Harp strings over the woodland mist Such shiverings of endless prayer That never seem to say goodbye They only seek to keep you there, And steeped in woods of long gone days Of Summer green and Autumn sky Are dryads of the ancient ways That dance as whispering treetops sigh.
A poet who repairs church floors Knows many ways to write his rhymes So many paths, so many lanes That lead to oh so many times, Yet many know his cottage light And each one knows him by his name Each is a friend who needs his help And see in him a kindly flame.
And up ahead, the village green Where giant oak trees spread their arms And on their bench under its shade They chatter as the evening calms, As the poet passes they say hello And wish him well upon his walk Down by the riverside once more Where birdsong glows and soft winds talk.
Old Meg looked up and smiled at him She gathered herbs here every day To cure the village people’s ills And take their miseries away, Soon he turns and wanders home A poet walking all alone Though as he walked, his dream came too And they’d both chat upon the phone…
When man mortal with a title Becomes vile and self righteous He walks around with the Bible Holy acts and all sacrilegious Carrying LBGQT rainbow banners Hailing the devil’s temporal empire Accomplished false pretenders Adorned in bright priestly attire Those
BUS RiDES AND ORDEALS It’s the long rides from the small towns to the city. The mesmerizing sceneries of the trip taking the bus on the uneven roads, Sometimes,unpaved with no asphalt and the road lay carpeted with small rocks
metaphysical impulse ensues through the flames of resistance shun its existence etched beneath the tapestry of loosened conclaves alone in desperation in the night heavy sounds of cosmic illumination in temples of fire reaching ever higher on point locked in