dare to dance
and dare to sing
dare to love
for it is spring
dare to cheer
and let bells ring
discard your cares
for it is spring
but dare to hold dear
everything
for war is come
and it is spring
dare to scream
your lovers name
as spring may never
come again.
I found a book of butterflies
I never thought to read
and as its pages flew away
my mind to it did cede
thoughts of a peace we never had
despite how it may seem
for like the wings of butterflies
such hopes are fleeting dreams
when the light
shines right
upon the morning lake
it seems
my dreams
dance in its rippled wake
and from the water’s edge
I watch their ballet run
and build upon its meaning
for there are dreams to come
I look upon a bird
not native to my shores
in hopes she makes her home here
for now and evermore.
Her feathers promise solace
her song it calms the seas
from turbulence within the souls
of all this bird had seen.
In the still of morning
wrapped in birdsong
and the day’s last chill
fragranced by the passage of night
across the trees
I lose myself in a moment
one of a million I’m certain
a tangible peace
which glisters as crystal
then cracks and shatters,
as such moments, like we
are fragile things
and time’s hands know no delicacy
in their countless numbers fly
the ravens cross a moonless sky
above the red house on the hill
from the days this night to kill
black is the canvas that they paint
blood red the brush from which it’s tainted
what savage artist bore this scene
is only guessed at, never seen
for when the blackbirds take to arms
no fault is claimed by those whose harm
transcends their petty palette’s slight
to condemn us cursed to this last night
and we who live and love and dream
are sacrificed to ill thought schemes
in the green wood long ago
there grew the smallest tree
and in its branches
there did grow
a bird too small
for all to see
this tiny bird it sang a song
which calmed even the wildest beast
and through the forest winter long
this little bird he sang of peace.
one morning cold in winter deep
the woodsman came with axe in hand
and as he thought which tree to reap
that song of peace rang ‘cross the land
and his wield was therein stayed
as music filled his heart now gay
never more to swing his blade
as calmed by peace he was that day.
In these times of strife and woe
of intemperate worldly wrongs
into that forest we should go
and listen to that ancient song
such innocence of form and grace
not from a great bird but the least
and in that dark and earthly place
be filled with light…
…and hope…
…and peace.
He wrote “love” on stones
hoping the world would find peace
they became weapons
All you need is love
they derided as naive
he sent them acorns
there are no conflicts
or wars upon my planet
nor have we mirrors
the blighters rock 