I approach everything and most everyone with timidness and I’m always apologizing or feeling I should be apologizing to everyone, in every situation, even with myself. This comes through in my playing and it shows itself, personification of a piece. Music must do more than get notes right, if it’s going to say something to the listener and mean something more to the performer.

As a writer, I am one who over thinks most things, but how to describe Minuette 3 as I hear those notes I’m playing?

It’s all tied together: the lessons for learning to play an instrument and those bigger life lessons people are always talking about.

These are my two biggest ones and I intend to learn them, for the better, using my favourite musical instrument as I do.

Finish the Sentence Friday: with hosts
Kristi from Finding Ninee
and her fellow sentence—thinker-upper
Kenya from Sporatically Yours.

And finally: my apologies to those who’ve had to, are currently or will ever be given the task of teaching me any skill/lessons in the future.

Oh look, there I go, apologizing again.


Our Words at a Moment in Time

Makers. Like clumps of clay. Words on the page.

BREVITY's Nonfiction Blog

Version 2By Patrice Gopo

Last month, I returned my essay collection’s approved edits to my publisher. I hit the “send” button and sat for a moment awash in that momentary burst of triumph.

Then threads of worry began to creep into my celebratory mood—threads of worry I tried to banish with the purchase of a book, a necklace, and a donut too. Back in September when I’d first turned in my manuscript, I believed I’d written the best essay collection I could possibly write. Several months later, while reviewing the suggested edits, I spotted adjectives I needed to cut and several paragraphs I found excessive. I rewrote a metaphor and changed the word choice in more than a handful of places.

Now there will be no more revisions. There will be no more changes. The words I returned will be nearly the same words I will see later this year printed…

View original post 758 more words


Between The Lines, #SongLyricSunday

I recently wrote a Facebook post about letter writing and how much I miss it, as a sincere art form long gone.


Love letters. Rejection letters. Letters home from camp. Letters from the front and from back on the home front during wartime.

Slip it under their door or mail it from afar.



Note: I read through multiple lyric websites and found none of them matched all that well as I, myself heard them. I was too lazy, preoccupied with other things, to spend time either correcting them on their sites or writing it all out correctly here from my own listening to the song. Still, I love this one, it mentions letters, and the violin/fiddle throughout is what made me go with this one. And yet, I still felt I should clarify.


I am right there along with this week’s
Song Lyric Sunday
because, even if I have no vision to read the classic handwritten ones, I love me a good letter.


Enter At Your Own Risk, #SoCS

I opened the door and walked in to the smell of coffee and the sound of grinding, mixing up the drinks.


I beg the risk to diminish, with every door I open, sounding dramatic as ever with the use of the word “risk”.

I enter the coffee shop, to meet someone, someone I cannot spot. I wish I could walk through that door, looking as confident as possible, so I wouldn’t stick out as I try to find my way to any available table.

I hear familiar voices and would need to walk toward the sound. Instead, I sit and wait for those familiar voices to come and find me.

Ordering in a crowded shop, I choose to stay put. When I enter into a door like this one, this week, I can never be sure what I’ll find.

Stream of Consciousness Saturday, #SoCS

Is it busy or not? Are there any seats free or no? Will people stare at me as I make my way, clumsily by, or is it all in my head, unseen by my broken eyes?

Then I step back out the door, gently nudging someone with my big, bulky winter coat as I go. Oy boy, I wish I hadn’t done that, leaving someone I’m leaving with to apologize to them, for me. It’s enough to make me want to stay at home.

As we exit the door, out onto the street, I walk with another girl, trying to have a normal conversation together as we make our way to the car. Other than the tapping of my cane, as I slowly make my way along the sidewalk, I am free from the finding of doors and the risks within.

We enter the doors to the library and there are two. If I walk slightly off, on an angle in the wrong direction, I miss the next door I’m looking for.