- Fire on north beach Look out to Exploits, the sun setting at your back. Stay with me. It’s yours. 1:38
- Girls reading a book Hold the book, let your eyes run. There are worlds in here — lift them from the page. 3:27
- Pot concerto Rocker-bottom pot rattles and rolls, the morning percussed by oatmeal. 1:50
- Chopping Chop your wood t’will warm you twice; then bake your bread and warm you thrice. 1:59
- Outer Cove Photo By: Monica Kidd Outer Cove Posted by Monica Kidd on May 31, 2017 in Canada (Newfoundland), place | 0 Comments Tags: beach, gravel, waves play Listen: Outer Cove Download Outer Cove MP3 A dead whale and man and his crackie complain about the cost of things. A truck coughs down Marine Drive. 1:00
- Trout River Thanks to Curiaudio follower Tara Bryan for submitting this found sound from Newfoundland’s west coast! 1:53
- Foghorn Foghorn: black velvet, heaven on a gurney. Timber collapsing under the weight of time. Sapling, swaying softly, green. 0:54
- Dixie thirty-three and a third times round, the needle in the groove hiccups with the freeze-thaw of another trip round the sun. no names here, only the raucous jumble of ages. eat your heart out, springsteen. 3:03
- Fawcett multifuel Flour, yeast, salt, sky. Three babies tucked into bed and bread rising in the wood stove. Give us this day. 1:10
- A bucket Two feet past the busy woodpile, Igor’s fury and the stillness that reigned after the trees cracked. The baby restless. The rampage. A bucket and all it could hold. 0:26
- Fire This time and these stars and this smoke rising. Your hands on the girl and her hands on stone, the night so black the sound travels years to meet itself at the start. 1:02
- Atlas goes paddling Plunge and pull, your paddle the best of you, your arms reaching — elbow, wrist, fist — into the black. And the boat cuts on. 0:41
- Quiet Morning at Ocean Pond Morning: the rise and fall of tiny chests, the tide in them. The old sun going on and on. 1:12
- Ready? Small girl in a clutch of trees scraped knees peeking from a gallumph of rubbers. Her yellow boots big as the world 0:53
- Trade route You are knees and curls, a palette of surprise. Rehearsing a way home, your feet too small to carry you. 0:28
- Squeaky snow Feet slicing over the snow, the sky a riot of blue. Lull the babies to the huf-huf of legs pumping, and the dog racing ever onward. 0:53
- Spruce fire in a wood stove We are reading poetry, you and I, and I am learning by rote the topography of your neck. My fingers memorizing your hidden rivulets and beautiful bones. Time stops but for the falling of snow, the muttering of the fire, the urgency of birds. 1:03
- Pop goes the weasel Round and round go the maps of song in my mechanical heart. My certain surprise. 0:24
- Heavy rain off eaves ne man’s voice, a cat at home curled up on the paper and a phone bill overdue. Him, his voice, suddenly there, like a reflection in glass, a hand on your shoulder, and the wind is inside me, in the cage of my chest, swelling. One man’s voice. No greater than another’s. And perfect as rain. 1:26
- Frothing milk Sun on skin, we lizard in this clearing, two cups of coffee and an orange between us. It’s something I read once, that love is sharing an orange, and so we do, popping the sections into our mouths, into the dark places between words. 1:30
- Noon bells at St. Patrick's Real bells sounding. A man, his protege, and the spittle of Wednesday traffic. 1:19
- Marine Weather Forecast Every pond a scraping with its hem of cobblestone. An abandoned caribou skin translucent with weather rolls tufts of hair into the wind as heat rises from this bloodless land. 1:34
- Fire on the Beach (Middle Cove) Blue, veined with green, this is the colour of loss. A battered silver tea set the gift of hundreds, the new west sunk off the east. I pocket a piece of bone gnawed smooth by the hungry ocean. We are all dogs nosing amongst the rubble. 0:28
- 16-week heartbeat Tap tap tap tap. What’s your message little one? Tap tap tap tap. Are you a daughter or a son? 0:18
- 4-week baby nursing It all comes down to this he said, Curious. That it all should come down. That it, in its sprawling it-ness, could, or would ever be, felled. The whole shebang. The whole enchilada. Kaput. Perhaps he meant this: the wide world shrunk to one room where everything that matters is this man, sleeping, his two hands wrapped around the baby, knees akimbo on his chest. The heat of their bodies. The pull of her arresting the clocks, the phone, the traffic. 1:23
- Two rubber ducks A drama unfolds in this metropolis of bubbles — two lost on the high seas, their magic carpet no match for the vortex raging past the plug and down the pipes and under the asphalt, out into the harbour and through the narrows toward Ireland and beyond. Saved by a girl with a watchful eye, the wind in her curls and her bath towel waiting. 3;15
Curiaudio
Songs for Curious Girls
