Thursday, August 02, 2007

A Dream Just Past Oz

Have you ever stood on the top of a mountain
High above the hollers of your home
All filled with the brash newness of the world
Have you stood there and looked with disdain?
As you stood there, has the mists parted
Like a window on a world no longer there?

Have you looked down,
Past Oz, past Brigadoon
And seen the way it was, the way it should be?
Have you seen thin trails of wood smoke
Rising lazy from dozens of cabins?
Did you glimpse tall lean men working in the fields
Women sittin' on porches, piecing quilts
Youngin's playin' at games lost to kids today?

As you watched, did you feel weary at this world?
Did you have an urge to walk away
Leave this time, this place
Step into the mists and wish,
Dream, Hope as you walk toward
What was, what should be?

Take my hand, hold it tight for a moment
Step through that mist with me,
Hold tight, dream with me,
Hope with me, believe
Cross your fingers and pray.

I'll wait for you there.

Run Away

Run away for a while
Wait till eyes are turned
Sneak off right quick
And run...

Run so very fast
Your hair flies back
Your eyes water
Your mouth turns up
In a knowing grin.

Run away with me
Come on now, come
Chase through the woods.
Catch me if you can.
Come on now,

Sunday, July 29, 2007

Perfect Day

The pond calls to the dogs
As the day nears perfection
Sunshine and heat mix
For a chance at a perfect day.

Youngin's float
Summertime lazy on the pond.
Dogs swim and retrieve
Swim and retrieve
Sticks, thrown apples and green pears.

Shade is a pleasure
Not a necessity
As I sit and watch
And remember other perfect days.

Caught frogs, slippery salamanders
Laughs of joy and pleasure
Splashes of eager dogs.
A cold glass of sweet tea
Dewdrops tracin' down.
Yep, this day has my vote
A vote for
A perfect day.

Appalachian Symphony

Split rail fences like bars of music
With birds sittin' on the rails
Like notes to be played
In a glorious hymn of praise.
Mountains wiped over
With a whitewash of fog
As if the Creator
Scored a symphony
Played by the wind
Syncopated by the rumble
Of thunder dancin'
Up and down the hollers
Tappin' out a rhythm
On the slate rock
Of every dry branch.
The melody is whispered
In the shifting wind
The high soprano harmonies
Taken up by the mockingbird
The subtle alto sung
By the whippoorwill.
Sweet grasses dance
In time to the music
One way then another
This way and back
To an Appalachian Symphony.