The Word

Why are the most expansive hearts,
Limited by the conveyance of words,
There is only that interval of time,
To which the soul must be heard.

The birds are many over the land,
No wonder anymore the grace to fly,
The fifth day and this day be theirs,
And the sixth and the rest be mine.

Whether the raven parts the air lost,
Or the dove reveals a better way,
Still the sea never ceases to toss,
And the waves fall over the bay.

Beauty, the earth that brings forth life!
And the strength of toilers under sun,
Each sent forth into the waves,
May forge new paths to freedom.

So quick does warm summer turns frosty cold,
And faster the sun that cracks the ice,
Heed with caution the visions revealed,
Where does the dark turn to light?

It is the destiny, it is the will,
To raise the soul to the highest peak,
And from the first words e’er spoke,
We were blessed with life to be.

Flight

One thousand miles in one step,

nothing but a small turn back,

so fast there is no imprint left,

the trail fades fast in dry sands.

Take the leap and dust shall rise

So many spiral tunnels of flight

Who is to tell when the time is right?

All is to know is the open sky.

The flight, the time, the world may fall,

Love and Wisdom and Will stand tall,

and fettered, icy wings sustain,

when falling towards the world to gain.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Peace

Such a plane of existence,

a comfort of its own,

many a miserable and joy filled world,

and this is mine alone.

It is better than some, I’d say

this world staid and calm,

it could be constant suffering,

yet I have peace within these walls.

If I were in the midst of war,

would my mind still be at ease?

Would solace truly rise from within,

or in truth, in comforting grace?

There is a wisdom hanging over,

truth from without and within

and too much peace may stir the soul,

Good! Many battles to win.

 

A Lump of Clay

A formable lump of clay,

sprung from the earth

more or less formed than many

of less or much more worth

the elements within are one,

though emerged from different lands,

and a certain profundity exists in each

debilitating grain of sand

that keeps the clay from rising perfect

within the creator’s hands.

And the storms hover and melt away

superficial textures fine,

but the artist certainly carves them again

with the same love in his eye,

and the lump of clay grows even finer

with the calamities of time.