If I'm to wake up before I grow old,
I must rise.
If I'm to shake all this dust off my soul;
I realize
that as each day dawns with nothing to hide,
it seems we all were born to let our inside
     all out, all out

If we're to stand out before we fall in,
we must stand.
It's time to move once the music begins.
Come on and dance!
Dance together now.
As we fill our lives with laughter and song,
when our time has come,
we'll know we'll have gone
     all out, all out.

When those days are hot
and those nights are cold
and you feel yourself growing old,
you can sure enough depend on me 
for some of that old sweet sympathy.
     So won't you let it all out,
     all out, all out

If we're to wake up before we grow old,
we must rise.
If we're to shake all this dust off our souls,
we'd be wise
to forget all the things they taught us in school.
Instill no doubt.  Just live by one rule:
     all out, all out,
     all out, all out.

All Out

Blown away on a windy day,
like autumn leaves we fall.
Cast adrift from the mother ship,
we find no port of call.

	 When taking on
	 the great beyond
	 there are no first-borns.
	 There are no chosen ones.
	 We are only, 
	 we are all 
	 ephemeral.

Ash to ash, dust to dust,
remains of stars embrace.
Life goes on, minus one
forever unreplaced.

	 She’s taken on
	 the great beyond.
	 So, where are her first-born
	 and all her chosen ones
	 minus a mommy,
	 without our source?
	 Without our Polly
	 we are all, of course,
	 ephemeral. 
	 Ephemeral.

					© 2014  Fattie Pookins, Esq.

Ephemeral

In the mystery garden of my first bedroom
I pitch a tent of blankets beneath a gathering gloom.
You come to me.  No one can see…..

          My imaginary friend, here we are again.
          When I rock and sing in bed, you are my
          imaginary friend. No one understands -
          you’re the only audience I ever have.
	 
In the virgin forest all around the bar, 
an accidental tourist, you wander where you are.
Come to me. Tonight you’ll be…..

          My imaginary friend, here we are again.
          While I’m rockin’ and singin’, you are my
          imaginary friend.  No one understands -
          You’re the only audience I ever have.
(instrumental)	
Please, come to me.
Play with me, my imaginary friend.

When the game is over and father time has won,
I hear you and my mother calling Bobby home.
“Come to me.  No one can see.”

          My imaginary friend, here we are again.
          We’re still rockin’ and singin’, me and my
          imaginary friend. No one understands –
          You’re the only audience, my only audience,
          you’re the only audience I ever have.


						© 2009 by Robert Hincks

Polly Hincks sings backup in 3rd verse

Imaginary Friend

Welcome inside my skin.
You don’t know how cold it’s been.
A winter storm has come and gone,
and a zephyr whispers warm
through my heart lately.

	You make me feel like Jamaica inside.
	You make me feel like Jamaica inside.
	Like rasta, rum, and reggae
	out in the sunshine naked,
	you make me feel like Jamaica inside
	tonight.

Welcome inside my skin,
where an island I have been.
Across the seas, through the trees
like a warm tropical breeze,
blow through me, lady.

	You make me feel like Jamaica inside.
	You make me feel like Jamaica inside.

	I smell the ganja smoken
        and taste a taboo broken.
	Deliver me temptation.
	I’ve won the free vacation!

	You make me feel like Jamaica inside.
	You make me feel like Jamaica inside.
	Like rasta, rum, and reggae
	out in the sunshine naked,
	you make me feel like Jamaica inside
	tonight.


				© 2004 Rob Hincks

Jamaica Inside

We’re breathing Etruscan air.
Primeval forests fill our lungs.
We’re eating Le Vigne fare,
moment of harvest on our tongues.

	We’ve come so far to be
	family.
	Our home across the sea
	is Tuscany.

We’re driving through Palazzone.
Medieval streets turn narrow and high.
We’re climbing like castle stone
out of a cliffside into a sky.

	We awaken to the dawn
	of history,
        as ancient and as young
	as Tuscany.


     				© 1998 Rob Hincks

* Win Ridabock on flute, Joh Nuhn on upright bass

Tuscany*

What ancient goddess, what blonde over blue,
what redneck train wreck have I run into?
You’re some kind of strange -
heart on the street, home on the range.
As far as I can see,
you’re a perfect paradox like me.

