“You have to love your neighbor”
He told to every throng
But one by one they turned away
He had to die alone
His was a  voice
Crying in the wilderness

“I have a dream”, the dark man said,
“Of peace on earth someday”
But hatred reigned in other hearts
And Martin was their prey
His was a voice
Crying in the wilderness

The man born in Hawaii
He struggles for the poor
Healthcare plans are his own cross
Where all can find a cure
Is his a  voice
Crying in the wilderness

Pray all good men will recognize
When hope is pushed aside
To rise against the chaos
Where love has been denied
When truth is lost
Crying in the wilderness

Fussing and fighting--that's all that we do                                                            Sep­tember 13, 2013
It's not worth the pain--this life puts us through
Let's face the facts...no late alibis
Baby, it's time for saying goodbye

At this old crossroad one path will be mine
And some feelings I have may last a long time
But our differences now ...are hard to deny
Baby, it's time for saying goodbye

Repeat
We were too young...it's all turned to pain
I don't see a rainbow in all of this rain
And if not much is left--there's not much to die
Baby it's time for saying goodbye

We had it all--Or that's how it seemed
But time changes hearts and life changes dreams
It happened to us--but we gave it a try
Baby it's time--for saying goodbye

Repeat            

Bridge:  
Still, teardrops may fall for way too long
But for closure we'll write us a helluva song.....

Repeat

I know

If all the seekers after glory

Could make the cut

Fame would not mean a lot

But still

A gnawing, longing

Overwhelms me

Each time I think of all

That I am not

I've wondered
When God was a boy
Did He wonder
Who in forever
Would find most
Success
Anyway
He was a shoo-in
By muscle or wisdom
There was no challenge
To match His finesse

Windows never see me, looking through
stairways never lead me to
all the places outside
at the day's end
looking in

Blue day of sun rays will shine
stars beam, yellow moon streams
make drowsy eyes dream

Nightjars
glide through fragrant cedar trees
starlit, past the silence
to a place of dream

It is easy to get
Distracted with
So many things
That are going
On today in
This quickening
Pace that we set
Ourselves on
Sometimes our
Own minds can
Become deafening
In the silence as
We try to control
Our to understand
The very thoughts
That keep flowing
Into our heads
It can be hard to
Step away from
The eternal chatter
In our minds and
The eternal chatter
Of the day until
It feels like one
Continuos noise
That threatens to
Drive you insane
We have to be quiet
To listen to that still
Small voice inside
That still small
Voice that tells
Us everything
Will be ok and
That leads us
Where we need
To go and it
Is ultimately
That still small
Voice that lets
You know and
Reminds you of
Your worth and
Your beauty that
Is lying inside and
Gives you that
Strength when
You need to make
It just one more day
And when your
Reserves are running
Thin just listen to that
Still small still voice
And you will feel
That inner calm
And peace and
Strength returning
If you just be still
And be quiet and
Let the world
Pass you by

In the bible
They say death
Is a lie but
If I'm already
Dead then
Why should I
Even care?

The Harvest Bow

As you plaited the harvest bow
You implicated the mellowed silence in you
In wheat that does not rust
But brightens as it tightens twist by twist
Into a knowable corona,
A throwaway love-knot of straw.

Hands that aged round ashplants and cane sticks
And lapped the spurs on a lifetime of game *****
Harked to their gift and worked with fine intent
Until your fingers moved somnambulant:
I tell and finger it like braille,
Gleaning the unsaid off the palpable,

And if I spy into its golden loops
I see us walk between the railway slopes
Into an evening of long grass and midges,
Blue smoke straight up, old beds and ploughs in hedges,
An auction notice on an outhouse wall—
You with a harvest bow in your lapel,

Me with the fishing rod, already homesick
For the big lift of these evenings, as your stick
Whacking the tips off weeds and bushes
Beats out of time, and beats, but flushes
Nothing: that original townland
Still tongue-tied in the straw tied by your hand.

The end of art is peace
Could be the motto of this frail device
That I have pinned up on our deal dresser—
Like a drawn snare
Slipped lately by the spirit of the corn
Yet burnished by its passage, and still warm.

by Seamus Heaney