1. |
Seven Ages
04:19
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Seven Ages
When you were seven, so colour blind,
So undefined. Your song: unsung.
From seventeen to twenty-four,
You play at love and tell your lies: the heart’s disguise.
At thirty-one a brand new son
A daughter’s cry a lullaby. The years rush by.
We walk the path. The path we call life.
All the world is our stage, and we all play our parts.
At the end of the game, the king, queen and pawns,
All share the same box.
At the end of the day we all drift into dreams.
Soon forty-five, you realize,
Your jaded eyes make you the fool. The world’s so cruel.
Then sixty-four, another door,
Awaiting you to soon pass through. Will life renew?
We walk the path. The path we call life.
All the world is our stage, and we all play our parts.
At the end of the game, the king, queen and pawns,
All share the same box.
At the end of the war, we all bleed the same shade.
Another turn at seventy-two
The friends that you knew have begun to head home.
At ninety years as memories fade,
The setting sun soon sets for you.
We walk the path. The path we call life.
We are born o’er the tomb, there’s a flash, then there’s night.
The candle burns brief, just an hour in the light.
Will you offer a verse or will the song in your heart,
Cross over unsung? Did you savour each rung?
All the world is our stage, and we all play our parts.
At the end of the game, the king, queen and pawns,
All share the same box.
At the end of the road…
We all fade away.
© Dave Semple – 16 February 2015
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2. |
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Ma Belle Feuille D’Érable
Quand j'étais jeune, when I was young,
My father, mon père, travelled the world,
Sporting a red feuille d’érable upon his lapel,
And strangers would ask, “Êtes-vous Canadien?”
My father would smile, fier de son pays,
When the red maple leaf stood strong and free.
I remember the days, oui, je me souviens,
When I used to feel the very same way,
Comme mon père, j'étais fier de mon pays.
But a decade has passed, dix ans de changement.
Je ne peux pas vous reconnaître.
I don’t recognize who you are anymore.
Where have you gone, ma belle feuille d’érable?
Lost in the world, vous avez disparu,
Tarnished and blue, vous avez oublié,
Qui vous êtes et qui vous étiez.
Will you ever return strong and free?
We once showed the world the best we could be,
L’environnement, et l’économie,
Keeping the peace, defending la vraie démocratie.
Now we give in to corporate greed,
Abandon nos droits pour la sécurité.
Has the red maple leaf just blown away?
Where have you gone, ma belle feuille d’érable?
Lost in the world, vous avez disparu,
Tarnished and blue, vous avez oublié,
Qui vous êtes et qui vous étiez.
Will you ever return strong and free?
Our children should see that we pouvons récréer notre identité.
A true north, again, strong and free. Un pays de paix et de l'humilité
Pouvons-nous retourner, return to a state of grace?
Il n'a pas été parfait, far from that, mais mieux que ce que nous sommes….
Than what we’ve become.
My father, mon père, has since passed away,
Près de dix ans since he went to the grave,
Sporting a red feuille d’érable upon his lapel.
© Dave Semple – 10 August 2015
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3. |
The Beast
04:13
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The Beast
When the hell of the addiction is better than the pain
And the bitter taste of alcohol or the drugs that fill your veins
Wrap you in their blanket and help to dull your brain
It’s the beast your fear. It’s the beast you fear.
When you wake up in the morning and you can’t get out of bed
All the negative scenarios swirling through your head
And you replay conversations, things you wish you’d never said
It’s the beast you hear, whispering in your ear.
Then you crash through the wall
You stumble and stall
You crumble and crawl
When you fall
When you’re lost and the beast is at your heels,
And the forest’s too dark. Will your secret be revealed?
When you know that the beast is in your head
And the light is too far, and you wish that you were dead,
Hold on for just another day.
Reach out to keep the beast at bay
You keep it so well hidden with your laughter and your smile
But the guilt of your deceptions brings about more self-denial
So you package out your darkness, knowing all the while
The beast is near. The beast is near.
Then you crash through the wall
You stumble and stall
You crumble and crawl
When you fall
When you’re lost and the beast is at your heels
And the forest’s too dark. Will your secret be revealed?
When you know that the beast is in your head
And the light is too far, and you wish that you were dead.
Keep looking for the light. Keep reaching for a hand.
Keep fighting through the dark that you cannot understand.
Keep searching for the path. Keep breathing in the air.
Keep holding on to hope and say a simple prayer
To hold on for just another day
If you can hold on… you can keep the beast at bay.
© Dave Semple – 27 November 2016
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4. |
Hammers & Nails
04:48
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Hammers and Nails
We built this bridge out of rusted and re-bent nails from a coffee can,
Found in the boat house adjacent to our cottage on the lake when I was young
Only five years old in the summer of seventy-one,
Me and my Dad, with an old ball-peen hammer and a saw,
We built this bridge.