Christian babies, pagan adults,
we’re going nowhere and getting results.
We’re some kind of strange,
dancing in this fountain of age.
As far as I can tell,
no one I know knows me so well.

	You’re my kind of strange,
	my asylum from the sane.
	You’re my kind of lost.
	God knows how I’ve run across
	my kind of strange.

What cosmic vapors, what moon superblue,
what karmic capers guide us,
guided me to you, my dear friend?
‘Round and ‘round and back again,
just when it seems too late
the finest miracle awaits.

	You’re my kind of strange.
	Heal and grow but don’t ever change.
	You’re my kind of weird,
	so slide your butt on over here.
	You’re my kind of strange.
	You’re my kind of strange.


					© 1997  Robert Hincks

My Kind of Strange

With emerald hills, vermilion skies	
and turquoise fields of sea,
I don’t know how you found the time;
but thank you for painting me.

Behind the skin stretched on your frame
like canvas white and clean,
I lay before I had a name.
Thank you for painting,
thank you for painting me.

	You painted me.
	Your waking dreams,
	your colors have become
	a part of me,
	the heart of me -
	the artist in the son.

When all your priceless works are done
and handed out for free,
I’ll hope you were proud of this one.
Thank you for painting,
thank you for painting me.


				© 1997 Robert Hincks

Painting Me

There’s a silent room in my house
that used to be so full of song.
It lost its music to a Greyhound bus
vanishing in the dawn.

There’s an ancient room in my house
that used to be so full of youth.
Now standing in the ruins of your last hours,
I learn to face the truth.

	You’re far and away
	the one closest to my heart.
	Are you lost in L.A.
	or have you found a band to start?
	You’re far and away 
	the best friend I ever had,
	but you’ve gone so far and away
	from your dad.

There’s a vacancy in my world,
which you once occupied so well.
Now, as songwriters, we both share this void
that our music alone can fill.

	You’re far and away
	the one closest to my heart.
	Are you lost in L.A.
	or have you found a band to start?
	You’re far and away 
	the best friend I ever had.
	Take your music far and away
	for your dad,

				© 1997  Robert Hincks

Far and Away

Sister of mercy,
creature of habits I see through,
my soul is dirty.
Is there some penance I can do?
Heaven can hurt me,
as long as my punishment is you.
My punishment is you.

My judge and jury,
here your defendant stands in chains.
Render your verdict,
hand down the sentence and the shame.
Your prison may hurt me,
but love is a crime and I’m to blame.
Love is a crime and I’m to blame.

	Punish me.

Guardian Angel,
your heavenly body harbors me.
Intimate stranger,
I can’t overcome your gravity.
A captive of pleasure,
only the pain can set me free.

	Punish me. (what you don’t hurt can’t know you)

Sister of mercy,
creature of habits I see through,
My soul is dirty,
craving our ritual abuse.
Heaven can hurt me
as long as my punishment is you.
My punishment is you.

	Punish me. 

					© 1999 Robert Hincks

Punish Me

Talk me Home

	Talk me home, talk me home. 

So, you’re turning 40 way out in Oregon.
Lucky for me, when you walk to work alone,
you call and talk me home.  

	Talk me home, talk me home.

Although yearly we may take turns as host,
somehow lately what comforts me the most
is just your voice flying coast to coast.

		Talk me home -
	back where the family started, 
	before we all departed
	to find our futures somewhere else.
		Talk me home -
	making up bedtime stories,
	waking up with no worries,
	not even dreaming of farewells.

Long division tears at heart and mind.
So I listen, transcending space and time,
when family love is on the line.

		Talk me home -
	swing dance and yoga classes, 
	juice bars and mountain passes,
	through life adventures we have grown.
		Talk me home - 
	though now with different houses, 
	new friends, new kids and spouses;
	still in the wilderness we roam.
		Talk me home - 
	no matter where we journey, 
	I love returning
	when you talk me home.

Talk me Home

Northampton Neighbors  

	   We’re not alone.
	   We are Northampton Neighbors
           aging at home,
	   sharing laughs and labors.

