​Three Travelers


Three travelers, meeting on the mountain-side,
paused to speak briefly, each to each.

Said the first:
I seek the mountain's distant height,
the mighty summit's peak,
beyond the struggle and fray,
the endless lies, the dark deceit,
the never-ending thump of guns,
the bigotry, prejudice and conceit,
O high, so high above
the plain's violent stagnation
I seek a vision and a dream
and in desperation flee
from oppressive humanity.

The second replied:
This ledge is sufficient for me.
I have long stayed observing here
and I delight to see
the curious scurrying and strife
on the distant plain below,
the march of armies, the boom of guns,
the inevitable ebb and flow,
and when this ceases to delight
then I raise my eyes up to the sky's
interplay of color and light
or wrap myself in velvet night.

The third said:
I have walked to the summit
and now return to the plain,
though the armies plunder
and the rapacious growl for gain.
I have heard the orphan's cry,
the widow's sorrowing groan,
the homeless sigh,
the wounded moan.
I descend, taking what I can,
gifts ever so slight and small,
touch soft and gentle like a kiss,
words as kind as healing balm
and empathy that is palm to palm.





Come
-for Diana

Come. It is the dawn. We must move on.
Autumn’s blue stillness is in the air.
Summer’s shimmering heat has gone.
The day that rises is calm and fair.

Think not on what lies behind or ahead. 
Press on in courage, faith and belief.
Each day’s journey is sufficient to itself;
each day will contain both joy and grief.    

Night is coming when travel ceases,
winter will bring its own bitter states,
but beyond the night and winter’s chill
on high mountain slope the summit awaits.

As long as you travel by my side
of each day’s trials what do I care?
Even the burdens in the blue-black clouds
in hindsight can seem as light as air.

So let us be gone. Let us travel together
through each day’s jubilation and sorrow.
Hand in hand we will support each other.                              
Resolutely we will face tomorrow.





Pockets Stuffed with Hope


I'm walking, pockets stuffed with hope,
along this undulating track,
littering the trail behind
with weights unwanted from my pack.

I'm following that distant star.
I've got it clearly in my sight.
I hear its music and its dreams.
I'm guided by its light.

I hear the darkened river,
I feel its surging tide
and then I hear the music floating
from the unknown other side.

I well know that its great flow
must float all flesh away,
yet I dream as I lie down
of rising on the coming day.

In my pockets that weight of hope
grows each day a little stronger
and I look both forward and behind
in awe and love and wonder,

filled with hope for the road ahead
which steadily rises as it winds,
enriched and strengthened for each day
by the long road stretching behind.