{"id":49,"date":"2011-09-09T15:49:38","date_gmt":"2011-09-09T15:49:38","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/garnetrogers.com\/site\/?page_id=49"},"modified":"2019-10-13T09:38:15","modified_gmt":"2019-10-13T13:38:15","slug":"album-at-a-high-window","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/garnetrogers.com\/?page_id=49","title":{"rendered":"Album: At A High Window"},"content":{"rendered":"

Preview and Download tracks or the entire album at<\/strong>:\u00a0Bandcamp<\/a><\/p>\n

\"\"1. Through the Cracks 4:33
\n2. Come from the Heart 3:46 (lyrics<\/a>)
\n3. Last of the Working Stetsons 5:08 (lyrics<\/a>)
\n4. At a High Window 7:56 (lyrics<\/a>)
\n5. Wille Short 4:10
\n6. The Joy of Living 6:08
\n7. Young Willie 5:04 (lyrics<\/a>)
\n8. A Row of Small Trees 12:40 (lyrics<\/a>)
\n9. Election Night: North Dakota 4:19 (lyrics<\/a>)<\/p>\n


\n
\n
\n\"\"<\/form>\n

\u00a91992 Snowgoose.<\/p>\n

;<\/p>\n

\n

<\/a><\/p>\n

Through The Cracks <\/strong><\/p>\n

The last train rolled out of town today;
\nYou might have seen it on the news.
\nWe gathered ’round the engine yard
\nTo say our good-byes to the crews.
\nWell the cheering stopped, the laughter died
\nIt dwindled down the tracks
\n“That’s that”, I heard someone say,
\n“We’ve fallen through the cracks.”<\/p>\n

I wandered homeward through the quiet streets
\nTo finish packing up to go.
\nSo hard to meet the eyes of friends
\nWho’ve nowhere left to go
\nWell the plant closed down in this one-job town,
\nIt won’t be coming back
\nLeft us to die by slow degrees here
\nOr fall between the cracks<\/p>\n

And now the closed-up stores and the empty lots
\nAnd the signs that say “FOR SALE”
\nBear witness to those who bought the lies
\nOf the dream that had to fail
\nIt’s like a movie ands and the credits roll,
\nAnd the screen fades down to black
\nFor those of us who struggle on here,
\nOr fall between the cracks.<\/p>\n

I planted one last crop this year,
\nTo maybe give it one more try.
\nThe dry winds came and they filled with dust
\nThey blotted out the sky.
\nThe scoured the hills and the river-beds;
\nThey turned the skies to black.
\nThe ground split wide, the seeds dried up.
\nThey fell between the cracks.<\/p>\n

And now the car’s all packed and the house is closed
\nAnd the neighbours wave good-bye.
\nMy wife gets in beside me now; she’s trying not to cry.
\nAnd she holds our son and she strokes his hair,
\nAnd she says “now don’t look back.
\nWe have to leave this place and try to make some luck
\nOr fall between the cracks.”<\/p>\n

back to top<\/a><\/p>\n

<\/a>
\nLast of the Working Stetsons<\/strong><\/p>\n

Charlie drove his cattle north this year,
\nAnd left them there to graze
\nAnd he turned his pony’s head to home
\nTo wait for better days.
\nToo long since there’s been decent rain
\nThe hills are brown and dry.
\nAnd his hopes have turned to dust here
\nIn the valley.<\/p>\n

Charlie drives himself too hard these days:
\nThere’s too much for him to do.
\nThe ranch it won’t support but one.
\nHe does the work of two.
\nAnd city lights repel and beckon him
\nAt the closing of the day
\nWhen the night sky folds her wings
\nOver the valley.<\/p>\n

And the nights drag by like they’ll never end.
\nDusty days are all the same
\nAnd his anger swells like a tightened fist.
\nBut there’s no one here to blame.
\nExcept his stubborn heart that holds him here
\nTo watch the sky in vain for the rain
\nThat never falls here
\nIn the valley.<\/p>\n

Charlie drives his truck to town today
\nTo find something else to do
\nHis new clothes don’t fit him half as well
\nAs his old clothes used to do.
\nAnd a cowboy’s hat draws laughter here
\nAnd he removed it in his shame,
\nAnd left it lying by a doorway,
\nIn an alley.<\/p>\n

And the nights drag by like they’ll never end
\nDusty days are all the same,
\nAnd his anger swells like a tightened fist
\nBut there’s no one here to blame,
\nExcept his lonesome heart
\nThat nags at him to leave these city ways,
\nAnd pack it up and head back west
\nToward the valley.<\/p>\n

