Hi Joe! Not sure if this is the most effective way to contact you, however, here goes. Last Thursday I bought your anthology collection and have been listening to nothing else since. I had a rare entire evening to myself to listen to the cd's and ended up being moved to write, so I wanted to share with you what your music had inspired - don't know how you feel about poetry, but that's what happened... hope you enjoy! (and thanks, by the way, for the music!)

#1(written listening to Until We Say Goodbye)

The clouds above/ Swirl like the billows/ Of a dancer’s skirts/ Displaying their intentions/ To me,/ To the horses/ That imitate the sky/ Running in nervous waves,/ Replying to heaven’s rumbling/ With a thunder of their own./ They want shelter,/ From the sting of rain,/ From the deadly smack of lightning,/ From the cold./ They will avoid pain/ When they can./ I want that too./ Warmth. Protection./ To avoid pain./ I also want to be a masterpiece./ We often fall from the vine unripe./ Have faith, have faith./ Faith and proof / Cannot keep each other’s company./ But what about love and pain?/ I think they are bedfellows/ That cruelly claw each other’s backs/ While tenderly kissing./ I watch the horses run a little longer/ Before I open the gate,/ The dam,/ And let them flood the barn./ I hear them softly moving around/ In the dark./ I listen to their breath/ And feel the warmth/ Radiate from their bodies/ Pressed close./ This is their love,/ Their world,/ Their belonging./ The rain pelts the roof./ Now and then a cool air/ Slithers around us./ Right now/ I am one of them./ They move gently around me/ Bumping softly me as one of theirs./ It’s simple and enviable,/ The obedience to their purpose./ Pain is the hammer/ To red hot iron./ Burning before beauty./ Love is the function./ But it is outside this barn./ Even though I want to stay/ And make perfect sense / Of my longing./ I walk to the house/ Where a light is on/ Shining orange in the dark/ In the open air,/ Nothing between me and God/ But the rain.

#2(written listening to Always W/ Me, Always W/ You)

I wasn’t born yet/ When Agnes came./ But I feel like/ She’s an actual person./ Folks mark their lives/ According to her visit –/ “Let’s see, that was the year after Agnes”/ Or/ “Yeah, we bought the house before Agnes,/ We never thought the water would ever get that high.”/ On some country roads/ Her high water marks can still be seen/ Like the notches on a wall of a child’s growth./ It’s as if some mysterious and powerful woman visited town/ Like a queen or a sorceress./ I always pictured her/ Dressed in a purple crocheted cap/ And tattered purple silk robes./ Mostly harmless/ But then someone had to piss her off/ And she said “That’s it!/ How do you like me now?!”/ I guess that’s what we do./ We measure our lives in big events/ Or disasters/ Because most of the days seem the same./ Maybe if we paused more,/ Gave thanks more,/ We’d see the miracle/ In a praying mantis and we’d say/ “That was the day the praying mantis hung on the screen door.”/ We’d see the miracle/ In rainbow trout and ladybugs,/ In winter and moonlight/ And goldfinches and orange lilies/ Growing next to the high water mark/ Of Agnes.

#3(written after a night of your music as I was falling asleep...)

I remember very little / About the day/ I was told that you died/. The sun was out./ It was Monday./ It was May./ Her face was heavy laden/ With these “I can’t believe I have to tell you this” eyes./ And my busy mind/ Was made still/ Like a room with the blinds drawn./ I ached for your mother./ I pictured your hands./ We should have made love./ And I hate that I was drunk the last time we kissed.