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…
The shrine of Madonna stood tall, The high king’s rapier fell down, not anymore was he the young prince, for he was devoid of all feelings. The shrine of Madonna stood strong, The high king’s blood washed the ivory pedestal,
In late Spring when heros scream A source of sophistication from faint misery Inside the thwart hidden silence of the pivotal solace of my mind With mind blowing excursion toward the legally blind inside Woods in growing habitation & silence
felt faint inside from the heat of the day I fell down on my knees to pray thought of those memories from a time ago Christmas was spent under the mistletoe hugs & kisses with everything new Pretty pictures pretty
Thanksgiving never will I forget Hopping in the car for a very long ride to grandma’s house With heavy frost on the grass, glistening in the sun Singing songs and counting grain bins to pass the time Now the frost