’78 Ford and A summer night

Bonfire under the stars on a cool Summer night. Sitting on the tailgate of an old, blue, beat up Ford. Cold drink in hand. Listening to our favorite band. Just a simple country Saturday night. One day we’ll look back, to the memories we made sitting on, the tailgate of that old ’78. Gazing at the stars, and laughing with friends. Those days seem to pass so fast. Lets hold on to them while they last.

– Jamie Whorton©

Rain

Summer rain pours down on thirsty flowers. I see it pelt against the second story window pane. And hear it on the old tin roof, as I sit, rock, watch, and listen. There’s nothing like the sound of rain on an old tin roof. I’m not sad on this rainy day, I’m thankful to have another day, to enjoy the Summer rain.

– Jamie Whorton

Endless Repetition

You’re crashing waves that pull me under, and toss me about. Every time I come to the surface, to gasp for air, you come crashing down. Then I’m pushed into the deep, dark abyss, with the weight of the ocean bearing down upon me. Keeping me in this endless repetition, of almost drowning, reaching shore, then almost drowning again. Time after time. This place where emotion over powers logic. This place where I can never catch my breath. I grasp for the shore with everything within me,but when you come calling. It’s so easy to let go, and let the tide pull me back into the crashing waves all over again.

– Jamie Whorton©

Mighty oak of the meadow

Mighty oak of the meadow, may I sit beneath your leaves of green? Press my back against your twisted bark, and take a rest from the midday heat? Mighty oak of the meadow, for I am just a traveler passing through. If this grand oak could tell a tale, I bet it would have many to share. About this meadow,and other travelers who passed through as well. Over a 150yr worth of tales stowed away within wanting to be told. Wise old oak how I wish I could listen to you speak these tales. But you keep them as if they were told to you in secret. So now I must be traveling on. For I shall too become another hidden tale of the mighty oak of the meadow.

– Jamie Whorton©

With her memory

I wrote this one as song lyrics. I think it could make a good country song.

As I lie here in the dark With her memory burning through my heart. Dawn can’t get here soon enough, to light the shadows she cast upon my mind. Just tryin to make it through another night. They say I’ll be ok, there’s many more out there they say , but none of them are her. So I lie here in the dark with her memory burning through my heart. Maybe I’ll get over her someday. Move on and start again, but untill then every night your memory comes to me in a dream, and is haunting me. Untill the break of day comes to light the shadows she casts upon my mind. I’ll lie here in the dark with her memory burning through my heart.

– Jamie Whorton

I don’t know if there’s any Door’s fans out there? But I always thought Jim Morrison was one heck of a poet! I think a lot of the bands from the 60’s and 70’s had something you can’t find today in music. I’m almost 30, but I love classic rock!!
My love of music is actually how I started writing. When I was a teenager, I would write lyrics for songs because I wanted to be in a band. I messed around trying to learn how to play gutair, but lets just say I’m a better writer than a musician. So that’s how my love of writing began.

If the page had a voice

The page is the tourniquet, and the ink is the blood. Bleeding ink soaks upon the page, as it pours from the pen. Catching every drop, and drinking it in. Soon the page of white will be covered by thought seldom ever said. If the page had a voice that voice would echo with a thunderous roar or let out a deafing cry. Plagued by thoughts. Pained by emotions. The writer bleeds upon the page to let go, and move on. The writer bleeds upon the page to feel whole again.

– Jamie Whorton©

A Pumpkin Named Jack

For a pumpkin named Jack, October is his favorite time of the year. He brings the children joy, and cheer on the eve of Halloween. He sits on the steps lighting the path with his warm glow, and grinning smile. One by one trick or treaters walk past. Some as ghosts, others with masks. Until Jack’s candle burns dim, and we’ll have to wait for next October again.

– Jamie Whorton©