The Coastline Of California

I walked on down through the oaks and scrub
And I looked out at the ocean.
I was hot and dry, like the sky above,
And I sat down with the notion
That I had come to the end of all
This country - what it stood for -
A culture pushed and here it stopped:
The coastline of California.

I turned around and I looked upon
The mountains I had passed through;
Logged and left like an open wound,
And the creeks run red with refuse.
A river runs to the end of all
This country - what it stood for -
A culture pushed and here it stopped:
The coastline of California.

No signs of those who had been before
But some piles of shells revealing
A thousand years of settled life;
The patterns kept repeating.
But they were there at the end of all
This country - what it stood for -
A culture pushed and here it stopped:
The coastline of California.

I knelt upon the ragged edge
Of a sandstone cliff that's crumbling;
I tried to grasp what was left for me
But watched it go a-tumbling.
For I am here at the end of all
This country - what it stood for -
A culture pushed and here it stopped:
The coastline of California.

Mind The Gap

The Coastline Of California

When Waters Parted

Were you there when waters parted,
And the waves came crashing down
On the unsuspecting people
That were standing all around?
When the floodwaters receded
And no one was left alive,
Were you standing there beside me
As I looked and softly cried?

Were you there when fires finished
All the darker works of men?
Where they ripped and hacked at nightfall,
When the stars would light again
The same old fields and forests
That our grandmothers once knew.
Where they birthed our mothers crying
And they wondered “Was that you?”

Were you there behind the wire?
Were you there inside the fence?
When the dead ends of the mind were found
To leave the bounds of sense,
And flow into the rivers
Draining deep into the sea.
Were you there when waters parted?
Were you there inside of me?

When Waters Parted

This Is Not My Country

This is not my country –
No, I don't know this place;
Where once poets went howling
Into the nameless face;
Where Kerouac went walking
And sat in desolate grace.
The angels fell from heaven -
They wouldn't know this place.

This is not the country 
That Woody Guthrie knew – 
The talking blues and the work songs
‘Round the dusty fields blew.
Could he ever have guessed this – 
That the fascists would win? 
The bombs and missiles flying – 
The enemy within. 

This is not the country 
That my grandfather saw
Through the eyes of a painter
As he walked along 
Highway 1 up the coastline, 
Before the Second World War. 
The lonely call of the desert – 
Hard to hear anymore. 

This is not my country – 
This is not my war.
The bombs and missiles flying 
And I don't know what for. 
Everyone is a target. 
No one has a face. 
Taking sides - making demons – 
No, I don't know this place.

This Is Not My Country

Well-Marketed Men

With the lifting of the filters,
And the dropping of pretense,
Words are taking on a meaning
Far beyond accepted sense.

Well-Marketed Men
Will free us again
From worries and thinking
Let’s get back to our drinking

Tortured remnants of a language
Left to rot upon a tree,
Along with saviors, martyrs, teachers -
Who gave their all, who gave it free.

Agitated angry
Ashen-faced and crazy
Glasses full of bubbles
The methods not so subtle

Tongues are twisted, spirits lifted
By the freedom found inside
Of bunkers, warm with aging bodies;
Nowhere safe, no need to hide.

Well-Marketed Men

The Cold War Is Over

Scarcity scaling the fences of plenty,
Bruising the totals and knees of the workers.
Where do the fickle ones lighten their load?
Who built the fences and who found the totals?

The cold war is over,
So why are we freezing
While men in high places
Are laughing and warm?
The cold war is over,
The feeling is creeping
That someone or something
Will bring us to harm.

From where does the noise come when all are asleep?
From all of the rest who must work to ensure
That fence builders, total-totters, sleep, oh so soundly;
Work to ensure that they blissfully rest.

Unaware of the sweat but disturbed by the noise -
Grumpily rising from beds filled with feathers -
Calling for coffee and the papers that parrot
Lies from the lips of an ego gone mad.

Aware of the sweat and quite deafened by noise,
Slaves underground rising up to the day
Blinking, the lights all around them are flashing.
Troubled and shallow the sleep yet to come.

The Cold War Is Over

A Delicate Peace

Delicate the peace,
Shattered once, now shy
Of tracing the steps,
Rehearsed well.  But try
Never to speak
Of the methods and moods.
The conquered but free -
The hot-blooded feuds.

