Your song calling from far away.
Thundering echoes stretching over rolling meadows,
Deep caverns in a mountain: calling me.
Gentle whispers of childlike delight,
Blowing treetops in raging storms.
Inside my heart, I hear your song,
and echoes, and whispers, and storms.
I am just across the way.
GENESIS
Clouds in his eyes.
Frost on his fingertips,
He raced headlong into the dust clouds of tomorrow.
Somewhere past the mystic mountains,
Rolling past the sinking sun,
Past the edge of time and memory,
He put his feet into the water,
Deep down! Past the shells,
Past the rims of one-celled creatures,
He thrust his feet into the core of the earth,
And he began to grow anew.
TO CREATE
I have always been enamoured of volcanos and waterfalls.
The vision or just the thought of a photo of flowing lava,
The chance glimpse of a trickling cascade,
Can put miles, hours, and ages between my routine life and me.
To see the power move up or down
Is a new perspective on life.
A building and destroying becomes one and the same.
To create and demolish are forms of art that no one can control.
Colors of autumn blow through my hair,
Which of you today shall I wear?
Crimson as the maple leaf,
Or olive green for welcome relief?
Vibrant magenta, a statement so bold,
Perhaps a wrapping of richest gold.
Colors meld and flash in the eye,
Then fall to the earth, after they blaze to the sky.
Autumn's Colors can delight and thrill,
As they announce with color, winter's coming chill.
Onto a place he had never imagined.
It was full of valleys, old dust, and caverns.
When he stepped, he could almost fly
There was no one there waiting around,
To ask a simple direction.
So he rambled and searched both far and wide,
His shouts in the silence would drown.
Late one day, or maybe it was night,
He found a tiny passage,
By squeezing all flat and becoming thin,
He passed into another place, all right.
And there, my children, he lives still,
You can see him on a very clear night.
For he became the man in the moon,
And he shares with us his light.
Somewhere out there on the edge of time,
Where no trails are charted, no paths to follow,
Life makes its own way, its own path
No technology needed to assist.
In the distant past
Before wild came to terms with domestication,
A decision was made to take to the hills.
Moved away from man-death of a tribe.
Far out there, on the very rim of time,
A bargain was made.
Where man can go, but is not welcome.
Where no friendly faces wait and gather,
Wild rules and calls its own back to the beginning of time.
It was a perfect April night.
We sat so far out on the edge,
Under stars so ancient,
They spoke olde english with
a flat Appalachian twang,
And whispered secrets of life eons old.
There was magic in the night,
A fleeting thing of awe.
We watched as children,
Noses pressed against the candy store window,
Not daring to believe the total beauty of it all.
We became a corner pattern in the tapestry
Of magic woven in the stars.
