Creed Bratton strumming along,
Singing the oral history of his hometown,
The place from which he departed to embark on his great adventure.

I sit here in the dining room,
Looking contempitave at near empty pack,
A lone cigarette lays a little worn,
The last defender in it's paperboard Alamo,
I ponder at it for a moment before lighting up.

The guitar resembling the chugging of a train,
Rumbling down Californian rails.

Even the time changed resembles the screeching of brakes upon those rails,
Upon those iron horses,
Before chuggin' along once again,
Tempo and mood increasing once again,
Before passing by and roars to the horizon,
Chasing the setting sun,
It's sounds disappearing eventually into the passing wind.

You are love, the loving and the beloved
In your ethereal light I pine to rest my soul
In the midst of your essence I long to find
A gentle embrace for my restless, wandering mind

The hidden meaning of what is, has ever been and will always be
The mystical remembrance of times I once knew
The house where the ultimate truth abides
Anywhere, nowhere and everywhere at once
Silent yet resounding like echos in the valleys and summits of Kandahar
Sublime in color, splendid in shape, sumptuous in form

Oh beloved I’ve been away for far too long
I seem to have wandered off on my way back to you.
There was an unexpected fork in the road
I chose the unmarked path that led me to where I have lingered here
And whence I long to make my journey home





© William Bratton, All rights reserved

At length we move in spaces well known
Minds winding around travelled roads
Thoughts moving in posted directions
'Til suddenly an obscure path appears
Unexpected, unknown, unmarked, undisturbed
It is there that we hear a soundless voice
Whispering the way, the road to tread
Fearless, resolute, unbound
Colors unveiling as our hearts unfold
Sounds rising to symphonies
Forces sublimating by divine volition
Flowing freely out of space and time
Stars gleaming in wondrous form
Beckoning us to move on and on
Delving into the blessed unknown
Towards the approaching sacred light
from whence we had come
Welcome home!















© William Bratton, All rights reserved

There are times when I feel like a volcano
yearning to erupt to heavenly heights
Surging forces swelling within,
seeking a way to break free
Then I realize I am extinct

There are times when I feel like a prisoner
Hands tied, legs bound and mouth gagged
Screaming within the depth of my soul to escape
Then I realize I am my own prison

There are times when I feel like an abandoned child in a hostile land,
Starved, depleted, wretched and distraught,
pleading within for a human gesture to ease the pain
Then I realize I am a grown man in a stone-hearted world

But then there are times when the glittering rays at daybreak
caress my forehead as a mother her newborn child
These are precious times indeed
They soothe and console
but are scarce and ephemeral
They exist only in the realm of dreams

Apart from the unknown forgotten souls who have struggled so long, so hard - but in vain - for Love,
No-one is as drugged, drunken and intoxicated with longing as I






© William Bratton, All rights reserved

She knows that life has been lingering on

The patterns, the sounds, the forms all the same

The dusty lamps, the trodden floors

Have all been permanent for so long



She knows that life has meaning at times

There were children to bring forth and raise,

caring friends she could turn to and trust

and faithful pets to warm her heart

But they are now long gone



She knows that life has its price to pay

A drunken man she once called her other half

A son living in debauchery and hate

A daughter who never answers her calls

They are still around if only in name

But names are stubborn like facts



She knows it’s just a matter of time

When the daily ritual will cease to be

The cluttered rooms emptied and cold

The joys and pains boxed away

But that time is yet to come

And the wheel must keep turning



She knows that in life there is hope

That when all is said and done

And the final review is flashed through her mind

A gentle light will penetrate the clouds

And beckon her back to the Source of all

That is what keeps her going

And when it comes she’ll be ready

© William Bratton, All rights reserved