i have no real dreams to speak of
i speak of my nightmares even less
i am just trying to reach the peak of
that mountain, where i am blessed

material goals aren't what i talk of
spiritual goals, i talk of more
i am just trying to walk the walk of
those spirits who walked before

Open the book
Turn the page
Let The smell of the ink invite
Your senses
Let the words fill your head
With all the perfect things
You've not yet said

Love is like the wild rose-briar;
Friendship like the holly-tree.
The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms,
But which will bloom most constantly?

The wild rose-briar is sweet in spring,
Its summer blossoms scent the air;
Yet wait till winter comes again,
And who will call the wild-briar fair?

Then, scorn the silly rose-wreath now,
And deck thee with the holly's sheen,
That, when December blights thy brow,
He still may leave thy garland green.

To Mercy Pity Peace and Love.
All pray in their distress:
And to these virtues of delight
Return their thankfulness.

For Mercy Pity Peace and Love,
Is God our Father dear:
And Mercy Pity Peace and Love,
Is Man his child and care.

For Mercy has a human heart
Pity, a human face:
And Love, the human form divine,
And Peace, the human dress.

Then every man of every clime,
That prays in his distress,
Prays to the human form divine
Love Mercy Pity Peace,

And all must love the human form.
In heathen, Turk or jew,
Where Mercy, Love and Pity dwell,
There God is dwelling too.

true love meets in the sea, and, drifting, stays afloat.

How we fall decides so much
Though inevitable is the crash
Rebuilding depends on such
Where we look and what we clutch
If we are frantic
And panic to find something to grasp
Then we will collapse
In a heap of destruction
But if we observe and look
For ways back up
Then we can prepare for the coming ascent

In the corner sits and old wooden rocking chair
Just as it's sat for the last hundred years
Worn and polished with the patina of age and use

I sit, pencil and pad in hand trying to visualize
What it has witnessed over the years long past
Tears of happiness, tears of heartbreak
Of births and of death

Christmases and birthdays when times were hard
Times when money was scarce
But times when the children understood
Times when children were content, with the little that they had

That old chair has sat there in the corner
For at least a hundred years
I read stories in the grainy polished woodwork
And let my imagination loose