Silent street lights,
Like galaxies in fields of black
The night watchers fight
But dark fights back
Each tentative flicker of life
Here against long odds
Convinced that their strife
Is the will of the Gods

Every day when I walk I look up to the sky
And I wonder, where are they going tonight?
Carried on the contrails of planes passing by,
I dream of where I might go on that flight.
I ask, how did I wind up in this peculiar land?
My passport home, where I feel I’m a stranger
Where proverbial ground moves right where I stand,
I can’t shake this feeling of impending danger.
I look to the contrails, and I just want to fly,
But, wherever they go, I just won’t belong,
Then ... another contrail catches my eye,
And into my daydreams again I am drawn
I wonder if there’s ever a place I’ll call home
Nowhere, or anywhere the contrails might go.

We sing hopeful songs, in which we muse
Of the crack where the light gets in,
Or trees of green and skies of blue
Ironically, revealing the sadness within.
We paint beautiful scenes, in which we show
Clouds and vistas full of happy accidents
But, from an artists inspiration it’s hard to know
If it’s joy in their brush, or if turmoil presents.
With complex verse of poetry and prose
In stories that tell of our hopes and dreams
Are the inside voices that few others know
Poured out on paper, covering up screams.
An artists voice reveals a piece of their soul
Showing angels and demons shared by us all.

If you can keep your head when all about you
  Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
  But make allowance for their doubting too:
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
  Or, being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated don’t give way to hating,
  And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
  If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim,
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
  And treat those two impostors just the same:.
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
  Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
  And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
  And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings,
  And never breathe a word about your loss:
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
  To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
  Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on!”

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
  Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
  If all men count with you, but none too much:
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
  With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
  And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

I can’t seem to find the scriptures that state
“Care only about yourself, but not others.”
On what page are we commanded to hate,
Which proverb advises to make people suffer?
Show me where it says to worship the dollar,
What passage directs us to trample the poor,
On what page can I find Gods favorite color,
What chapter tells us how to keep score?
Which holy verse permits genocide and war,
Where can I read that telling lies is okay,
Where is it written who’s life is worth more,
Which chapter says it’s alright to betray?
I don’t know the answers, perhaps you do,
Just pick a passage that’s convenient to you.

In frozen headwaters on mountains high, 
The Colorado flows from icy peaks 
through canyon walls that climb to the sky,
telling tales of time when no one speaks. 
With fury, white capped rapids flow,
bringing life to the valley where mankind hopes 
for the abundance that green orchards grow, 
in the shadow of loss on Storm Kings slopes. 
Humanity meets nature’s relentless wrath, 
just as water yields to earth and stone.
With time, carving out its determined path
in canyons where strength and sorrow are sown.

Nothing pleases the pundits more
than seeing blood in the streets.
Where their wolf howls are drowned
by our crescendo of bleats,
In the mad scramble for the adulation of -
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