on the path to loneliness

the Giant with five eyes

keeps claiming to have seen the living dead rise

across the open prairies 

underneath crimson skies

where factual truth is ridiculed and compromised,

twisted into pieces and distorted by his lies.

but i'm sipping Kentucky bourbon 

while reading the international news:

it doesn't comfort me but it's simply what i choose

to keep on open mind

on what he plots and what he eats and brews.

his friends are hiding inside a box!

they talk about fake gold inside Fort Knox

and never dare 

to complain of lack of air!

no! he'll rip away their faces and tear away their hair.

they're waiting for the end days,

humming Bible stories and singing Christian praise,

filled with the weight of fear and sunk by a deep despair,

they won't save themselves but only sit and stare,

even when the sign posts proclaim everyone should beware!

the workers in a field who never read a book,

never stood a chance against a machine that only ever took,

when the highest goal was owning all the land, 

the oceans, and all the oil-rich sand.

the giant with five eyes,

much to my surprise,

dressed in a complicated disguise

to which there were never any independent replies,

and all around were murders and mysterious spies

smiling as they pledged their word and said their sly goodbyes.

it was all good until it wasn't fun anymore,

when the counting man couldn't tally the final score,

but on the path to loneliness there are greater mountains to explore.

don't be sad about the horrors of war

i saw her in a corner of my neighborhood bar

sitting on a lonesome chair

with a look both near and far

and her eyes were shooting stars

more upsetting than a shopping mall

full of war damaged vintage Russian cars

and the banana merchants who quietly slipped away

without a word when they were asked to pay

for all the hearts they ever sold without an honest smile,

or the hanging judge they bought before the latest murder trial,

and the several dirty rugs they tossed out on the floor

which they assured would entirely stop the coming holocaust world war

but a savage looking one with ashes in his grey beard

said he knew what it was his ancestors feared

while from around the hidden corner i mechanically peered

i saw her in a corner of my neighborhood bar

dreaming of a future with the sweet taste of desire

like a tune was caressing her rose-colored lips

under the shadow of an impending apocalypse

i looked at her for a long, long time

waiting for my moment to strike

waiting for the bell to chime

but everything was counted and nothing else i saw was mine:

the tracks around her neck and the sad hair on her head

gave me nervous sweats and filled me with dread

so with one leg ready i turned to run out

but i juggled with indecision when i finally heard her shout

"don't be sad about the horrors of war;

beyond this earth everything that happens has happened before!"

and in a far distance i heard gentle voices and saw a growing void

reminding me of what to harvest and what to avoid:

an underground and free spaces overhead,

making room at the local bar for all the phantoms who are acting dead:

but through their bony mouths they were sipping drinks with ice cubes in their teeth

while softly asking "what is my belief?"

but i didn't have to answer much and much to my relief,

i grabbed that girl and tip toed out the back door like a disappearing thief.

looking for a simple meal of something good to eat

 the Edmund Pettus bridge

still standing in its' dress of steel

with memories and nothing more to prove

it's vibrant and oh, so real

with streets full of people marching

holding their signs and their life breath

fighting to stay alive

in the face of unnecessary death

holding hopeful heads up high

wondering all the time why

it has come to this

inside a nursing home without a lover's kiss:

and where is the tall ship of state

willing to serve a hot dinner plate

to a hungry man falling down on his hard luck?

one who wants to work for an honest, hard-earned buck

with no interest in a gilded chair or a first class airplane seat

just looking for a simple meal of something good to eat

far from the confusing shouts coming from far down the street

when the air was cold and there were dark clouds of an impending storm

he was asking for a silent smile and a heart full of kindness and warm,

though his boots were tired and his pants and shirt were torn.

and the wine from Portugal

a few questions remain on my chin

like drops of dark cranberry juice

with a neat twist of lemon,

hijacking my tranquil mood

as i'm returning a container of fresh milk

to the kitchen refrigerator.

a woman is speaking on live tv

to a white haired man with a pancake face

and a soft cream grin, who tries to interrupt

with a house fly on his head,

eating shit and bits of stale popcorn.

and yet another hurricane is approaching the Gulf of Mexico

with a Greek name and one hundred mile an hour

winds, looking for another city to destroy.

California wildfires consuming millions of acres of forests in an

attempt to engorge themselves, are eating like obese ants at a climate change

party, waiting for the chocolate cake which never arrives.

Armenia is failing. Azerbaijan is failing.

Putin is a tragedy.

