Change

At night I feared to see the day
Because I knew what sunset meant,
And yet I found another way.
I feared the moon would ever stay
Ev'n when the twilight hours were spent;
At night I feared to see the day.
The shadows would not go away,
Confounding me where e'er I went
And yet I found another way.
I clung to well-known shadows gray
In case they fled the sun's advent.
At night I feared to see the day.
The morning light bid me obey
But I resisted to relent,
And yet I found another way.
But when the sun dawned bright and gay
I found I'd gone where God had sent.
At night I feared to see the day,
And yet I found another way.

Simplicity

Isn't it great?

The Misunderstood

A song that meets the ears is oft bereft
Of meaning its creation should have brought.
By fate or fortune, what we hear is left
Fragmented—far removed from native thought.
Then music heard can often be untrue
To thoughts inspiring, left inside the mind.
An artist needs divide between the two,
Whether to show the sounds left unrefined.
Concealing thoughts that might expose the heart,
A song devised may hold in secrecy
The sacred inner truth, the hidden part
That shrouds itself in sleep and subtlety.
And yet, when played aloud, each song retains
A tune that only he who listens hears.
Perhaps from this a newer theme remains:
A matchless melody for list’ning ears.

Choice

The enormity of the future
Sacrifices nothing of its potential
So long as the soul is just.
The chains of choice yield freedom
To those who follow visions
From the surface of their souls,
The very place where Hope distills.

Sight Inside

Inward and onward
Deeper and hopeful
Forceful
Waiting inside to be found.
Insightful but trite,
Wary and
Wayward it creeps without sleeping
But always intriguing yet pleading
Away from the force that supplies it with
Life and enjoyment and pure satisfaction.
It’s span is away from the
Scale that’s expected,
And yet we accept it.
For what is it there?
Do we see it or sense it inside?
Does it hide?
Can we tell,
Or wait for the test to begin
From within?
Deeper and darker it lurks
And waits for the light
To chase it away.
Why does it wait,
And what is its purpose?
The mind can’t define nor divine such a purpose.
Enveloping warmth can intrude.
Now excluded, the fact it was there
Is forgotten. The mark it once made
Will fade.
Inside its lost presence
Intrudes like a menace,
Invades and
Waits
To be filled
Once more.

Twenty Eyes and Twenty Ears

Twenty eyes and twenty ears
Watch my footsteps as I make them
Wait to see if I mistake them.
They have followed me for years.
Thirty ears and thirty eyes;
They, I see, are all around me,
Always trying to confound me.
They my purposes disguise.
Forty eyes are watching me,
Seeing what I’m doing always,
Limiting my thought in small ways.
In their bondage am I free?
Fifty eyes and fifty more
Take my words and scrutinize them,
Change my thoughts so I despise them
Still I claim them as before.
Sixty eyes are in my mind.
Always they have been inside me,
Watching those who walk beside me.
Have I always been so blind?

Inspired by the book 1984.

The Flower

A flower on the roadside lay
Its petals to the sky.
I would have passed and let it stay
For time was short that summer day.
I stopped and held it anyway
Yet did not know the reason why.

Against the backdrop of the road,
It grew defiantly.
Where here, so out of place, it showed
That life can thrive and make abode
Where wind and rain and snow erode
The place where it was set to be.

I pondered on that flower rare
With time I didn’t own,
And thoughtfully began to stare
Upon the flower lying there
While wond’ring how a thing so fair
Had on that dirty roadside grown.

I went along the road to see
If other flowers grew.
Beside that road, it seemed to me
That weeds grew up quite readily.
Of flowers I saw but two or three
And wondered why there were so few.

I took one with me as I went
Preserving it with care.
I held it as a monument
To lessons learned and time well spent.
That evening by my bed I bent
And thanked the power that put them there.

The Artist

It is simple to see,
to cast one’s eyes where he may.
Who, then can tell
what there is to see?
Greatness falls from the sky like snow,
and it goes unnoticed.
Imagination,
how fickle it is,
how commanding!
Do we notice that
             we
have that power?
And control it?
It is our power of
creation
that we see and use.
How few there are
who can truly see themselves.
Who can see the power
of Vision
besides those who look?

Come Inside

Come inside now, to my table
Though I’ve nothing to prepare
Know you well that were I able
I would fill this empty table,
Which sits now before you bare.
Here inside my house the laughter
Never is in short supply.
Let the banter touch the rafter!
In our friendship and our laughter
Truly does our richness lie.
As we sit beside the fire
In each other’s company
All our troubles seem less dire.
To the heavens we aspire
While the hours pass pleasantly.

A Walk Outside

In restlessness I sit inside my house
With energy infused inside my bones
Exhorting me to let my labors wait
And breathe the freshness of the outside air.

An Evergreen in Snow

A starry blur of white undaunted came
And softened, smoothed the gentle countryside.
Creation marvels at her own white flame,
Her appetite for beauty satisfied.
Below a hill, serenely standing strong,
An evergreen, concealed beneath the white
Now emanates a silent winter song
And dances in the evening's waning light.
Enveloped by a soft consuming glow,
The glittering boughs portray a mood serene.
Though laden low with weight of thickset snow,
It stands a noble marvel to be seen.
The Master's sculpture breaks above the ground,
With all of winter's glory it is crowned.

Messy Pete

Messy Pete began to eat
A dusty, dirty grimy treat.
He found too late that what he ate
Was also on a dirty plate.
It was a mess; I must confess
His room was filled with dirtiness.
What caused this scene that’s so obscene
Was Messy Pete would never clean.
He’d never try to clean that sty.
His dirty clothes all piled high.
His underwear was here and there.
His toys were scattered everywhere.
He had a knack for losing track
Of where he’d left his school sack.
I’ll tell you now the story how
Pete overcame the mess somehow.
It was the treat which Messy Pete
Decided that he’d try to eat.
Just one small lick so very quick
Began to make him awfully sick.
So sick, in fact he coughed and hacked
So hard his jaw bone almost cracked.
His fever burned and then he turned
So green his mom became concerned.
He lay in bed, his father said
“You’re lucky, son, that you’re not dead.
The doctor called and he’s appalled
He says your mess here must be solved.
If you don’t zoom to clean your room
It could spell out your sudden doom!”
Pete was aware as he lay there
His room was filled with odors rare.
“This mess,” thought he, “is killing me.
If I get better I’ll agree
To be the best, above the rest
At making cleanliness my quest.”
He hadn’t lied. From then he tried
To clean his room with certain pride.
And what completes this tale of Pete’s?
He’ll wash his hands before he eats.