Friend from a Purple Cloud

Dedicated to my cowriter, and friend, Corina Daniela Obertas

It was Tuesday morning, the middle of fall
I was surfing through albums and photos and all
I was wandering in my fingers, my mind was flat
I saw this image on a website, of flowers and plants
Some one had a green thumb and a garden of eden
How could they do this with the weather getting grim
I poked around and looked and saw this smile
I swear it was sunshine and happiness and joy for miles
Most people you don’t think of as angels right off
But this one, this girl looked like she just dropped from a cloud
I returned to the picture of the garden again,
Some of the things she’d shot from here and then
I sent her a note, about friendship and shots
Wasn’t too sure what would happen or not
You never know how you’ll be perceived,
But you sure won’t know unless you believe
Wasn’t long before she replied back
Like she was a neighbor just down the street
Puzzled and pleased and confused by the smile
I sure pondered the niceness for a great while
How can anyone be that nice and caring
Gentle and kind, and sweet and sharing
I sure wanted whatever she had
I wanted it, make no mistake about that
Man, a friend like this, you don’t find real soon
In fact, you may not find one as giving by day or moon.
Sometimes you’re hurt and no one understands
And she steps alongside to hold your hand
It’s not like other people wouldn’t work,
She just came and did it first
A friend will forgive you when no one else will
This one…this one came, her voice, hell couldn’t still
And I can remember the day that I fell and cried
She pulled me back and sat down beside.
My friend from a purple cloud,
With the heart of a lion, but voice soft, not loud

Sometimes

©2007 Wayne Cook
A minstrel sings songs that sometimes tell a story
His stories are often made of blood and history
You can hear his guitar softly like a Sunday rain
And often love lost pushes through the poet’s pain

For a story is nothing less or more
Than a song that just cracks a door
And you’re left with emptiness for the rest to be told
But you and I both know that life is full of holes

Questions come but the minstrel just nods and sings
No answers come of this wise old poet king
The pain of desire unsatisfied, you start to feel tired and old
But the song and its interrogation go on and on

But stories nearly always pull us to the fire’s distorted grin
We rather enjoy the telling of the other man’s tasty sin
Transgression and forgiveness, not always hand in hand
You eyes tell a tail that isn’t hard to understand

Sometimes the repentance of our sins seems endless
Sometimes the fire just burns and dulls us
Sometimes the answers come for questions yet to be said
Sometimes those answers are just a crust of unsatisfying bread