MK 37

(verse)
I love you when the sun goes down 
when the the night begins to whisper
Or when the fog lift off from all around 
and I left my guard being a firm resister
finding my own virgin magical ground

(verse)
When all the roads swishing past 
lose myself of what brought me here
the mystery of being alive 
and my past like fog disappear 

(chorus) 
When the primary colors were strong and deep
and not from experience diluted
holding on to what not worth of keep 
a darkness erased by being lucid

(verse) 
Found myself on the windowsill 
breathing the thin air of a city
not even close of being fulfilled
when the glow of the moon hit me
thinking it´s time to make a refill 

(chorus)
When the primary colors were strong and deep
and not from experience diluted 
holding on to what not worth of keep 
a darkness erased by being lucid

Primary Colors

Ancestral Violin is an Appalachian ballad for anyone learning to step out of mental shadow and back into steadiness.

With violin and guitar carrying the ache, this song moves through the feeling of being haunted by fear—chasing illusions, questioning emotion, and confronting conflicting goals—then arrives at a simple decision: peace is the bridge. Not the past, not the future, but the presence within. As the “ancestral violins” rise, the track becomes a kind of homecoming—surrendering to win, drinking from the chalice of atonement, and letting what’s always been true return.

© 2025 WhoaProductions – All Rights Reserved

Ancestral Violin

It’s two in the morning, the sirens blare slow,
The avenue shivers in blue and red glow.
Your name comes in crackles like some AM band—
A prayer half-erased by a tremoring hand.

They said you grew feathers, or maybe just fled—
The house in Montclair with the books by the bed.
I still have your postcards, the margins all burned,
That poem you scratched where the page wouldn't turn.

Oh, the silver thread you pulled through the storm,
Tied to my finger to keep myself warm.
And Mary — yes, she’s here — she still waits by the door,
She's always right there and ready for more.

Do you still wear that coat — the one stitched with stars?
The collar all frayed from the backseat of cars.
It smelled like wet cedar and missed subway stops,
You’d vanish for months with your key to the shop.

I dreamt you last night in your Lutheran coat,
You said, “Don’t forgive me, just finish the note.”
And I did, though it bled through the back of the page—
The ink like a memory you couldn’t quite cage.

Oh, the silver thread you wove through your flight,
Lit up like tinsel and burned into night.
And Mary — she still sings in the kitchen at dawn,
But her voice, it has shadows where yours would belong.

Well, what can I tell you, my ghost from the floor?
You left in a hurry, but you haunt even more.
I saw your reflection in windows half-shut,
And the mail you addressed me still smells of burnt 

Oh, the silver thread, it frays where it ends,
But I still wear the knot where your silence extends.
And Mary — she forgives you, and where you have been,
And I… I remember you more than you mean.

Wicker Street

Who Smoked the Last Cigarette

One Last Clown

Thunder

On the Porch isn’t just a record, it’s a conversation. It’s the sound of old souls and weathered hands, of stories told long after midnight under a sky full of stars. It’s music played on borrowed instruments, with creaking floorboards for percussion and a rusted steel guitar crying in the background. It’s imperfect on purpose, because so is life.

This album is about the roads that shaped us, the ones we chose and the ones that chose us. It’s about scars that never quite fade and memories that refuse to leave. It’s about love that breaks us and saves us, wars fought far from home and battles fought deep within, about grief we carry and grace we try to find along the way.

This isn’t a polished studio album meant for neon lights and perfect mixes. It’s the sound of boots on a wooden porch, of a low, raspy voice telling the truth because there’s no reason to lie anymore. It’s a celebration of the beauty in imperfection and a reminder that some of life’s greatest songs are the ones played simply, honestly, and without apology.

So pull up a chair. Pour something strong. And sit with us a while because every note, every word, and every story here was meant to be shared on the porch.

Piper in the Distance

In the Dark

1972

A song created from an original poem by Jawaid A. Chaudhry Virk.
Poetry, voice, and music combined to explore memory, emotion, and reflection.

The Question is

My songs feature original lyrics that I write myself, paired with music generated by AI based on my custom prompts. I have a deep love for melancholic, sad songs. Only recently have I discovered the beauty of expressing these words through music, and I must say, they resonate in ways I really like

Who Smoked the Last Cigarette

Dale Tice

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