March 1993*

Our friendship is a relationship created by both of us.
Before we came together, it did not exist.
It is shaped and sustained by our love, or lack of it.
It is a candle that we hold between us,
lighting our way through the world.
We must walk gently and side by side
or the winds or the times will most assuredly extinguish it,
and in our hands will be a thing that merely smokes
and smells and then grows cold.

The two of us are not the relationship.
Otherwise there would be no difference if we had never met.
The relationship is something new that now exists
and it will continue even if we separate permanently.
It is part of us and it will drain or strengthen each of us
depending on whether we nurture it from our hearts or
rob it with our fears.

If we can see this clearly we will instinctively rush to help each other
rather than turn away, and once that reaction becomes habitual,
we will be at one with a great love and a lasting friendship.
And wherever we are we will always
carry the other’s heart in our own
and never feel alone.

James H. Webb

jan 1-93*

You were no sweet sensation
When your fists, they began to fly
You would scream out holy incarnations
In the act of refusing to cry

And I tried to make you love you
Heaven knows how hard I tried
And my eyes told the truth of your beauty
But you always thought that they lied

Jul 10, 2001*

Little Dreams
of purple Swings
and green slides
and lullabies
Dance through your head
while your sleep
in your little bed
Darling mine
My sunshine
Daddy's little sweetness
the apple of my eye
I love you so
my tears flow
as I watch you sleep
Little Dreams
on purple wings
take off and fly

Jan 15/94

I had a friend
He had no wings
So he never did learn to fly
I had a friend
Was ******* in strings
though she never seemed to ask why

But all I know is what I see
and you are nowhere in sight
And all I have belongs to me
is sorrow and lonely nights*

I knew a life
much like the life
that you now have and hope to keep
I had a wife
much like the one
you will surely try hard to be

There was a time
when hearts were free
and our feelings flowed like a stream
Love? It was true
and honesty everything
that it was always meant to be

But all I know is what I see
and you are nowhere in sight
And all I have belongs to me
is sorrow and lonely nights

There was an age
when words were free
conversations flowed just like wine
promises were kept
and honour meant everything
though I guess it never stood the test of time

?

Feb 7, 1975*

Yes the room is still in order with the windows dressed in lace
And the bed is in the corner but it’s cold and gone to waste
The stereo’s playing music but the words are in bad taste
And everywhere I care to look your love has left its trace
From poetry and story books to lines upon my face
Its memory builds from empty air and breeds in every space

The room now seems so empty or has it always been this way?
At the time it always seems so real but in the end it's hard to say
Your tears left on the pillow have dried and left a stain
As if the bed is saying where you will not lay again

Your picture has been broken by some fool in his rage
The glass is cracked and shattered but the picture's still the same
It lays there now so boldy with a smile still on its face
Staring up so openly that I can't turn away

The windows too are waiting for you to gently close the drapes
And the dust has falling everywhere like a dry unyielding rain
And in sadness now I must leave this room where sorrows has its reign
And move into another world where death has no domain

James H. Webb

jan 25/2001*

The Atheist battled the angels
and then he battled in hell
but there wasn't much of a difference
as far as he could tell
The sinners all thought they were righteous
and the righteous all thought they had sinned
But no one looked out from inside themselves
they always just seemed to look in

When he rattled his chains they would worry,
But when he stayed still they were calm
And  the ironic sting of the battle
was in watching the battle move on
For it left him quite sad and dejected;
he had fought at the battle so long
That he didn't know what to let go of
his sword or the pen of his song

James H. Webb