What's to become of us
when all that we've coveted
is emptied of all value

What's to become of us
when the words we traded
seem to have lost their meaning

What's to become of us
when common ideals
turn to conflict

What's to become of us
when all that has been invested
gets swallowed by doubt and mistrust

What's to become of us
when we stand so close
yet between our hearts lies a lie

Today was unusual,
while crossing a rocky
path, my 42 year old
son reached back offering
his hand to steady my
steps of progress.
A small thing at first glance.

When for all these years
it was me holding his hand,
guiding his path.
Age has intervened,
Now our roles have reversed,
as it does, as it must.

Accepting this reality
the only path to choose.

the stream
lies ever so calmly
gently rippling with the wind

the wind
echoes and howls
a point of no return

pink beauty,
will you ever
return to me again?

(b.d.s.)

I am the hunter left on deck
To watch over this train wreck
Judgement tries to pierce my armor
But I could never ever harm her
I'll be here, each day
Loyal to her in every way
This attraction is beyond skin deep
My heart I gave her to keep
Perhaps this charade won't always last
And I can be future, present,
Proud of the past

I have been watching the war map slammed up for
     advertising in front of the newspaper office.
Buttons--red and yellow buttons--blue and black buttons--
     are shoved back and forth across the map.

A laughing young man, sunny with freckles,
Climbs a ladder, yells a joke to somebody in the crowd,
And then fixes a yellow button one inch west
And follows the yellow button with a black button one
     inch west.

(Ten thousand men and boys twist on their bodies in
     a red soak along a river edge,
Gasping of wounds, calling for water, some rattling
     death in their throats.)
Who would guess what it cost to move two buttons one
     inch on the war map here in front of the newspaper
     office where the freckle-faced young man is laughing
     to us?