Just a bridge, made of logs that we scavenged from the shore in the spring
Left abandoned by the loggers in a rush to get back home in the fall.
A simple bridge that reached across a creek.
My Dad and me and the quiet gifts I never knew he gave,
Hammers and nails is what he gave to me.
Hammers and nails and the wisdom to believe
That if you’re gonna build it right you use a level and a square
You have to keep things true when you’re working with hammers and nails.
We fixed this boat. Torch and scrape and sand and stain the hull, then seal it well.
An oil base that we used a double boiler to keep warm to go on smooth
The brush would glide across the silk-sanded wood, a labour’s love.
Me and my Dad and the silent conversations that we shared.
Hammers and nails is what he gave to me.
Hammers and nails and the vision to conceive
That if you’re gonna stain it right work with patience and with care.
You have to take your time when you’re working with hammers and nails…
When you’re working with hammers and nails.
We chopped this wood. An axe head splitting arid birch from logs we sawed by hand
Each to a side as the rip saw sang in rhythm to the beats of our hearts
I learned to swing… to allow the axe to do most of the work.
My Dad and me, together, in a peaceful harmony.
Hammers and nails is what he gave to me.
Hammers and nails and the patience to perceive
That if you’re gonna do it right you should never force the wood
You have to let it flow…
You have to let things go…
When you’re working with hammers and nails.
© Dave Semple – 26 September 2015
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5. |
Sweet Lemonade
03:58
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Sweet Lemonade
Angie moved west in the hopes that she,
Could settle into motherhood and the letters in her degree.
But she could never be satisfied,
When you don’t know what you’re lookin’ for, you don’t know what to find.
She could never be wrong, or the house of cards around her would crumble down.
She always had to be right, and those around just roll their eyes in lieu of the unwinnable fight.
Jimmy turned twenty-five, changed his name to Jim.
It made a huge difference to no one else but him.
Materialistic as he could be:
Defined himself by the car he drove and the size of his TV.
Nobody else could be right: no matter what was said he would always do you one better.
But at the end of the day: a lonely, cold apartment and a microwaved dinner served in a tray.
Everybody’s trying to get by,
Sipping on the bitter wine from the grapes left on the vine.
In a race against the sands of time,
Trying to make sweet lemonade from the hopes,
And the dreams they left behind.
Carol came east to be with her love.
She should have known better when push became shove.
Her family and friends told her she was blind.
But she truly believed things would get better with time.
She could never be right. No matter the apology, the barbs and the fists would fly.
And when she finally realized, the booze and pills she turned to had finally taken hold of her life.
Everybody’s trying to get by,
Sipping on the bitter wine from the grapes left on the vine.
In a race against the sands of time,
Trying to make sweet lemonade from the hopes,
And the dreams they left behind.
Robin left the world on a summer’s day
We can never be certain of what led him that way.
A tortured soul is a tragic thing.
It can’t be fixed by money, love, or living the dream.
There is no right and no wrong. A life of insecurity can feel a life too long.
Laughter to deaden the pain, he chose to seize the moment: be the one to take his own breath away.
Everybody’s trying to get by,
Sipping on the bitter wine from the grapes left on the vine.
In a race against the sands of time,
Trying to make sweet lemonade from the hopes, and the dreams…
We’re all trying to get by,
Sipping of the bitter wine from the grapes left on the vine.
In a race against the sands of time,
Trying to make sweet lemonade from the wants and the needs,
And the hopes and the life and the dreams that passed us by.
© Dave Semple – 14 August 2014
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6. |
Forgotten... Gone
04:04
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Forgotten… Gone
Your morning coffee is growing cold.
Your shoes still linger by the kitchen door.
And in the closet, the scent of your clothes…
Reminds me…
Your empty pillow… The book half-read,
Lies on the nightstand… Were words unsaid?
It all reminds me… Have I’ve forgotten…
That you’re gone.
Yes, I forget that you’re no longer here.
Yes, I forget: your memory’s so clear
Yes, I forget that I’ve forgotten that you’re gone.
Now I forget to carry on
That leaky faucet… Its gentle drip
Rain on the window: pain… Your fingertips…
And I remember, through swirls of fog….
That you’re gone.
Did I just hear your voice whisper in my ear?
And when I close my eyes, you seem so near.
I think I see you… corner of my mind.
I turn to look at you… my senses die.
I think, when you look down on me,
That I seem to have forgotten…
That you’re gone.
I keep forgetting that you’re gone.
I keep forgetting that you’re gone.