Trump is a presidential disgrace.

and Pink Floyd is playing a British song about my mother dropping her bomb

over a dusty New Mexican desert.

a border wall is being built from steel plates while a pod

of pilot whales remain stranded on a remote New Zealand beach.

there are children in a prison without lights on at night to make it impossible

for them to find their parents, who are also in a prison without lights on at night.

a public picnic table is empty under the spreading chestnut tree.

the village blacksmith is looking for his lump of coal and a hammer for the anvil blow.

a square-jawed sheriff is looking for his shiny badge when the wall clock strikes high noon;

the nearest saloon is filled with lonely drinkers, all eyeing a table holding the ace of spades.

the Earth is spinning like a busy top playing games as the warm winds blow in

from the southern ice shelf, groaning in a whirling fit of exasperation,

while to the far north Santa Claus sits on his snow sled looking inside a big brown bag,

empty of gifts for the needy and the lost, but filled with voices singing Mozart's Requiem in D Minor. 

and the wine from Portugal is better than you think.

a solitary tree

rough bark lovingly hugged woody arms

around the middle of a solitary tree,

which stood tall with a quiet oak sound.

on the horizon was a young deer chasing its' spots

across a dry autumn corn field, heedless of

the deep blue sky and

the alert archer watching from his stand, anxious for

the first pull of his bow.

Osa, a silly dog, saw the deer

but not the archer and gave an energetic yet brief chase.

the solitary tree remained stoic but dropped everything to

listen, including the remaining few leaves which drifted slowly

to the soft ground, inaudible to human ears.

but she can help you

but she can help you

there's perfume in her hair

flirty whispers thru the air

you've got thumb

don't be so dumb

aye, there's the rub

you're no ticket stub

in the heat of the night

when nothing seems right

but she can help you

tie your shoe

pick your lock

and you've got rock,

and roll,

and a black hole

with no lump of coal.

you've got thumb

don't be so dumb

aye, there's the rub

you're no ticket stub

but she can help you

there's perfume in her hair

flirty whispers thru the air.

Black Panthers

i was prisoner in a cell

with a job sweeping up the cement floor

i felt warm inside the joint

listening to stories of a new cold war

suffering inside my own locked door

but i took my escape from white-washed walls

while running my mouth

up and down these injustice halls

into another heated Oakland night 

looking for a little daylight

across the narrow bridge

hearing stories of police oppression and bloody Pine Ridge

here were proud Black Panthers feeding kids

in the early morning hours before school

teaching each and every one the precious golden rule

they sat with spoons and forks and a dull knife

learning to avoid a world of drug-dealing and lower nightlife

where pigs in patrol cars pull up to a broken curb

smashing any black sign that says "Do not disturb!"

but kids kept reading their books

while giving me curious childhood looks

as if to ask who i might be and what was my ultimate goal

but i was running flat-out out on my imagined parole,

both fists held high and tight in my striped uniform.

i mounted the hard-to-climb ladder and stood on my own platform

calling for justice and civic reform

no one heard

i shouted each angry word

before ominously, Mister J Edgar Hoover and his criminal FBI

gagged my mouth and poked my one good eye!

i was so aggrieved and began to cry,

then a mighty pain

it seemed there was nothing more to gain

and i could have been blind

it seemed normal being left behind

when the American party was about to begin:

no one stood a fair chance to win.

there was barely an open seat to watch the beginning of the freedom show

when i saw an angry bird flying by named Jim Crow;

i watched him grab a hanging rope,

tie a clever knot.

his following gang  

hiding in my blind spot

circumstances kept changing; children took their tests:

i heard they all got passing grades 

but were treated like uninvited guests

and the FBI led me to a party wall

i entertained myself with a game of dodge ball,

dreaming of a fertile field, praying for a gentle rain,

picking at my Attica lock 

trying to remove my invisible slave chain.

a shadow and a ghost

waking at the blush of dawn

pulling on my pants

waiting for direction

to begin my human dance

tic tac toe

a one and a two

mental music running in my head

i'm shuffling my blue suede shoe

ready for a ball room

jumping over the spinning top

head long into apocalypse

and a final sudden stop

there's nothing to prepare for

like falling into war

with a disassembled crowd

standing on a soap box yelling at a cloud

with gray walls of confusing mist,

a shadow and a ghost

looking for opportunity 

or a visible signpost:

but there's no park bench without a rusty nail;

no free river running with a nearby nature trail,

calling names out for a chance to play;

the game close but slipping away.

there's fewer willing to speak or stay

when the rain hurts the skin,

and fewer able to win.

