Kenny Hogan - Lyrics & Poetry

Mom said:
"You will have many acquaintances in this world
but in the end, if you're lucky
you will be able to count your true friends
on the fingers of one hand."

Here I am
in silent solitude
staring at my fingers

I see people
working from day to day
slaving their lives away
and I say, "why?"
why not live life as if it were a gift to you?

and it's true
we learn as we grow,
but it seems,
somehow we forget how to dream,
and I say, "why?"
your dreams are your life,
and life is just a gift to you,
a gift to you,

Why you wanna wait till tomorrow?
what is it you want anyway?
that's why they call this the present time,
you can open your present today

I see people
working from day to day
slaving their lives away
and I say, "why?"
why not live life as if it were a gift to you?


- Kenny Hogan 1971

Like a water color painting
that got left out in the rain
all my memories run together
all these places look the same

I have stared into the distance
I have felt this way before
looking at the Houston skyline
from the 42nd floor

I can only half remember
half the places I have been
staring at the Houston skyline
with the Boston blues again

My bike was red and gold,
My dog was golden brown,
Was it God just showing off,
Or the sun just going down?

I sit alone in the empty kitchen
not a sound but the sink drippin'
not a sound but the clock tickin'
and it's almost dawn

My old guitar keeps starin' at me
I'm talkin' to a bottle of whiskey
Starin' at me and the bottle of whiskey
Both of us - halfway gone

Me and my thoughts and my bottle of whiskey
Thinking of things we should have done
Me and my thoughts and this bottle of whiskey
Look out the window waitin' for the sun

My old guitar, he wants to join us
We'll watch the sun rise into the dawn
Here in the 9th inning, no one's winning
2 outs, nobody on,
Me and the bottle, halfway gone
Me and the bottle, halfway gone
Can't sing the words, don't know the song

There's the dream about the cab going backwards
There's the dream about fighting the bear
And the dream about the raft in the ocean
And the one about the young girl with the beard

There's the dream that I can't tell you
And the dream where I could fly
And the dream about the team of horses
High up in the sky

There's the dream about wires in my head
And the time when I floated above the bed
There's the dream about the baby in the wall
and the one where I had no pants at all

I must admit that I don't know what they're about,
I doubt that anyone could figure such things out

After the wake,
I drove slowly, up the hill,
through my old neighborhood,
in half seen glimpses, and fleeting glances,
from the corners, of my mind's eye,
I saw the ghost of myself as a child,

I saw all the old houses,
vaguely remembering the names of the families

But they're all gone now,
every one.

Even the old School has been torn down and leveled,
taken away from us,
brick by brick,


I round the corner,
driving through my own evaporated dreams,
and down the hill,
where we used to sled,

I drive even slower,
as I approach our fine old house,
where my magical childhood once took place,

I pass the big circle tree,
We used to climb laughing,
up through it's mighty branches,

We could see Boston,
far away,
Mom's voice,
"Get down from there!"

I drive up in front,
that house, full of memories,
stands there looking at me,

and I wish I could go home,
once more, just once more,

No lights on,
no cookies in the oven,
no one has shoveled the walk the way I used to,

I stop, and peer, into the kitchen window,

Imagining... or did I see?

my mother's silhouette,
walking by the darkened window,

but she's gone,
and she always will be,

me too...soon...

and then no one will know

I don't need a church to pray
I don't know who's listening anyway
But God, If you're there, I have something to say
Thanks for another day!
Thanks for another day!

The sky is Ozmirroid green,
You be you, I'll be me,
We'll just sit here and see,
What will be now, will be...

Eye blue sky,
blue as truth,
the flowers reach for God,
and blooming

Golden sun,
warming life

We are all growing,
reaching to the sky,
blooming,
before we die

Praying is like broadcasting,
and hoping someone is listening.

Today's broadcast:
"Dear God: Thanks for my heartbeat."
(each and every one)

And when that eventually stops,
I'd like to be with you,
and any other listeners I may have.

She waits by the window,
for no one at all,
She sleeps by the phone,
but nobody calls,
and all her life is like some sad old song,
A tune she can barely recall,
alone,
in the warehouse of souls.

In this gray reluctant season,
a wedge between winter and spring,
the sky is weeping,
misting the world in cold tears,
The barren trees stand naked,
I sip my tea and dream of summer..