I just posted my first lyrics on utube at the link shown below
and I need as many people as possible to check it out and let me know what you think of my country song.


http://youtu.be/G1JPoA3589Q

In the cold northeastern flow , silvery gusty moments persuade brown waters , Pines stand tall in her reflection .. Cirrus whips and windsongs
filter through earnest thicket , delivering free voices ... March's airborne delivery divides morning tidings , in question of the young day ..
She hides from something yet unknown , her topwater lying tepid and unsure , shorebirds fly low across the waters tension and temptation , red songbirds answer from each shoreline , belated zephyrs swirl in temporary confusion ..
I vision the writer , feel the cool struggle of verse upon the empty page ,
where solutions lie to many an inquiry , thought turns to Oak leaves
sailing the ever evolving lake , to the brief intense sun showers that garble the poets stage ....
Chortling , avian neighbors delivering previously unheard melody , turtles vying for the crest of exposed Oak branches , godspeed the call of warm weather nestlings , the playful fawn , the taste of May ..Greens , clusters of dead Pine cloaked in tall broom sage , life slowly returning to zero ..
Sparrow , Finch and Wren escort me home as I view rolling hillsides amid the cracking of elder giants along the sandy field road...
A witness to change , to eroding wind and the cataclysm of time , to mud puddles brimming with life .. Sing for the day sweet Cardinal , for blue ceiling influences among amber hues and gray scenes , color my beautiful vision with vibrant , native grasses and natural serenity ...

Writing my diary in the church
of the forest
In deep cover , incommunicado ,
unnoticed , a heretic of mans oppressive
religions , a worshipper of bird and tree
A prayer for each grain of sand along
the field road
Receiving tranquility then releasing my burden
into windsongs* ...

the windsongs speak
their tales of change.
lean in close, they tell you, come
listen. to the robin's nest
and the fire's glow and
the baby's breath.
lean close, they whisper, don't
miss them. don't
parry. don't boast. don't
brood in the light of mourning.
they summon, they taunt you. come
kiss them.

and the foxtrot leaves a trail of haste.
is it honest?
is it spiteful? does
the lamb's ear sing its
hymn of sorrow? does
the boy cry wolf in the dead of night?

lean toward fear, they tell you.
you listen.

Silly, silly me. Mind of my own,
swimmingly setting bubbles of simile loose
in your
mind, in factors felt as real as any thought you thought.

as real as any thought you thought, this
particular, alien idea,
emerging, critique click cliché YES, all the mises, pro
liberality, certain and absolute solutions to UV salves

"Sunshine, came softly…"
The alienated minds of the children purchase in 1948,
was anticipated, seen as a future path,
to negotiate, eh, take the bold leap
over the briars, or dare
to follow the hounds,
and crawl into the chapparal so similar to home.

¿Hoy, Compa, te acuerdas… to you do you recall…

muse, imp, urge, will to know, while knowing nothing,

no good no ill, only wonder, and then not wonder if, but what?

Are you- with or con- knowledge or science, not of, or…
loving me for being alien,
nothing near real,

a familiar feeling, with no words clinging
in hope of some idle thoughts you hung out to dry,
as washed grocery bags, set to trap answers
blown by winds named now for saints,
then for powers, real as any, these
winds
returning on circuits predicted by AI.

Santa Anna warning,  strange weather all the elders say,
in the past,
these winds were earlier, by a moon,
and they often followed dry storms of lightning and thunder
fanning any smoking flax to vibrant flame,

claim the promise, Yes, all
the promises given the endurer to the end,

the only hero you personally know, inside out, is you.
Should you play a standard trope,
or seek the character's principle

shape, in formed from thought, Toth, is said to have thought

Cathar, hide, and watch, we may ask Google, we need not own
the knowing, we need not hide the hoarded secrets,
required lessons, treasured knacks and tricks for pulling wire

fine as any spider's silk, listening in every palace, believe me,
we lace the planet in silken sensing threads, singing windsongs

silly old tuners, hear for practice, the lightest test touch
just
there at the base of the thought, fiddlesticks, catgut crossing
spider kites
eyes tight to the squint, discerning gleams
seen
there, then.
You still see that morning meadow with gold in its mouth,
kiting spider trails, wet with dew, we, atop the old stile,
standing, stone still, staring at raw beauty
saying, try to remember…

winged migration geese
make their
patterns and shapes
while
we carved out
our space
oh lord
guides us
homeward bound
upon
our wings
and
windsongs
where we
find that place

Shy singer man say of his songunsung

for thy pleasure, we are, and were created
tools to muse with
as crayons to a child in my youth,
as smartphones to a child in my future

so these discrimming skimmings of flies on my screen,
bring to mind
a wish
to be worth a dam. I had Boulder Dam in mind, at the time.

Joy to the world! was a carole - common knowledge joy having song,
we sang

oh, such songs, we sang and we danced and we praised the summer sun
for each year granting more land and more rivers and fish.

this is the world where words returned to earth and taught us all we lost,
this is my future

but we are are mortal, you say, nay, I say
we all have mortal mother samesame

so say science'n'conshitness of a rational man,

in a delicately -pre-cisely balanced spiral of birdsongs and windsongs.

Right is all that works. We won. Individually.