a gentle angry people

Gonna’ Live (Third New Album Preview!)

I’ve got some hesitations with being a man
it’s not that I can’t fill those shoes
it’s I know I can
but who writes our love songs
and when will they change?
because I need falling in love to be okay

how’s my spirit today?
did I take time to stop along the way?
and how lonesome will I have to be
before I find God, or God finds me?
and who’ll write my bible,and what will it say?
because I need living with soul to be okay

what would it take to recreate this life of mine?
who would I be if I were free to be anyone at all?
what would it take to recreate this life of my mine?
what would it mean to finally know how the song should go?

beginning to see that I’m not what I seem
there’s so much more and less to me
to walk unafraid of the stillness inside
like silhouettes of trees against a pastel sky
if I write a story what would it say?
could I leave the pages blank
and write something new everyday?

what would it take to recreate this life of mine?
who would I be if I were free to be anyone at all?
what would it take to recreate this life of my mine?
why do I think that I should know how the song should go?

I’m going to live
live like I want to
like I want to be here

I’m going to love
love so completely
so completely sincere

a garden, a treehouse, a swing set (SECOND NEW ALBUM PREVIEW!)

In the backyard of my childhood home
there was a garden, a tree house, a swing set
my parents would call me in but I didn’t want to go
I’d say, “hey mom and dad, I ain’t done yet!”
and I’d be out there all by myself, you know just swinging along
and I am not quite sure what I was doing all that time
but I might have been singing this song:
ha-aigh ha-aigh ha-aigh aigh

From the tree house we used to jump
into golden leaves piled high
but the wood began to rot
we tore the tree house down
I had to say goodbye
but my grandpa was a tinsmith
he made ornaments for Christmas
he cut that tree house out of tin
and said, “hey now, we’ll never forget this”
ha-aigh ha-aigh ha-aigh aigh

In the winter my dad would plant seeds
in trays under lamps in the basement
and in the spring he’d take the sprouts outside
to the garden with perfect placement
and in the summer we’d watch the vegetables grow
with great anticipation
and in the fall on the deck eatin’ green beans
with deep appreciation
ha-aigh ha-aigh ha-aigh aigh

a story about memory (NEW ALBUM PREVIEW!)

if I could I’d write a song
that we could sing to change it all (I would)
if I did that song would be
a story about memory (it would)

first we forget
then we forget we forgot

there was a time the Earth was flat
and the ships they sailed right off the map
but there was a place with people there
and on their coast those ships appeared
they resisted but nearly disappeared
death, disease, and the trail of tears
and as the temple tumbled down
the steeple rose up from the ground

first we forget
then we forget we forgot

through the door of no return
the ships brought slaves like cattle herds
people taken from their homes
to create wealth they would never own
the wealth was taken in those ships
far away and Empire was built
and this is how a “New World” was made:
a genocide and 12 million slaves

first we forget, then we forget we forgot
first we forget, then we forget we forgot

there was a war, we freed the slaves
but not enough has really changed
because people still work to the bone
to create wealth they will never own
when you got no property
you sell yourself like a commodity
stolen wealth on stolen land
but we’ve got flags and marching bands

to help us forget, to help us forget we forgot
first we forget, then we forget we forgot

you and me, you and me
we’re actors in this history
you and me we’re the ones

organize, organize
there ain’t time for standing by
you and me we’re the ones

Ella’s Song (music and original lyrics by Bernice Johnson Reagon)- Polished Version!

we who believe in freedom cannot rest
we who believe in freedom cannot rest until it comes

until the killing of black men,
black mothers’ sons
is as important as the killing of white men,
white mothers’ sons

that which touches me most
is that I have a chance to work with people
passing on to others that which was passed on to me

for her young people came first,
they have the courage where others fail
she has shed a light that we must carry through the gale

the older she got the better she knew
that the secret of going on
is when the reins are in the hands of the young,
who dare to run against the storm

not needing to clutch for power,
not needing the light just to shine on me
I need to be one in the number as we stand against tyranny

struggling myself don’t mean a whole lot, I’ve come to realize
that teaching others to stand up and fight
is the only way our struggle survives

she was a woman who spoke in a voice
and she must be heard
At times she could be quite difficult,
she would bow to no man’s word

we who believe in freedom cannot rest
we who believe in freedom cannot rest until it comes

nica winter

Have you ever walked in a foreign land where you’re never understood or quite understand why, oh why? And all you need is a little love, a warm embrace or a friendly hug, and smiles, oh smiles.

‘Cause loneliness is rain, same tired metaphor, but I’ve never seen rain like this before.

Sometimes loving means letting go and the Nica winter’s a time of growth, yeah rain and growth. But they’re have been days when I need you, when the rood leaked and you seeped through like rain, for growth.

And you were like that letter that was lost and not received so I dreamt I was the envelope just to hold you close to me.

Why do I forget there’s more? Why do I forget my soul? Until the day I reach those shores, I will be bitter and baffled by the rain.

I returned to the land of the kitchen sink, I turned the knob and took a drink of pain, and ghosts. ‘Cause it all poured out when the faucet broke and my heart sank because it couldn’t float for pain, and ghosts.

Well 6 months is a long time, when the earth is dry, and 6 months is a lifetime when the rain falls from the sky.

Summer in Ohio we don’t get much rain, except for when there’s a hurricane of the coast of my heart. But the future’s bright like a sunny day, if only I could find my way from the coast, of my heart.

Cause love is a cornfield planted with the rain, with out some soul its got no roots, love is washed right away.

Why do I forget there’s more? Why do I forget my soul? Until the day I reach those shores, I will be bitter and baffled by the rain.