© Dave Semple – 23 April 2015
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7. |
Thoreau's Man
04:43
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Thoreau’s Man
When time was a stream I would cast in my line
And I’d see what life gave back to me.
Sometimes I would feast and sometimes I would starve,
But no matter the cost or the gain
There’d be stories to tell.
And I told them well.
I wandered through life with my head in the clouds
But my feet were firmly on the ground.
What lay ahead and what lay behind
Didn’t matter at all compared
To what lived within.
And the stories were born.
Now I’m so torn.
I can’t say I’ve led the life that I dreamed
But there still lives a song in my soul;
A song I refuse to take to the grave,
I can’t be Thoreau’s man anymore.
I went to the woods, lived deliberately
And I tasted the marrow from the bone.
Sometimes it was sweet and sometimes it was dry,
But no matter the taste in my mouth
There’d be tales to unfold
When I was bold.
When did I grow…. old?
I can’t say I’ve led the life that I dreamed
But there still lives a song in my soul;
A song I refuse to take to the grave,
‘Cause I don’t want to be Thoreau’s man.
Thoreau’s man lives a life of silent despair, never looking forward.
So lost in the past, he no longer has dreams of today.
And the stories of old that I’ve spun are starting to fade.
I can’t say I’ve led the life that I dreamed
But there still lives a song in my soul;
A song I refuse to take to the grave,
‘Cause I don’t want to be Thoreau’s man.
No, I don’t want to be Thoreau’s man.
© Dave Semple – 19 September 2013
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8. |
Turning On A Dime
03:21
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Turning on a Dime
I walked upon the ice. I was sure it was secure,
Then it cracked beneath my feet, and the water stole my heat,
Took the breath right out of me and left me crawling for the shore.
I was driving in my car, going where I had to go,
In the darkness of the night another driver ran the light,
And I was swerving to the right when the impact saved my soul.
How are we to know?
That a moment of change, from one second to the next,
Is an instrument of time that keeps turning on a dime?
It’s the jibes before the fight. It’s the one who steps between.
It’s the soul afraid of backing down from bitter taunts they didn’t mean.
It’s the impulse to destroy. It’s the spark before the flame.
It’s the match that lights the gasoline that burns your words of shame.
It’s the moment of change, one second to the next,
When the instrument of time keeps turning on a dime.
You’ll never know the mettle of your soul,
‘Til you walk across the coals, turn your collar to the cold,
And embrace the great unknown, ‘cause change is for the bold.
It’s the calm before the storm. It’s the breeze before the wind.
It’s the lightning before the thunder rolls, and the rain upon your skin.
It’s the moment of change, one second to the next,
When the instrument of time keeps turning on a dime.
It’s the passion in her eyes, as she leans in for a kiss.
It’s the flutter as her lashes close. It’s the tingle of her lips.
© Dave Semple – 15 June 2017
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9. |
Ghosts of the Fields
05:51
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Ghosts Of The Fields
They answered the call. Left family behind,
With tears in their hearts and prayers for the time.
With fear on their face, one last embrace.
They left their home soil to stand in harm’s way.
They carry our flag and stand for us all.
For those who return there are cracks in the walls.
Souls re-arranged. Body and mind.
They carry the dark. Have we left them behind?
Ghosts of the fields with their comrades in arms.
Their blood on the ground.
Ghosts in country remain. Their last breath of air,
So foreign; so strained.
Ghosts, now with tears in their eyes. Tears for those who survived,
Who we’ve left behind.
They carry the scars. We can’t comprehend.
The nightmare of wars ever etched. Cannot mend.
They still feel the dawn and see sunset’s glow.
We must make good on the debts that we owe.
The torch, raised on high, or did we break faith,
With those who died?
They cannot sleep though poppies grow
In Flander’s Fields.
We dishonour the dead, when we abandon those who survive,
And are still left behind.
Ghosts of the fields where no monuments rise.
No flag in the sky.
Ghosts who lower their eyes for those who survived.
It was easy to die.
Shame, when governments lie to those who offered their lives,
And are still left behind.
© Dave Semple – 1 May 2014
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10. |
Centre Stage
04:52
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Center Stage
Well, my ebony’s worn and my ivories are yellowed and stained.
My pedals, they squeak, but I manage to hold my sustain.
My tuning is off, just a little, and my hammers grow brittle and grey,
And my strings aren’t as bright as they used to be back in the day.
In a ten-by-ten storage room somewhere stage left off the wings,
They have piled me high with stage curtains and boxes of things.
Not a window to look through at all, and the paint is all faded to grey
Then one night someone slipped though the door and started to play.
He sang…
I want to play center stage. How my music will take them away,
Through majors and minors, augmented, diminished, I will play.
