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
The waiter brought the mug from the front bar, just like the singer had requested: half full of white wine. The crowd was different through here, the buzz of the front bar seemed another world.
He left the mug by the piano and smiled at the singer.
She was sitting by the window, singing about some arsehole who had ripped her off. The little crowd in the back room was half watching, half studying their phones. They weren’t here for her, but when she hit the chorus and her voice lifted…
They stopped.
They looked up.
A few smiled.
A head nodded.
And then.
Then they went back to their coffee.
Their phones.
Their conversations.
But she played on, a strand of her hair falling down over her face.
She played: G down to E. And sang: “The blue lights are shining tonight.” And again: “Sometimes we rise. Two souls in the light.”
She settled the notes down.
To the major, the minor, fourth, and back.
She whispered, “Sometimes we fall.”
She heard another voice. She turned around.
It was Frankie, from the front bar.
Everyone else was gone.
She smiled.
His voice, baritone.
She played it again, and he sat by her at the piano. She played the chords gently. Swooping down low and rising back up.
He placed his hand by the keys, at the top of the piano.
His fingers were rough.
Worn.
A lifetime of work.
She played round the chord progression.
And this time he played a few notes.
Like footsteps in the snow.
“Sometimes we fall. Sometimes we rise.”
The music got stronger.
Their voices connected, rising together.
He laughed.
She smiled.
She looked out the window.
Saw the people on the street.
A few heard the music.
Looked up.
Smiled.
Or shook their heads.
At the two ghosts.
Playing,
just for themselves,
just because they could.
© Paul Andrew Sneddon
Walking through the station.
All human life is here.
Someone is playing piano.
Drawing a crowd.
Keep moving.
Gordon street,
Summer light.
People everywhere.
Music playing across the road.
Couple arguing on the corner.
Making my way through the crowd.
Light of the living.
Am I just getting older?
Time without reason.
Or purpose.
But the days that rust
Haven’t got me yet.
The lonely spot,
where you watched them walk away
is history.
Music playing from a basement bar.
Full band busking on Sauchiehall street.
Meeting some friends,
Going to the show.
Band counts it off.
The days that rust
Can fuck off.
Let’s light it up.
(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon
Looking down on the water. My car parked by the wall.
Two weeks since I moved into this hotel down by the shore. It’s seen better days, but it’s still standing.
Kind of like me.
Swanky resorts are for accountants and bloodless retreats. Here, I’m meeting ghosts.
The guy smoking on the step with his pal. Or the lassie playing guitar in the bar.
I talk to them in the hallway.
I hear them crying in the night.
You are not forgotten.
I wonder if they say the same about me.
The breeze drifting through the open window.
I’ve got pages and time.
So far, I’ve scratched out a poem like a map back home. Hangovers and rolling stones. The place where rock and soul and country tear up the town.
Saturday nights.
Sunday mornings.
The water rolls in.
The water rolls out.
Life.
It doesn't give a fuck for plans.
Or my hangover.
But fuck it.
What are you going to do?
I’ve seen saint Christopher this morning. Asked if I was leaving today. Wished me well and disappeared down to the the bar playing pool, or out the back with the woman from room 402.
Its time to be travelling on.
But when I go to hand in my key.
Something changes my mind.
I hear the piano player, sounds like he was in a drinking competition with the piano and lost.
I walk through.
A little crowd is watching.
His woman sitting beside him on the piano stool. Two alley cats singing about a street fight. But when they get their shit together the lights are blinding and it sounds like the angels sing along.
Sing one.
One for me.
For you.
For the ghosts.
The ones who didn't have a chance.
Until we fall from the light.
And back to earth.
The crowd roars.
We’re all standing.
The piano player and his lady nod.
And smile
I wonder why they are here and not playing to a sold out concert hall.
So, I’m stepping through the door.
Different now.
Out to the street.
The sun disappearing behind the horizon. The beach cast in purple and orange and blue.
The sand smooth, like ice. The water breaking at the shore and the tide going out.
Like the day is in retreat.
The night is coming on.
Put some music on.
The drums.
The beat.
The heart.
I'm travelling.
Away from the coast. Up over the hill, the rain starts and I see the city before me, where the night comes falling.
(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon
Someone messaged me:
“I like your writing, but do you need to swear so much?”
It just comes fucking naturally. We’re Scottish. It's who we are.
I told them:
Two friends talking about a mutual pal, someone you can rely on, says,
“Aye, he’s a good cunt.”
See two folk on the bus, a few beers to the wind. One guy shouts to the other,
“Why are you acting the cunt?”
Police got called to a couple arguing in the street.
“Aye well, she’s a fucking cunt.”
She nearly knocked him out when she heard that. Calling him a
“bastard-fucking-cunt-arsehole.”
There's a woman I know.
Every second word she says is cunt.
Like a full stop.
Or an exclamation mark.
But some others don’t say the word.
They’ll just call you a C U Next Tuesday.
In Scotland, we are fluent in swearing. You've just got to get the fucking context.
It’s been quieter since.
Rain spitting on the window.
Do it or don’t.
Commit or fuck off.
Put on some music.
Funny how you can make a place for yourself with drums, bass, guitars, and something to sing.
Same thing with the page.
I remember when I was younger, walking through Glasgow in the rain, the sun fading, the city lighting up. Going home to my guitar in a bedsit by the river.
“Burn” tumbling out.
Fuck. Time flies.
Sometimes my mind lets itself out into the night, into the city. Sometimes I find it again down by the beach, having a smoke, new tattoo in the sunshine. Looking at me, like, fucking loosen up big man.
Put some fucking songs on and have a smoke.
I’m sharper than I look.
Yeah, I know, that’s not difficult.
But the writing remains.
It keeps me out of trouble, or it gets me into trouble. I can’t remember.
My soul is intact.
Maybe I’ll sharpen up.
But I doubt it.
But who knows?
There’s still time.
(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon
Paul Andrew Sneddon 