The People First Party

The People First Party

Vote for the People First Party.
The People First Party puts people first,
everything else, including money, second.
I know it is not your fault
but the way things are now
must come to a halt.
For a long time, it has been money first,
everything else, including people, second.
And a very poor second.
People sell weapons,
not thinking of the people they will kill,
but the money they will bring to the bank.
People need food, clothing, lodging,
not a bomber or a tank.
It would not be enough
for one city or country
to follow the People First Party.
All the world must,
to save us from decline and dust.

Servant To The Song

Servant To The Song

A singer ought to be servant to the song.
Pay heed to that advice and you can’t go wrong.
Attend to the tune and where the words belong.
Forget yourself and then hear your voice grow strong.
A singer ought to be servant to the song.

A craftsman works to be master of his trade.
He shines his skill so that it will never fade.
He wants to be proud of everything he made.
He hopes others will follow the lines he laid.
A craftsman works to be master of his trade.

A shepherd lives for the safety of his sheep.
He holds his staff, the peace of the flock to keep.
Lifts them from the snow before they’re stiff with sleep.
He knows what he may sow he will one day reap.
A shepherd lives for the safety of his sheep.

A runner trains to be winner of the race.
Like astronauts, he challenges time and space.
He knows that only age will lessen his pace.
Desire for victory is carved in his face.
A runner trains to be winner of the race.

A singer ought to be servant to the song.

Day Dream of a Steam Train Driver

Day Dream of a Steam Train Driver

The mountains in winter
are cold, hard and bitter
for a steam train driver.
At times I have to go slow
because of avalanched snow.
With ice on my eyebrow,
I cut through with my steel plough,
turn a bend, head for a tunnel
White smoke clouds rise from my black funnel.
I know it’s bad for air pollution.
Electricity will provide the solution.
The crossing of the iron bridge
inflates my frustration.
But relief will come, not to mention elation,
when my ride terminates in central station.
Meanwhile, nothing can darken my day dream
of being a grizzly bear, fishing in a stream.

If I were a grizzly bear,
I’d catch a salmon in my claw,
way out there in the wilderness,
and of course, I’d eat it raw,
my teeth built to rend and gnaw

If I were a grizzly bear,
I’d eat honey from fallen trees.
I would scoop it from a log,
not bothered by stings of bees
or the peskiness of fleas.

But I remain in my steam train.
To be a grizzly bear is just a dream.
I can always go there again,
fishing for silver salmon in a stream.

If I were a grizzly bear,
I would not have a care.
If I were a grizzly bear,
I’d climb a rocky stair.
If I were a grizzly bear.

Such is the day dream of a steam train driver.

 

 

Mark On The Map

Mark On The Map

A tree grows in slow time,
its tale told in long rhyme.
Rings in the wood, lines in the leaf
speak of spring joy, summer pleasure,
autumn wisdom, winter grief.
Root and branch, berry and bark
reach for the light,
delve into earthy dark.

Read in the water book,
be any fish in the river you like,
but beware of the worm on the hook,
flood and drought, the jaws of the pike.

Find the key to your door,
your mark on the map,
the path to the shore,
the way free of the trap.

It’s a pine marten for October
on my calendar of the wild life
of the British Isles.
Only the joker sees the joke
so only the joker smiles.
It’s all right, I’m just drifting,
shifting through the leaves,
lifting lid below lid to see what I’ll find,
whatever’s been hid, left behind by the grind.

You can eat an Oriental meal
without a speck of spice,
but it wouldn’t be half as nice.
You can buy an expensive car
without thinking of the price,
but you won’t drive it far
without manuals of motoring advice.

Find the key to your door,
your mark on the map,
the path to the shore,
the way free of the trap.

The Final Foe

The Final Foe

I have found my corner,
I can sit there on my chair.
It took me a long time
before I became aware.

I write and sing my songs,
find the chords on my guitar.
I listen to the birds,
and draw near to me what’s far.

In the end there is the friend
I will not want to greet.
When my time comes to go,
I must meet the foe
I cannot defeat.

You may be a lawyer,
a gold merchant or a priest,
the one who knows the most
or the one who knows the least.

You may be a rich man
with a mansion and a yacht,
but when it all goes blank,
you’ll lose everything you’ve got.

In the end there is the friend
you will not want to greet.
When your time comes to go,
you must meet the foe
you cannot defeat.

The Feud

The Feud

How could they let that happen?
How could they let that be?
I thought as a schoolboy
when I studied history.

How could such men be leaders?
Why did they want a war?
I thought when I grew up
I would understand it more.

How could such acts have happened?
How could such facts be true?
Now I am much older
I fear a dawn dry of dew.

What is this thing called power
that some men are after?
And why because of them
the multitudes must suffer?

Why can’t we break this pattern?
Why must it still go on?
Will this way only end
when our time has come and gone?

The king was in his castle.
The drawbridge lowered down
The rebel knight rode in
and slew him to wear his crown.

The barons began to feud.
They battled for the throne.
No one was the victor.
In bare fields dark seeds were sown.

One side against the other.
The war will not conclude.
They besmirched the treaty.
They will not forget the feud.

The Life Of A Bird

The Life Of A Bird

The life of a bird is not brief, not to a bird.
To a bird a day is a week, a week a decade,
from egg to oblivion, centuries, even eternity.
Attend to a bird. Note its eyes, clear, alert, alive.
Imagine being that quick, that present each moment
with no fog on the brain, yawn in the mouth,
and you will understand, as for a grasshopper on a leaf,
the life of a bird is not brief.
Unlike a human, a bird sees death
but does not know it will die,
and it has the freedom
to perch on the land and wing in the sky.
To a bird a mystic should bow
for a bird knows how to attend to the now.

 

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Un_maestro

A deviant among Sheep providing knowledge to stimulate the mind and poetry to stimulate the soul

Philip Dodd, Author of Angel War Blog

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Stephen Page

Author: The Timbre of Sand, Still Dandelions, A Ranch Bordering the Salty River. Alum: Palomar College, Columbia University, Bennington College. Follow on twitter @SmpageSteve on Instagram @smpagemoria on Facebook @steven.page.1481

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