so, it's time to dress

while there's still time to guess,

and it's anybody's guess:

a shadow and a ghost

looking for opportunity 

or a visible signpost.

tic tac toe,

pick a number

to sit in the front row

at the greatest show.

a shadow and ghost

are both heading for the coast.

a one and a two,

mental music running in my head,

i'm shuffling my blue suede shoe.

please, stay some more

and the new day saw the low gray clouds

hanging their heads in grief

for that one last breath and the falling

of a golden leaf,

without a sound,

all the way from the highest branch to the cold, hard ground:

there was disbelief

that a clever thief

could steal such a precious life,

without warning or a threatening knife.

and the reason for the end

was elusive and harder to comprehend,

when eyes once bright with a curious spark

could be so suddenly dimmed in the whispering dark.

tears fall, and implore

the memory walking in and out the door

please, stay some more,

pull up an easy chair

for our long, slow talk

before our long, slow walk.

we'll laugh and linger;

see three red fox and point a finger

at a swift hummingbird,

appreciating moments without saying any extra word,

and when your Lord says it's time to dine,

it will also be your time to shine.

the color blue was red

You may not know

when the storm blows in

or how many times the ticking clock

strikes noon.

you may arrive for the hanging judge

an hour or a minute too soon,

before the bartender pours his drink

for the gambler 

who takes a moment too long to think

which cards to keep and which ones to toss;

he couldn't afford another costly loss,

when a gentle woman of the evening 

gave him a crooked smile,

with her scarlet mouth and rosemary hips,

a friendly look with honey-colored lips.

she took her time to take him by the steady hand;

but did he really understand

there was always a price to pay? 

whether he took a walk down some dusty trail,

or spent quality time on her comfort bed,

or in the local sheriff's jail

where he could scratch his story on the nearest bloody wall

about how he remembered to walk 

only after he learned to crawl.

and his head held high!

but he didn't stop to wonder why

there was water flowing over the highest dam,

or out on the street a perpetual traffic jam,

with planes doing cartwheels down the side streets

and over the busy boulevards.

there was no place for a man who played his cards

close to his vest with suspicious, nervous eyes

in company with hustlers and a roving company of secret spies

from Washington and the velvet underground,

who wrote their headlines after and before

the holocaust and the thirty year war. 

there were everyday acrobats toasting with their evening meals,

and barnyard animals eating with their frightened squeals;

and hustlers selling books 

about silky mermaids with their fishy looks;

and a terrible avalanche disrupted central avenue

just to give the busy workingmen something else to do,

beyond the shopping sprees and the investing machine,

when the king appeared with his security and his virginal queen,

carrying bags of fool's gold behind the public scene,

proclaiming everything was normal and absolutely routine:

he spoke with a perfectly mellow voice

so no one had a care or a choice.

everything was as they said:

one plus one was three

and the color blue was red.

Mother Nature

what have you done

with my softest feet

which walked on the damp grass

before crossing the hard street?

what have you done

with my native child,

once unbroken and wild,

now exhausted and exiled?

what have you done with the dreams

which i wrote in my diary?

well, i'll take your answer for what it seems 

while i give you this inquiry:

when the fields are all planted

but the free birds are dying,

will your voice stay silent

while the innocents are crying?

when the oceans come calling with their eyes wide in fright

will babies be safe while napping over night?

yes, i've seen crazy horses stampeded by thunder,

kicking at the iron-clad barn door;

and young men wanting their first warm kiss

but shipped off to a war:

and the gray-haired woman who gave me her smile,

her fingers wrinkled and her fashion seemingly out-of-style,

she offered me comfort on her living room chair,

sitting in silent light to tell me to stand up to dark despair;

yes i ask 

while watching disappearing sand in an hour glass:

when the air gets heated and the desert sands explode,

will there be time enough to find a better road?

in spite of bullies and all the poison that they spew,

there are friendly faces and the better natures they pursue

with healthy hearts and selfless pride,

they seek the good and push the bad aside,

appreciating each pebble has a perfect polish all its' own;

which shines the brightest not when held in contempt,

but when it's thrown.

what have you done

with my softest feet

which walked on the damp grass

before crossing the hard street?

what have you done

with my native child,

once unbroken and wild,

now exhausted and exiled?

what i knew

 i'll tell what i knew

i counted all the greatest men

yet only found a few

who were born in humble circumstance

but spread their wings and flew

without envy in their heart

and that was an important start.

