Every bend of a mountain stream
Has an inlet somewhere,
A little warm corner where the
Currents churn slow
Across the water worn rocks.
And notice how the river's things
Quick darting fish and splintered
Sticks all come to rest
For a moment in the rhythm of this Gently swirling space
That gives freely of her embrace
Before everything goes drifting on and
On to where it is supposed to go
Waterways to the raging sea
And I am an inlet.
I do not know how to turn cold and
Resist each time
Love comes close.
No, I reach out to gather and to hold.
But yet, it is always only passing
Through and like the gentle bend of a Mountain river, I must let go.
So it is
I find myself alone.
Sitting by the banks of a
Listening to the whisper of the water That sounds like
Everyone I know goes away
In the end.
in the depth of human tragedy
there is also this dillema
that either the truth or the lie
is going to crash the tyrant
they play reality games
the delusion will end in catastrophe
how much of the world is going to take with it?
spring is in a rush this year,
to affirm the rationality
The Ukraine rain fell long and hard
From clouds above on high,
But what were shed
Were tears of red
To spill on fields awry.
As storms of rage passed o'er the land
A horseman through it rode.
A black horse day
Of wild dismay
As floods of red rain flowed.
Beneath the yellow and the blue
The Ukraine rain poured on,
It steeped the ground
For miles around
And harvest yield was gone.
As people cried and people died,
The pain of rain aflame;
With nought to eat
The yellow wheat
Was plundered beyond shame
And all about the crippled souls
Would weep through blood red eyes
As once again
The Ukraine rain
Screamed down from blood red skies.
In my own little world fireflies stay in open jars
Flowers paint on their colors for the next day,
And the moon laughs while it walks away.
The trees speak of ancient scars,
The creek brings up lost trinkets from afar,
And the animals cry for freedom,
But freedom is not free.