I'm at Siege

Jupiter Cries

In a lonely town

Prince of the Bering Straits

Little Drummer Boy...

Wind Burn And Broken Oak

New Ideas

The Light Looks Different Now Down Here

Accuse Horizons

Ethel and the Cunning Sea 
A fishing village like a broken knee, in the delta under brooding trees. 
The mist is lifting like an angry thing, or a drifting dream. 
Now there is Ethel and the Cunning Sea; pushed her schooner through the churning green. 
The wind was drifting like an angry thing, or ecstasy. 
--All those many days, feet planted on sand or stone. Right or wrong, says I’m not gone. Wait too long, where the cloud shadow’s parting. 
This is Ethel and the cunning sea, spirits filling in the broken breeze. Froth is spilling but her mind is hushed, in the wilful gusts. 
Salt-stained canvas, ropes entangled, hopes are mangled, but the light’s not strangled ‘cause still she breaths. 
--All those many days, feet planted on sand or stone. Right or wrong, says I’m not gone. Waiting alone, cloud shadows parting. 
--All those many days, feet planted on sand or stone. Right or wrong, says I’m not gone. Waiting alone, cloud shadows parting.

Ethel and the Cunning Sea

Edge of Fenton in the Pouring Damn Rain

•	Edge of Fenton in the pouring damn rain, I’m a fading stain. Yeah, wash me clean. Drops in a sparkling beam. 
•	I walk for hours in the lattice work leaves, dampened sleeves, rustic eves, of houses unbroken. 
o	Reading the signs of roads in the shadows. Tall oaks or pines, we swim to the shallows. Our small lives entwined, leave your past to the gallows. Our gear boxes grind down the railroad’s indelible lines.  
•	Edge of Fenton in the pouring damn rain: then night compounds. Love towns like these: ghost of a southern breeze. 
•	There’s nothing lost that the thunder can’t find. Thoughts entwine. Such a restless sound. Fog hugging the ground. 
o	Reading the signs of roads in the shadows. Tall oaks or pines, we swim through the shallows. Our small lives entwined, leave your past to the gallows. Gear boxes grind. Farm house is fallow.  
o	Riding the signs of roads in the shadows, tall oaks or pines, the railroad’s indelible lines.

Edge of Fenton in the Pouring Damn Rain

Near the Summit Where the Mountain Don't Fuss

Wondering through valleys with inspiration, seeking and finding determination.
Wisdom receding from inspiration, into the bones of western nations.
Climbing upwards, looking outwards with trust. 
•	Near the summit where the mountain don’t  fuss. 
Among the gusts, wreckage and rust, destined to dust. 
Leave when you must. 
Wondering through forests that hug the river. 
Harness the forest where wind-songs shiver.  
Hand-over-hand up through the cloud forms. Village receding, it shifts and shrouds norms. 
Climbing upwards: lonely withered grace.
•	You’re climbing up on the mountain’s stone face. 
Forgiving space, discoveries retraced, quiet embrace. 
Lost with a trace… 
They’ll harvest the forest where wind-songs shiver now. 
They’ll harvest the forest where wind-songs shiver now.

Near the Summit Where the Mountain Don't Fuss

From the Dusty Offices of Bannock and Bannock

I know you’ve seen them. 
I know you’ve seen our dusty signs. 
We’re out there…five miles from the railroad lines. 
We’ll solve your mystery; peel away the truth somehow. 
You have our hallowed vow. 
Find us now…Bannock & Bannock.
I got your telegram, yeah. 
Why don’t you come on inside? 
Winds are whistling.
Candles flicker in time
You’ve got your Pinkertons, but we’re the one’s provide. 
Bust this mystery wide.
Investigate with pride.
I know you feel it: a clue, a claim, a bitter time but…
The trail is cooling and we’re on your side. 
Bannock & Bannock
We found your fellow.
Yeah, he’s lying inside. 
Six guns of thunder, but he had a human hide. 
We told him: “hands down!” 
We’ll find the truth somehow.
You have our hallowed vow. 
But he drew somehow…
I know you feel it: a clue, a claim, a bitter shame but…
He lies in state, but the bounty’s great. 
Bannock & Bannock
Yeah, no need to panic.

From the Dusty Offices of Bannock and Bannock

Now the Briars Don’t Cut Anymore
Out there by the depot the dry grass is tragic, yeah, and the hot wind is static.
I hear the rumble of spirits; I fear it’s the nature of things now. 
When the prairie’s got nothing to say, guess I’ll darken their door. 
When the storm cloud’s withered away, I’ll ask the grim sky to pour. 
Don’t worry now: the briars don’t cut anymore.
Ride out past the last house; it’s light’s out. 
No spring drought drags us back.  
When the prairie’s got nothing to say, guess I’ll darken your door. 
When the storm cloud’s withered away, I’ll ask the grim sky to pour. 
Don’t worry now…
Out here my horse hooves strike the ground like Apollo.
Yeah, back there justice is battered like tin, thin voices hollow. 
I’m moving by day, noon shadows wrapped round my soles. 
At night the fire flies lift up like coals…when I find my way. 
When the prairie’s got nothing to say, guess I’ll darken their door. 
When the storm cloud’s withered away, I’ll ask the grim sky to pour. 
Don’t worry now; the briars don’t cut anymore.

Now the Briars Don't Cut Anymore

Up on the Outside, But Down on the Roadside
Driving out from empty city zones.
Tailwind tips the gritty traffic cones.
Tailpipe spits thoughts of winter alone. 
No broken engine’s gonna slow me down. 
In the mirror is my old town. 
Oh, I’m up on the outside, but down on the roadside, traveling away. 
My motor’s coughing while the radio’s playing.
Heart is scoffing about the things they’re saying.
Lament the memory of hopes their slaying now. 
No broken engine’s gonna slow me down. 
In the mirror is my old town. 
Oh, I’m up on the outside, but down on the roadside, traveling today.  
We slow danced in the shadow of an illuminated pier--ocean hissing, moon like glass, when everything was clear...
Oh, I’m up on the outside, but down on the roadside, traveling away. 
Oh, I’m up on the outside, but down on the roadside, leaving today.

Up On the Outside, But Down On the Roadside

People say our love’s a blue disaster.
That ain’t no home in Anaheim.  
Your father says that fate’s our master
But not this time. 
I’m yours and you’re mine.

Days like hammer holes packed with plaster.
Fickle weeks and paradigms.
Push the pedal more; we’ll get there faster. 
Spanish moss and magnolia vines. 
I’m yours and you’re mine.

Our heart’s cold migration.
Our heart’s bold vibration
Beneath the heart of the nation
Slowly lifting, two lives drifting…
Follow the ribbon of asphalt and broken pines. 

I know our love’s no blue disaster.
We’ll travel south and cross the line. 
Your father says that fate’s our master
But not this time. 
I’m yours and you’re mine.

Our heart’s cold migration.
Our heart’s bold vibration
Beneath the heart of the nation
Slowly lifting, two lives drifting…
Follow the ribbon of asphalt and broken pines.

Britt Strickland

Pinned to spotlight

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