So here’s our lonesome drunken cowboy
\nOn unsteady tangled feet.
\nHe’s leaning on a window
\nOf a store on Second Street.
\nAnd he drives a fist through his reflection
\nAnd passes out on the front seat
\nOf his pick-up truck and dreams about
\nHis valley.<\/p>\n

So now he parks his truck on a windy hill
\nBy a dry and empty field.
\nThe mountains rise above his bandaged hands
\nAs he grips the steering wheel
\nWell, who knows? the rain just might arrive this year
\nBut for good or ill, he’s home.
\nHe lets the clutch out
\nAnd he drifts down
\nTo his valley.<\/p>\n

back to top<\/a><\/p>\n

<\/a>
\nAt a High Window<\/strong><\/p>\n

Has it been all these years
\nSince last we were parted?
\nI think of you often this time of the day
\nI’m at a high window
\nOverlooking the harbour
\nLooking into my heart
\nI find nothing to say.<\/p>\n

The moon shines like silver coins
\nTossed on the water
\nA soft rain has sweetened the cool evening air
\nAnd now your memory comes round
\nLike a beggar, beside me
\nAnd plucks at my sleeve
\nAnd says “pretend you don’t care.”<\/p>\n

We stood facing each other
\nAt the moment of parting
\nThe parting glass bitter as gall in my mouth
\nFor though you stood there before me
\nYour heart had turned homeward
\nSure as the geese in the autumn turn south<\/p>\n

Hope rose in my throat
\nLike a bird at a window
\nI started to speak
\nAnd your eyes looked away
\nAnd then the silence grew heavy
\nAnd the moment passed by us
\nAnd so in the end
\nThere was nothing to say.<\/p>\n

And there are nights
\nI pretend still
\nI told you I loved you
\nIn that last wasted moment as your hand drew away.
\nBut you rolled up your windows
\nAnd my voice wouldn’t carry
\nI watched the back of your head
\nAs your car drove away<\/p>\n

And I’ve prayed for forgiveness
\nFor the sins I’ve committed
\nWhen my steps were unsteady
\nAnd I faltered and fell
\nBut for the sin of my silence
\nThere can be no forgiveness
\nAnd this pain in my heard
\nIs a foretaste of hell.<\/p>\n

back to top<\/a><\/p>\n

<\/a>
\nYoung Willie<\/strong><\/p>\n

Young Willie died a peaceful death: I shot him in his bed.
\nAnd the teen-aged whore with the blackened eye
\nWatched him as he bled.
\nShe smiled a strange half-smile at me,
\nShook her tangled hair.
\n“Best bury that one deep, he won’t rest easy.”<\/p>\n

We piled the rocks on Willie’s grave the morning of that day.
\n“Should have left him for the dogs.” I heard somebody say.
\nWhile on the hill above the town
\nStood the girl from the night before.
\nShe crossed herself and she watched us
\nAt our labour.<\/p>\n

Willie was the golden boy; he was the chosen one.
\nWhere fortune showed a generous hand
\nHe was the favoured son.
\nWillie he turned rotten in a strange and ugly way.
\nSo I put an end to him and all his workings.<\/p>\n

I saw Willie’s handiwork on the road to Taneytown.
\nAnd in the border-wars in Mexico
\nWe mowed those peasants down.
\nAnd in the hills of Nicaragua
\nWhere the gunships hold their sway.
\nHe’d smile and say “my duty is my honour.”<\/p>\n

Willie was the golden boy, he was the chosen one.
\nWhere fortune showed a generous hand
\nHe was the favoured son.
\nWillie he turned rotten in some secret ugly way.
\nNow I look in children’s faces
\nI see Willie.<\/p>\n

Yes I’m the man shot Willie; at that range I couldn’t miss
\nYou know I’ve spent my nights since then
\nWith a bottle in my fist.
\nAnd on nights when whiskey fails me
\nI leave my sleepless bed
\nAnd I pile another stone
\nOn his marker.<\/p>\n

Willie was the golden boy; possessed of style and grace.
\nAnd where another man might fold his hand
\nWillie found the extra ace.
\nWillie he turned rotten in a secret ugly way.
\nAnd now I look into the mirror
\nI see Willie.<\/p>\n

back to top<\/a><\/p>\n

<\/a>
\nA Row Of Small Trees<\/strong><\/p>\n

Her rings still held her warmth
\nAs they fell to his hand
\nThe doctor said, “there’s no more we could do”
\nAnd he was worried at first that he did not understand
\nBut then he saw his fist close
\nSo he knew<\/p>\n