If you need a ride (or just a call),
someone by your side (don’t we all?),
call a volunteer (there is no fee).
Our valley peers are mild and free.

	   We’re not alone.
	   We are Northampton Neighbors
           glowing old,
           sharing laughs and labors.

We enjoy repairs, screen support,
story shares, the great outdoors.
At Mix ’n’ Mingles new old friends are made.
Life is a DoozyDo parade!

	   We’re not alone.
	   We are Northampton Neighbors
	   engAging at home.
	   We’re your Northampton Neighbors.

Northampton Neighbors (theme song)

Hoops & Dreams

As children we witnessed our dad
have hoops and dreams, ya know.
Every day he’d kiss our mom,
then off to work he’d go.

	   Necktie, belt, watch and ring
	   harnessed him each morning.
	   Necktie, belt, watch and ring
	   circumscribed his daily world.

So, I too once fashioned a life
of hoops and dreams, ya know.
Every day I’d kiss the wife,
then off to work I’d go.

	   Necktie, belt, watch and ring
	   harnessed me each morning.
	   Necktie, belt, watch and ring
	   circumscribed my daily world. 
        
An old divorcé and new retiree,
I’ve hoops and dreams no more.
Every day I kiss Justine,
then set out to explore!

	   No necktie, belt, watch or ring
	   harness me each morning.
	   No necktie, belt, watch or ring
           circumscribe my daily world -
           my lovely hoop-less 
           daily world.

Hoops & Dreams

Hoops & Dreams - Dan

Remember the mountain spring
whenever you’re wandering.
We’re lucky cousins, me and you.
The mountain spring
is our gene pool to drink.
 
Wherever we old nineteen
together are gathering
becomes a Big House of renewal.
The mountain spring
is our gene pool to drink.

        Like Papa John and Grammer,
        we’ll hold the fort as grandparents.
         Like Rosa, Herminia and Walter,
         we are all life immigrants.
                            
Through ages of parenting
the sages are still learning
from spouses, kids and grandchildren,
the mountain spring
at hand for them to drink.

        Not just any old water
       rippled down Talcott Ridge,
       into the blood of sons and daughters
        and well beyond privilege.
 
Remember the mountain spring
whenever you’re done aging.
We wonder what the end may bring -
perhaps just one more mountain spring?
 
So, raise your voices, dear cousins.
With ancestors and descendants
         we sing!
And, raise your glasses, lifelong friends.
The mountain spring, our sustenance,
        we drink!


Mountain Spring

Time to burn another calendar,
to turn another valiant year to ash.
Time to gather and to celebrate,
to laugh as we recalibrate our dreams.

	It’s time to ring in a new year,
	drink to our time in this world,
	to the lonely orbit of a blue sphere -
	our precious time in this world.

Time for holiday and ritual, 
sobriety and victual among friends.
Time – don’t miss the disappearing act:
witness an entire year pass God knows where.

	It’s time. So, cheers to our moment.
	Here’s to our time in this world.
	Reach out and own it, our time.

Standing on shoulders
of parents crossed-over,
we are the elders now.
Living life forward,
understanding it backward,
we are humbled and proud

	to ring in a new year.
	Drink to our time in this world,
	to one more orbit on a twirling blue sphere -
	our precious time in this world.
	
						© 2015 Rob Hincks

*Justine McCarthy sings backup on bridge

Our Time

You lie in bed,
dreamy hair all ‘round your head.
For this ordinary day
I have had to wait... always.	

Staggering up,
I brew some coffee for the cup
of an ordinary girl,
awakening within my world
an extraordinary love.

	We don’t need to talk 
	of desire every day.
	We don’t need to walk
	through a fire to be brave.
	Ordinary life is enough
	with an extaordinary love.

You open your eyes
to the permanent surprise
of an ordinary man,
finally holding in his hand
an extraordinary love.

	We don’t need to search
	for the master in her cave.
	We don’t need a church.
	If we have two souls to save,
	ordinary life is enough
	with an extaordinary love,

Ordinary Life

So long, Mr. Strong.
You made a right of every wrong for me.
Goodbye to your painted sky,
where angel wings are alibis for free.

