Open the window at 4am.
Listen to the rain
falling on the window.
The street.
The parked cars.
The garden chair
I left out last night.
Sit in the glow
of the streetlight.
Just listen.
Hear a car race up the street.
Too fast.
Then it fades.
And I’m left with the sound
of the rain.
The smell drifting in
through the window.
Pick up my guitar.
Quietly picking out a chord.
Me and the rain.
© Paul Andrew Sneddon
I was playing guitar earlier, trying to finish a song I’d been writing. Got the notebook open. Chords written down. Something not quite working.
Frustrated.
Breathe out.
Take a break.
Sitting on the couch.
Switch on the TV.
Flicking through videos.
Can’t settle.
The talking heads, the influencers and the product placements, the endless twenty-first-century noise.
Too much.
The screen goes blank and then there they are.
Jeff Tweedy and his band appear on the TV. Alll of a sudden and without warning.
Guitar, mics.
The band look at each other.
The beat hits. The bass.
The song hits me, wakes me up.
Before I realise it, I’m moving around the living room, shouting to the missus,
“Have you heard this song?”
She’s laughing at my best moves. We’re dancing close. The guitar hits, and we’re jumping around like we don’t care if anyone is watching.
She says, “What’s that one called?”
“Lou Reed Was My Babysitter.”
I hit play again. Jeff Tweedy and his band appear on the TV. I feel better already.
© Paul Andrew Sneddon
Run my hands through the earth,
The dirt between my fingers,
The rain finally stops falling,
The wind drifting through the trees.
My voice travelling across the valley,
My feet planted in the ground.
My coat smells like vape,
The rush of the city,
Running in my veins,
People rushing,
traffic,
noise,
shouting,
anger,
hands,
grabbing,
reaching.
Stop.
Open my eyes.
Breathe in,
The trees swaying in the breeze.
Breathe out,
The river winding through the valley.
Breathe in,
The birds singing.
Breathe out.
I yell across the valley:
“I am here!
I am alive!”
I look up to the open sky.
Let the healing begin.
© Paul Andrew Sneddon
Tumble out of the 9 to 5.
Time to kill, but where to go?
The pub holds promise, but I need to stay sober. If I can.
The underground just keeps going. Loops. All day long. For the price of one ticket.
Got time to kill. A cold winter day. It keeps you warm. No ticket inspector. Just one ticket on, one ticket off.
People, faces, quiet, loud. All day long you see them, looking awkwardly at the adverts, avoiding eye contact. It’s okay, I don’t mind. Ride on, ride on. I’ve got some soul on the headphones. I’m not alone. Mavis Staples, “We’re Going to Make It.”
Or the library. Heat and all those books. Good company when you’ve got nowhere to go. A mind revolution, walls broken down, different lives, different perspectives. Changed, alive, brain firing.
Or the nights the library is closed and you can’t find peace. When you’re too tired for books.
Then it’s music and walking and burning a hole in the soles of your shoes. It’s city streets, dreams, hopes, angels in the cracks of the pavement, the river bridge, smoking a joint in the car park.
With an old friend, or a new friend.
Then through the crowds, all these people with places to go. Just keep moving.
Check the clock. 8pm.
Into the venue, grab a beer. Familiar faces. Smiles and warmth.
”You playing a song tonight?”
“Johnny 99.”
Or maybe one of my own.
Light. Friends. New songs.
A little slice of soul.
Grace.
On a cold winter’s night.
(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon
Dinner on the back step,
In the late evening sun.
Last few moments of daylight,
the night is coming on.
Spanish chicken, rice and salad,
“Doctor’s orders” they say.
Ah fuck,
I’m older than I’d like to be,
But I’m grateful for the day.
© Paul Andrew Sneddon
Paul Andrew Sneddon 