This Broken Love Song (poems from old notebooks, 2001?-2013)

I’ve been picking at this one  off and on for a long time. Had a spell a few years ago where I performed it now and then with a local band. That was fun. I’ll likely leave it alone now.

This Broken Love Song

Fair warning, folks—when I finished this song I knew immediately that it ranked as at least number eight on the top ten list of the saddest songs in the world. And that’s without a mention of guns, trains, or even whiskey. See, I couldn’t put any of those in or the whole world would drown in tears. What I’m saying is, I had to cut the feet off this song, clip its wings, disable it, so to speak—yeah, this song parks in handicapped spaces. Another thing, it’s a talkie…if this song were to be sung the sun itself would cry and the moon sink far beyond the cold embrace of sky. Hit it, boys.

I dreamt my heart was a robin’s sigh
under a cloud-caged moon.
I dreamt this love song wasn’t broken,
and I would see you soon.

But I was walking in the empty night,
my hands were empty too.
I found this broken love song
the wind was whistling through.
I gathered up the pieces
and I took them home for you.

Yeah, I was walking in the empty night,
my hands were empty too.
I found this broken love song,
rusty, jagged, and blue.
I carried home the pieces
and I painted them for you.

And now the harbour’s thick with ice,
the north wind blows and blows,
god’s hollow voice fills the sky,
the fields are quick with snow.

I dreamt my heart was a whippoorwill’s cry
under the full moon’s stare.
I dreamt your finger touched my shoulder
and wrote this love song there.

But I’m walking in the empty night,
my hands are empty too.
I’ve found this broken love song,
it’s all I have of you.
I’ve got this broken love—
it’s all I know that that’s true.

And, yeah, the harbour’s thick with ice,
the north wind blows and blows,
god’s hollow voice fills the sky,
the fields are blind with snow.

I dreamt my heart was a robin’s sigh
under a cloud-caught moon.
I dreamt this love song wasn’t broken,
and I would see you soon.

Hank Williams – I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry

About John MacKenzie

I'll mumble for ya. Poetry, plus most things quantifiable: science, neuroscience, memory, epistemology, baseball. And so on.
This entry was posted in Art is theft, Hank Williams, Memory, Poem tweets, Poems from old notebooks, Poetry, The Moon and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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