     You always laughed when I told a joke,
     but hidden in laughs were jesters who never spoke.
     I don’t mean to call you a liar,
     but I’ve had enough now,
     adding innocence to your fire.
   
These days I am amazed
at neophytes who live half-crazed to see
a sign or two of something true,
mistaken for the sight of you – pity.

     I tell them all that you’ve had your call,
     but all of us now have our innocent true desire.
     We can walk or we can crawl
     and I’ve crawled enough now,
     adding innocence to your fire.

I’ll move along on my own
looking for a place that’s home to me.
I won’t regret the day we met
and there were times I’ll never forget, surely.

     But I’m afraid that the break is made.
     I’ve said enough now, it’s late, and I’m growing tired.
     Consider this, if it hit or miss,
     my one last time
     adding innocence to your fire.

Innocence To Your Fire

Hurling though space like a meteorite,
you somehow crash-landed on my bed tonight.
Your tears on my pillow, your nails in my chest,
you are obsessed.

Rushing in and out like a crowd at the mall,
you storm through my body, not stopping at all.
One mannequin ravaged bears silent witness:
you are obsessed.

	   You are obsessed, my love,
	   you are obsessed.

Each moment a mission, each question a quest,
each bump in the road becomes your Everest.
Ignoring this message, embracing this mess,
you are obsessed.

Call your psychic hotline, attend your seance,
buy one happy medium’s greetings from trance.
Your pockets enlightened, your car repossessed,
you are obsessed.

	   You are obsessed, my love,
	   you are obsessed.

Hurling though space like a meteorite,
you somehow crash-landed
on my bed……

Obsessed

I sleepwalk tonight
in a dream called real life.
I’m reaching my arms out to see
babies full grown, 
elders half gone,
and aging awaken in me.
Now in what time is left for me,
there’s nowhere else I’d rather be 
than here.
		In my brother’s house
		there’s always room for more.
		We’re all in and out 
                the same evolving door
		in my brother’s house. 
                In my brother’s house
		there’s always room for more.
As seasons of years 
accrue in arrears,
come swim in the deep end with me.
We’re all drifting through 
this humbling blue
and singing our hearts out to sea.
The lyric of the troubadour,
the spirits of the ancestors 
are here.
		In my brother’s house
		there’s always room for more.
		We’re all in and out 
                the same evolving door
		in my brother’s house. 
                In my brother’s house
		there’s always room for more.

next CD

More (full version)

Outside the Dakota in the cold November rain,
candles flickered upon faces wet with pain.
There in silent vigil hundreds gathered in his name,
while the rest of us in our lives did the same.
	He was a lesson for us all,
	a question and a call from far away.
	He was symbol of the times,
	the rhythms and the rhymes 
	to which we played.
	Play, John.
Trying to find some meaning in another senseless crime,
we turned our record players and radios on high.
His music raised me up when I was down time after time.
I’ll miss the lone song rider in the sky.
	He had a message for the world,
	the wisdom in a pearl from far away.
	He was symbol of the times,
	the rhythms and the rhymes 
	to which we played.
	Play, John.
Oh. John, we can’t believe you’re really gone.
You will live on within our hearts forever young.
	He was a lesson for us all,
	a question and a call from far away.
	He was symbol of the times,
	the rhythms and the rhymes 
	to which we played.
	Play, John.

John

It’s hard to figure life.
It’s a rock of ages;
it’s a roll of the dice.
There’s a chair in my office
where you sit and tell
your trouble to the floor.
In a wall made of worry,
words are an evolving door.

It’s hard to figure love.
It’s all you need,
yet there’s seldom enough.
There’s a chair in my office 
where you sit and spill
your heart’s half-empty cup.
There’s a baby within each boomer
that’s still growing up.
We’re still growing up.

	So, wash this wound with wonder.
	Your wish is our command.
	Loss will be your lover
	in the end.

It’s hard to figure death,
the final exhale
in a lifetime of breath.
Let the chair in my office 
cradle your bones.
Let me cradle your heart.
And let death’s daunting picture frame
turn your life into art.
Life is art.

        So, wash this wound with wonder.
	Your wish is our command.
	Loss becomes our lover
	in the end, in the end.
      ---THE END---

Rob Hincks

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