Return of the Native

Will the streams still flow as clear,
Will the numbers of the flocks be strong?
Will the wind still carry the pleasant sounds
Of the quiet village and the mountain song?

Will the sun still be as warm,
Will the winters still be so cold,
Will still the crimson sky fires burn,
Will the aspen leaves be as gold?

Will the soup spice flavor tickle the tongue,
When a long day ends with an evening begun,
Will the flutes still ring the same melodies,
Will the beat be the same on the leather drum?

Will the herbs in the air still be as sweet,
Will the earth be as firm under my feet,
Will the spring herald the same old joy,
Will the same folk be present for me to greet?

Or will the land be barren now,
A desolate field of fire and war,
Will the same structures stand,
That have firmly lasted for ages before?

Will the stories still be remembered,
When the tongues to prisons are tied,
Will the people’s will and strength abound,
When their greatest dream has died?

Will the valley be all toil and strife,
Will the village totem be a city gate,
Will the cry to the spirits beyond,
Be a pledge made to the state?

Will the river water be dark with blood,
Will the wolf have made his kill?
May the waters still be cool and clear;
May hope and life prevail.

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.

A Poet’s Dream

Describe the dream in words,

that’s what poets do,

and the dream is like a piece of art

both sprung from the mind, these two.

A world of beauty in one glance

twisted fate and perfect circumstance

a current of deep waters, a dance,`

shining, colorful, dark…

The forms within are many

yet of materials so minute;

it is a wonder there is a dance at all,

yet the tree has taken root!

It is surrounded by a pond, emerald green,

and the blue white high above,

of life is the tree, it surely appeared when

a strong will became great love.

 

Silent Scream

Stuck in my head,

like that concussed feeling,

a sting behind the eyes,

an inhalation of breath

in a freezing night

an orchestra symphony

of minor chord disharmony,

the gut’s turn before the snake strike,

the coldest hour before sunrise,

before the light breaks through the ice.

 

Nowhere and everywhere left to turn,

to God and to the knowledge of the world,

a circular current from spirit to mind,

distant points and so many lines,

like the light at the edge of the sky,

the divine structure in the ice

and liquid water, bringing forth life,

that ancient familiar spark in the eye,

a motivation forward, this forlorn sigh,

and fortuitous when these elements combine:

Life tends to thrive after fires of time.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.