(This poem I will put to music  – I am feeling an irish-haunting and playful sound of old..)  Listen to the poem, follow along with the lyrics below.  ❤ They used to call that old white lightnin “moonshine” in these hills How many lips have uttered those words; family ties it breaks and kills Strawberry,…

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All those pieces of paper spread out across the floor stuffed in nooks and crannies ideas of something more   Those words are bits of spirit I caught along the way fleeting moments drifted through my fingers onto paper all yearning to be sung and played   I’m on the road to make them to…

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