The rills in the sky
Forming currents that mirror
The streams that cut gently,
Too hot to come clear.
And boots tread the surface,
And guns shock the sense,
But minds never clouded
Will never grow tense.

And what of the wars
Where the olive trees still grow?
The fruit of the land
Outlives all that go
The way of the sword,
The fist, and the gun.
A delicate peace
When the rest comes undone.

A Delicate Peace

On Easter Morning

I awoke to the sound of gunfire on Easter Morning,
But I could not speak to save my life.
How I wanted to run from this place,
And I was pinned not by bullets,
But the sins of a past I never lived.
This bed is cold as stone,
And although the door is open,
I cannot leave.

Thirsty, I took the cup to drink on Easter Morning,
But the rim was cracked and cut my lip.
The drops of blood mixed with dry dust,
For the cup had been empty for ages,
And I could never fill it though I bleed for one thousand years.
This bed is cold as stone,
And although the door is open,
I cannot leave.

Awake, I wept at the thought of the night before Easter Morning:
At the violence of the actions that filled my head.
And I looked out the door
At the tree I once had climbed,
Riddled with bullets, and I could not save myself.
This bed is cold as stone,
And although the door is open,
I cannot leave.

On Easter Morning

Mind The Gap

Asking the why but the answer’s opinion -
Walking ‘round lifeless no better than blind.
Stumbling trails that are littered with remnants:
Rocks and bare roots of a treacherous kind.

Mind the gap
Between what you’re hearing
Mind the gap
And what you know to be true

Strip to the bone but the flesh is too willing,
Naked, pinched breath on a cold barren day.
Sacrifices made at an altar, familiar;
No one can look at perfection this way.

Reason’s the father and the mother is sterile
Knowledge will cut out the heart of the son
But kindness will fill in the gaps

A black lamb is bleeding, and she’s lifeless for nothing,
The sticky black blood sucks the soul from the feet.
Walking these trails, tripping, rootless and barren;
No less and no more, just opinions to me.

Sometimes A Song’s Just A Song

Well the world’s full of trouble
I’m finding it’s double
Of what they once taught me in school
There’s people that’s dying
And old people crying
And our president’s a sorry old fool
When I look in the mirror
There’s one thing that’s clear
I’m older and sorrier too
Well some folks are right and some folks are wrong
And sometimes a song’s just a song

Well the sixties are over
Were you rolling in clover
When time stole away what you know
‘Cause now the old geezers
Between having seizures
Are charging big bucks for a show
The music’s the same
Just a whole lot more tame
For the new songs they ebb more than flow
Well some folks are weak and some folks are strong
And sometimes a song’s just a song

Well I’m starting to sound
Like I’m determined and bound
To dislike this world that we’ve got
But in fact I’m in love
With the heaven’s above
And the rest of us here where it’s hot
So the wheel keeps turning
And my stomach is churning
As I give it my very best shot
Some folks want to lead some folks tag along
And sometimes a song’s just a song

Sometime's A Song's Just A Song

Sometimes A Song's Just A Song

One of the tracks from my 2017 release 'A Thirsty Sea', which is available wherever songs are chopped into bits and streamed and/or downloaded via the internet. See the links in my profile for more information.
***
Nothing Worth Repeating

99 seems so relentless,
Passing through these lonely towns.
Yellow lights fight the darkness,
But the darkness of this valley always wins.

Eastern skies and looming mountains
Shed the snow and flood the fields -
Birds in spirals above the steeples,
But the towns are drowning far below.

Drowning in impatience
And disrepair.
Bridges spanning rivers
That no one knew were there.

Loves seems short but life is shorter,
And the dirt covers the graves.
And the bones recall the memories:
There is nothing worth repeating when it’s gone.

Dreaming through frustration
And despair.
Sleepless, spanning lifetimes
That no one knew were there.

A Thirsty Sea

Nothing Worth Repeating

I am a songwriter/guitarist/singer working out of my home studio in Boulder Creek, California. My arrangements use a mix of voice, acoustic and electric guitars, bass and drums, along with the occasional mandolin, bouzouki, or keyboard part. Please enjoy responsibly and be aware - no musicians were harmed in the process of recording these tracks!

Jim Powell Music