When the lights shine on me, center stage, oh, I’ll carry their spirits away.
How I dream of the day when they ask me to play center stage.
He was young and inspired and his eyes held the depth of his dreams
He was rough ‘round the edges in his faded T-shirt and jeans
His lyrics were honest and gentle, but his melodies yearned to be free.
How I wanted to tell him I’ve been where he’s longing to be.
‘Cause I used to play center stage, and my music, it took them away.
Through majors and minors, augmented, diminished, I did play.
When the lights shone on me, center stage, oh, I carried their spirits away.
Now, I dream of the days when I used to play center stage.
And as his fingers flowed over the ivories in that storage room forgotten and grey
He gave back to me all the sweet memories of my life in the lights on the stage
And then he closed his eyes in the moment, and the storage room faded away
His future, my past, from the first to the last, found the music to take us away…
To where we could play center stage, and the music, it takes us away,
Through majors and minors, augmented, diminished, we play.
And the spotlights, they shine, center stage, and it carries our spirits away,
In the dead of the night, in a moment so right,
His future, my past, from the first to the last,
We’ll hold on to this night for the rest of our lives
As we stand in the light and we play…
Center stage.
Music and Lyrics by:
Dave Semple – 31 March 2011
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11. |
Fighting Fire with Fire
05:20
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Fighting Fire with Fire
Francis fought the fires out on Spirit Lake.
Born of Shawanaga, unaware of his own fate.
An Elder spoke of dangers that he was soon to face,
And a gashkibijigan was placed into his hand to keep him safe.
In the summer of ‘14, came his call to war.
But there was something deeper that he was fighting for.
He joined the Northern Pioneers, Regimental 23.
Where the fire came in yellow clouds, Ypres, Festubert, et Givenchy.
With iron nerves and patience, a sniper and a scout.
Counting Coup behind their lines, slipping in, then stealing out.
When they handed him a rifle, he set his sights upon the Hun.
Now the fire came spinning through the air from Peggy’s gun.
He would face the fire with a flame that burned within.
Burning with desire to be seen as more than just the colour of his skin.
With notches on his Coup stick and bars upon his chest,
All through Belgium and through France his fire surpassed the rest.
Onward, then, to Passchendaele, after wounded at The Somme,
Instead of trying to get back home he returned… to his brothers in arms.
He would face the fire with a flame that burned within.
Burning with desire to be seen as more than just the colour of his skin.
An equal when in uniform, but not on his return.
“Just another Indian,” upon his ears did burn.
Still, he fought the fire; his words became the flames,
This hero from the Great War and our nation… never knew his name.
Now we must face the fire. We must bare our shame. We must reconcile.
To honour our nation’s native son… To undo what can never be undone,
By remembering his flame.
Of the Wasauksing First Nation, Pegahmagabow was his name.
© Dave Semple – 5 January 2016
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12. |
Fare Thee Well
03:21
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Fare Thee Well
Standing in the harbour on a cold November day,
Winds of change are swirling through my head.
There’s a ship, safe in its mooring, but that’s not what ships are for.
Tomorrow’s destination: undeclared.
Is it time for me to say, “Fare thee well”?
Is it fate or is it fortune that has brought me to this place?
Is it time for me to go, or try to stay?
Will the stars provide the answers? Is the future in my hands?
Perhaps tomorrow’s still too far away.
Will I have the choice to stay, or fare thee well?
Will I get the chance to say, “Fare thee well”?
Hold off for a moment. It’s not yet time to fare thee well.
Hold on for tomorrow until it’s time to fare thee well.
Well, I don’t know where I’m heading, not sure what I leave behind,
But I cannot trust the ground on which I stand.
I wish I knew what choices lay beyond horizon’s line.
‘Cause I cannot fly, it’s only sea or land.
It will break my heart to say, “Fare thee well.”
I cannot afford to stay… So it must be… fare thee well.
Night falls, and tomorrow I must say, “Fare thee well.”
I will stand strong in the morning, when it’s time to fare thee well.
Now I stand before you on this cold and blustery morn.
The ship is weighing anchor, I must board.
A voyage lies ahead of me as memories lie behind.
In this sweet and bitter moment I am torn,
But it’s time for me to say, “Fare thee well.”
So, one last time I’ll say….
“Fare thee well.”
© Dave Semple – 29 November 2014
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Dave Semple London, Ontario
Born in Montreal and raised in Noranda, Quebec, Dave is a graduate of the University of Windsor and has lived the last 30 years in London, Ontario as an educator, musician, actor, director, songwriter, and novelist. Playing live with just a guitar is THE BEST, but Dave loves spending time in his studio filling out the sound layers. Story is everything. ... more
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