1. |
I'm not proud
03:51
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I'm not proud of today, I'm not proud of myself today
I'm not proud of myself today
I'm not proud of today, I'm not proud of the things I said today
Or the way I looked at you with entitlement, as if I was owed something
I'm never owed something
I'm not proud of today, I'm not proud of the way my heart was today
Full of thoughts turned into words I can say I hate
Words I'd want to take back if time could be molded in my hands
So now I think of the past of today,
and how my thoughts are the sisters of the ones before
And I wonder how they could all come from me
the wounding, the healing, the contemplating
They're all me
What a beautiful, scary thing to behold
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2. |
Tully
03:52
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Driving through September, one mile from Tully
The New York green’s unruly, waiting for the rain
Fall is coming in your part of the country
And I’m driving down this eastern road without you again
It’s been eight years now since I took my leave from you
In the fall when the leaves turned to rust
Many a time I’ve thought of leaving what little was my own
Give into Colorado summer when it called me home
So when December comes I’ll always remember you in July sun
A bead of sweat runs down your cheek
You’re staring at a half-open door as we’re sitting here in silence
Cause I’m saying I’ll see you in a week when we both know it’ll be twenty four more
It’s getting closer now, the day that I come home
I’ll be there when the wildflowers bloom
And for a time I’ll be with you with nowhere else to go
‘Til the next thing comes along and starts calling me home
So when December comes I’ll always remember you in July sun
A bead of sweat runs down your cheek
You’re staring at a half-open door as we’re sitting here in silence
'Cause I’m saying I’ll see you in a week when we both know it’ll be twenty four more
Now I’m driving through September 40 miles from Denver
Prairie dust clouds in my rear view
Fall is coming in this part of the country
And I’m driving down this western road ‘til I get home to you
So when December comes I’ll always remember you in July sun
A bead of sweat runs down your cheek
You’re staring at a half-open door as we’re sitting here in silence
'Cause I’m saying I’ll see you in a week when we both know it’ll be twenty four more
‘Cause I’m saying I’ll see you in a week
When we both know it’ll be twenty four more
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3. |
Change
03:44
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What the hell has come into me?
I’ve started saying things that don’t make sense to me,
and leaving my words behind.
I say it all with my eyes on the ground, ears open,
for the sound of your laughter and what appeals to you
But if I could say anything else, I would let that be my home.
But the day goes on while I talk on and say, I will be her someday.
Funny how it goes this way.
Is there any time to remain honest, these days,
When you’ve backed an idea and now it has its back to you?
And when will time see me through?
Most days I’m running on the things you told me but never asked to know.
Like if I could love anything else, I should let that be my home.
But the day goes on while I talk on and say I will be her someday.
Funny how it goes this way, funny how it goes this way.
Your words are dusty, cold on the shelf,
You pull them down just to bolster yourself.
You’re not ready for that kind of honesty,
Being kind is your only equity.
But if I could say anything else, I would let that be my home.
Something kinder, something truer, and in better taste.
I will be there someday.
Funny how it goes this way, funny how it goes this way.
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4. |
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Twas on one bright March morning I bid New Orleans adieu.
I took the road to Jackson town, my fortune to renew.
I'd cursed all foreign money, no credit could I gain.
And it filled my heart with longing for the Lakes of Pontchartrain.
I stepped on board a railroad car in the early morning sun.
I rode the rails ‘til evening and I laid me down again.
All strangers here, no friend to me, ‘til a dark girl toward me came.
I fell in love with a Creole girl from the lakes of Pontchartrain.
I said my lovely Creole girl, my money here, it's no good,
If it weren't for the alligators, I’d sleep out in the wood.
You're welcome here, kind stranger, our house is very plain,
But we never turned a stranger out on the Lakes of Pontchartrain.
She took me to her mammy's house and she treated me quite well.
The hair upon her shoulders in jet black ringlets fell.
To try and paint her beauty would surely be in vain.
So charming was my Creole girl from the lakes of Pontchartrain.
I asked her if she would marry me, she said that could never be.
She had got a lover and he was far at sea.
She promised that she would wait for him and faithful she’d remain,
'Til he returned to his Creole girl from the lakes of Pontchartrain
Fare thee well, my bonny girl, I’ll never see you more,
But I'll ne’er forget your kindness in the cottage by the shore.
And at every social gathering, a flowing glass I'll raise,
And I'll drink to the health of my Creole girl from the Lakes of Pontchartrain.
I’ll raise a glass to my creole girl from the Lakes of Pontchartrain.
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5. |
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summer was quiet so I left town
walked along the trails on the side of the mountain
brushed my hands in the wild grass
felt the wind blowing at the top of the pass
got used to feeling the passing of time
and the turning of clocks on white and yellow lines
until I found the place where the water ran clear
and moved at the pace of a million years
these are the sounds of home
wind through the wild aspen groves
this is where I go after traveling those long winding roads
i’ve been dreaming of this kind of night
the two of us beneath the wide horizon of lights
where the air is cool and it smells of sage
and the fields open wide like the final page
these are the sights of home
wind through the wild aspen groves
this is where I go after traveling those long winding roads
these are the sights of home
a promenade of stars above the ranges
this is how I know to practice standing still among the changes
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Clare Elich Denver, Colorado
Clare is a singer, songwriter and clawhammer banjo player. She lives in Denver, CO.
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