And we watched from the window
\nAs he walked slowly outside
\nHe seemed unsure as to which way to go
\nAnd his coat whipped his legs
\nAs the traffic blew by
\nHe had one shoulder raised
\nAs though to ward off a blow<\/p>\n

And he lay in their bedroom
\nThose first sleepless nights
\nToo restless to sleep and too tired to cry
\nAnd he’d wander downstairs
\nIn the pale morning light
\nTo stare at the horizon with unseeing eyes<\/p>\n

His neighbours worried about him
\nThose first desperate weeks
\nHe seemed to dwindle and shrink in his clothes
\nAnd in the evenings
\nHe’d wander the hills by himself
\nTo return as the morning sun rose<\/p>\n

The grass shook and swayed in the meadow
\nAs he stood in the night
\nAnd he heard the dry whisper of leaves
\nAnd the wind was her spirit
\nRunning free through the grass
\nWhispering warm in his ear “don’t you grieve”<\/p>\n

He was seen kneeling last Friday
\nOn a high windswept hill
\nAnd his white hair blew back in the breeze
\nAnd we thought he was praying
\nOr had taken a fall
\nBut he was planting a row of small trees<\/p>\n

back to top<\/a><\/p>\n

<\/a>
\nElection Night: North Dakota<\/strong><\/p>\n

Hannah haunts this darkened highway
\nHer face is pinched in the headlights glare
\nShe has one hand to her collar closed
\nThe other in the air<\/p>\n

She is grateful for the dashboard heater
\nShe rubs her hands and fusses with her hair
\nShe lights a cigarette with a battered lighter
\nBlows the smoke into the air<\/p>\n

“I’m going east to see my daughter
\nI’ve got a grandson nearly four.
\nThey moved away to Minnesota,
\nNo, I’ve never been before.<\/p>\n

I’ve lived my life in the western mountains;
\nWork was hard but you didn’t mind.
\nMe and my husband built our lives there
\nThe bills were paid on time.<\/p>\n

But he got sick three years ago,
\nAnd he took too long to die
\nWith no insurance and just my income
\nThe doctors bled us dry.<\/p>\n

So I took what was left and I bought a car
\nTo look for work and to start again
\nBut the Goddamned thing blew up this morning
\nI’ve been standing here since then.”<\/p>\n

Hannah’s in the highway caf\u00e9
\nHer eyes are on the TV screen
\nShe says “four more years,” and shrugs here shoulders
\n“This country’s turning mean.”<\/p>\n

And an aging actor fills the screen;
\nHis hands in triumph in the air
\nHis eyes show sincerity and emptiness
\nIn the TV camera’s glare
\nShe said, “I’ve seen elections come and go
\nAnd there’s one thing that’s for sure
\nThere’s one thing this country won’t forgive
\nIt’s the sin of being poor.”<\/p>\n

“You can drop me here,” she said, some hours later
\n“I want to thank you for the ride.”
\nSo she gathered up her poor belongings
\nTook a grip on dwindling pride
\nI left her standing on a corner
\nI never saw her face again
\nBut the words she said went through me
\nAnd I was suddenly ashamed
\nFor I am rich beyond all measure
\nNot in money, not in fame
\nBut in love, and trust, and friendship
\nFor her it’s not the same.<\/p>\n

I can see wild geese, like smoke, across the western sky
\nThe gleam of sun on winter hills
\nClouds like banners, crimson, in the air
\nWhen the evening sky grows still.<\/p>\n

Hannah haunts this darkened highway
\nI see her face from time to time
\nHidden well in darkened corners
\nFar from where the lights of freedom shine.<\/p>\n

back to top<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Preview and Download tracks or the entire album at:\u00a0Bandcamp 1. Through the Cracks 4:33 2. Come from the Heart 3:46 (lyrics) 3. Last of the Working Stetsons 5:08 (lyrics) 4. At a High Window 7:56 (lyrics) 5. Wille Short 4:10 6. The Joy of Living 6:08 7. Young Willie 5:04 (lyrics) 8. A Row of […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":4,"featured_media":0,"parent":6,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","template":"","meta":{"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-49","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/P7qHGF-N","jetpack-related-posts":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/garnetrogers.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/49","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/garnetrogers.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/garnetrogers.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/garnetrogers.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/4"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/garnetrogers.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=49"}],"version-history":[{"count":16,"href":"https:\/\/garnetrogers.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/49\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":27626,"href":"https:\/\/garnetrogers.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/49\/revisions\/27626"}],"up":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/garnetrogers.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/6"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/garnetrogers.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=49"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}