Just a girl in a room, sitting on the floor,
I can see her in this window, but I see no door
Crying her song of anguish, of this unspeakable pain,
Has every intention never to feel it again
I rock, I tremble, my life is at cost
All I know is this shell, for it's myself...my core...my all I have lost
From the start I new this fight could only last so long,
I aimed to defeat it, striving to remain strong
Each day in and day out, facing the demon, fighting the doubt
At a moment with no warning, without any clue
I was losing my strength...my energy...all the will I once knew
For now, my all is lost, my memories are faint,
There is no pretty picture left for me to paint
This girl on the floor, in this empty room
Was this girl condemned for a life of doom
My tears disappeared, like they'd never been there
Dried up with my soul, the time is clear
Wanting to shake her, make her open her eyes
To show some hope, the blue is still in the skies
Then, out of nowhere, I found the door
I wanted to save the girl on the floor
As I neared and inched to her close
She wasn't that girl, what I saw was a ghost
As I turned to walk out, stopped by a noise
I heard the laughter of girls and of boys
With that came a voice of peace and of grace
She told me, she's happy, no-more demon for her to face
I am calmed, I'm reassured, I'm no longer in pain
She was the broken me, but now I am strong again
I owe so much to you
When you pulled at me,
Tugged me from my toiling,
When I was crouched low,
In the kitchen, blurry choke of tears
I saw the outline of your peninsula
Etched in florescent blue in my mind
A little red star on a map
Such a hard drive (for me and the Ford)
But I, swept into the arms of that gentle house,
Saw a clearing in the nettles, one that I could pass through
And those turned to violets that kissed me as I was waking up
And going to bed, listening to the healing black wind
Through the many cracked windows
Presque Isle with her flags and sea glass
The promise of going to Canada
Turning my head to look at the lake, that dark lake
Itself enigmatic- a sea but not a sea
I think about that, brush the snowy sand from my palms
Yes, in a way,
That could be me
Dedicated to every young man bestowed the honor of wearing
the glorious Oklahoma Sooners' Crimson & Cream
Over sixty years, boy and man, I have been a Sooners fan;
And always hoped to be among the truest in the stands.
And while I don’t remember all the Players’ names,
They’re my Heroes, each and every one, because they play the game.
When they’re on the field of battle, my Sooners surely give their all;
And when they’re on the sidelines, just waiting for a Coach’s call;
Visions of Glory must be dancing in their heads;
The Glory of the moment and our cheers, the Glory of playing for
the mighty Big Red.
And for those Sooners who rarely played, whose names were
known only by a few,
Make no mistake my friend, each of them is my Hero too.
Like Soldiers waiting in the ranks, but never called to fight,
They ‘re ready and they’re willing, their spirit and their sacrifice
add to Big Red’s might.
I stand in awe of Sooner Magic. No, I never doubt it.
My Sooners could have never won so many Championships without it.
But don’t misunderstand when I say Sooner Magic won those games;
It was Sooners players who, once again, rose to the occasion and
glorified the name.
Sixty years of college football and my Sooners have won the most.
Their fierce pride and performance inspire this simple toast:
“My Sooners Team goes on and on, different faces, different names;
But my Heroes, Each and Every one, for win or lose…
They play the game.
The echo of Winter will never eclipse
The gentle breeze carrying Spring,
Or birds overhead, with their eyes well affixed
On the future for marvelous things.
The sedulous bees bringing life to the Earth,
While they buzz and wash over each section.
The warriors of progress, unknowing their worth,
Wielding only a sting for protection.
The tiny striped martyrs then bravely depart
From the plant, at some length, to the swarm.
The nectar collected, their personal art.
The hive waiting, welcome and warm.
To witness this magic in calm disbelief,
Is a treasure, a blessing to see.
The simple, whole truth is, from mountain to reef,
All life here would cease without bees.
Driving home, the sun beaming down
highlighting the Quantock foothills
a criss-cross quilt of very small fields
too steep for mechanical ploughs
worked still by man and shire horses
Bright gleaming yellow rape and mustard
interwoven with shades of brilliant green
a paradise for birds nesting in the hedges
tiny dots of white sheep scattered round
deep scarlet red of the fields laid to fallow
Ancient hills stun with captivating beauty
hardwood trees hundreds of years old
spread their sheltering branches wide
casting fat and long shadows ''neath their feet
grassy banks giving shelter to small animals
I gaze with delight filling up my soul
loving the fact these are my hills
that roll and soar around my village
with magical names for each hill
some very bare others full of heather
Reminding me of my native home
Will's Neck and Cothelstone
rearing up above the deep valleys
with nestling lakes and rivers
this place my place till I pass on
these hills were the first place in England to be given the title of outstanding beauty
1956 check them out in Wikipedia for these amazing views
Can I have this hand in marriage dear,
Can you grace me with "I do",
Let the angels sing to Heaven,
Let my heart soar with their tune.
Let us seal our love for we two,
Let no others interfere,
Let Evil, with his one good eye,
Attempt to trick and snare.
Let Age pass on his cares to us,
For bound, we are as one,
We'll ride the heady winds of joy,
Until another song is sung.
Until another song is sung, my love;
We'll drink the drink of fools;
Let passion be our compass,
And a blinding trust our rule.
Let us plant the seeds of new life,
That through Time will resonate,
Let our names be always dear to those,
Who set them on their fate.
Have you ever been moved by beauty?
stood and listened to the birds sing?
been transfixed by the sight of deer?
Watched the eagles soaring the thermals?
gazed on the beauty of a woodland lake?
or sat by a ring of fairy mushrooms?
Just as nature herself enthralls us
so too do the written words of poets
I find my self transfixed by them
As their words weave their magic
no matter if in verse or rhyme
flights of fantasy are inspired
Bless you all poets for your gift
it is the magic, the fix that inspires
as you part with your precious words
THE WEST WIND
Blow you westward wind, blow betide,
Blow upon the western sphere, blow a gale
Rout the shacks on the range, the ‘scrapper a tremor;
Let wail the pine boulevard and the Indian stream screams,
Blow, the palm to bow, and matters to float on air;
And blow, by thy whim to sway the lives of men.
Whence, thou coming from and where, shall thou end
‘Less we come to thy base and offer sacrifices
To restrain thee and make thee honour our will.
Why be not visible, that thou be invincible?
Except thy howling echoed by plants and apparatus,
Like from a funnel, the emptiness of a hollow nothing.
Whirl then and Blow through the hemisphere,
Where the dreams of men pitch a watery globe;
Blow, blow down the poles, the outer space
Till they evaporates on the thin windy air
That man may lose control of them
And be swayed by life to where thou would blow.