Angel Moroni watches over his fold
He holds on to a horn said to be made of gold
He stands on top waiting the moment to arrive
When it finally comes the horn takes a dive

The earth was tired and decided to shake
The Angel looked down during what was a quake
What he saw was surprising and actually quite weird
All the people were gathering things it appeard

Why do they need all that paper in rolls
Why do they need all those bottles, who knows
The horn was broken when it hit the earth
It was bent in half, now what's it worth

Someone grabbed it right up and ran like the wind
He was chased and caught as this was a sin
He would have liked to play that horn
He held it so long and now he must mourn

What to do, what to do, is all he could think
The world has gone nuts and he needs a drink...

Brian Hill - 2020 # 79

are we lost in the curves of life
winding in, and around, and straight through
straight through the crazy reality
in and around each other
all of us, surrounded by ourselves, but not really there


Brian Hill - 2020 # 78

An illness overtook the land,
Mysterious and vague.
Villagers joined, hand in hand,
In what was known as the Dancing Plague.

They skipped beside the street,
To music silent in their ears.
And they tapped their cursed feet,
To music nobody else could hear.

They danced for days, and could have years,
The plague continuing to spread.
And they danced so long, my dear,
Oh, they danced 'til they dropped dead.

I know I’m meant to feel like the world is an oyster I have yet to crack, like the guts and savory things of life lie just beyond this seemingly impassable barrier of youth.

I am meant to love myself to love others, expected to be grown up but humble; for I am a child in a room full of adults whose legs are trees and I am a sapling not tall enough to reach the rays of sunlight that are experience and wisdom. But how am I to grow if you keep me in the shade. When will I be tall enough if you starve me with words of discouragement, deny me the promise that something lies beyond the world I know now. How will I ever reach for the skies when you tell me this is the best it gets. That I should be grateful for the lack of responsibility I have.

“Oh hush little sapling, you know nothing of the world beyond this grove.” But I know what it feels like to have storms sweep through, I have felt lightning on my skin as I witness injustice, and shameful rain as I stay rooted to the ground. I beg of you let me through! Part your branches so I may shoot forward into the sky, sing me songs of luck as I climb higher and higher, no longer sapling but great redwood, my skin may grow rough but I will grow richer; in all the things one needs for happiness. Rich in love. Rich in passion. Rich in character and empathy.

I will relish those savory things of life as they spill out before me, work to catch them before they are swallowed up by the unfortunate decomposition that happens to all missed opportunities.

And when you are tired and sunburnt, let me give you shade as you gave me, a great redwood child holding the sun up with her branches and the world down with her roots.