inside my own cocoon

it was about an hour after midnight

when i saw a woman with flowers in her hair

she asked me if i had some money to spare

well, my pockets were empty and torn

and i knew i was looking forlorn

but i gave her what i could share

it wasn't much but when you're down and out

there isn't much left but questioning and feelings of self-doubt

so i went my way

without much more to say

but suddenly i heard her asking me with a voice pure as gold

she wanted to know if i had ever been bought and sold?

if i was a carpetbagger or a military man on his leave?

was i an honest man or was something hanging up my sleeve?

and what exactly did i know and what did i believe?

well, sitting down to reflect on what she just said

i heard the murmur of ocean waves 

i saw the tombstones of the dead

happy children playing on their graves

and i didn't know which way to go

when you get to the point where you realize

there's really no point to all the lies

maybe that's when i'm feeling free

on the backroads with no map and no crushing necessity

each gate swinging open and all the distant hills waiting for me

it's simple; it's easy

on the evening beach under the rising moon

simply reluctant to leave too soon,

like a butterfly spinning tales

inside my own cocoon,

like a deep inhale

with no well-trodden trail

to follow:

substantial with no unnecessary hollow,

maybe that's when i'm feeling free

on the backroads with no map and no crushing necessity

each gate swinging open and all the distant hills waiting for me

it's simple; it's easy

on the evening beach under the rising moon

simply reluctant to leave too soon,

like a butterfly spinning tales

inside my own cocoon.

the fragrance of cherry blossoms

 it was in Tokyo harbor

sitting on a battleship

under the rising sun

that McArthur had his general's fun;

his pants pressed neat and firm,

he offered surrender documents to confirm

that the Emperor really knew

what he came to realize was true:

the Pacific War was done.

it was August 1945,

after Hiroshima and Nagasaki

but Hirohito sat regally proud

inside the Imperial Palace

with fresh memories of a terrible mushroom cloud

when a moment of sadness brushed his eye

for the way of the samurai,

and the sudden desire for the fragrance of cherry blossoms.

then he spoke on the radio

to his people.

Venus in a giant half shell

too tired to mount the stairs,

i'm heavy with fatigue.

strange new cares

are pushing me down

until i can see

to the bottom of the sea,

and all the creatures trying to make it

are dressing in transsexual costumes

or else trying to fake it;

they're pushing open the revolving door

where a television

is portraying the ongoing civil war,

with battles on city streets and in the public square:

people looking for an escape are lost but discovering Mister Nowhere,

climbing ladders for a better view

to the top of the watch tower and down Fifth Avenue;

stories are thrown into the mix

and everybody wants to be in on the fix,

but the glue holding it all together

easily comes undone during spells of stormy weather:

in case there is some confusion when the music cries at night,

i'm swallowing pharmaceutical medicines to help myself feel alright,

and as part of the gathering crowd, i'm looking for an store front to swallow

or when i spy an anxious protest banner, i'll eagerly follow,

trying to find missing pieces of the broken wall

where the body of Humpty Dumpty one time took his big fall,

remembering that all the King's horses and their frustrated dreams

are not always on my side because nothing is ever like it seems.

there's a red glow on the horizon and choking smoke on the breeze;

people are rising and falling, some down on bending knees

and on the radio above the static from the street,

i hear an excited grumbling from a voice filled with conceit;

and echos rumbling like a company of army tanks

tumble down the main thoroughfare, past the parks, and the Wall Street banks:

loose gypsies are dancing on the spinning carousel,

famous minorities are ringing the front door bell,

and Venus, who's still standing nude in a giant half shell,

still has her secrets but she'll never tell

who is favored to win the big game and what's the final cost

for the gambler who bets it all and never once has lost.

yes, there is a still lot to lose 

and someone has to eventually pick and choose,

but when asked which I prefer, I would rather refuse

since all the answers can only be seen 

in the shooting stars or on the evening news.

Bob Dylan was nearby

i stopped in wonder

at a local bar

just to wet my whistle

and look around,

there wasn't a sound,

and right away i felt

like i was alone 

on a hillside demolished by the sunshine;

the face that i looked at was remarkably like mine.

and she came up to me acting like a piece

of fresh fruit, 

ripe and ready to squeeze,

and i wilted 

like a flowery bloom full of one too many stinging bees

but i had the presence of mind to take my first pure sip

before speaking about the deeper truths of life!

she wondered if i came here often

and, man, did i have a wife?

a brilliant mind, which i possessed,

would have lied like a gentleman

but i confessed

the orange that i was eating was a world on fire,

ah,  i couldn't be a simple liar

since my little bottle of champagne

was used only for silencing my dog

and for watching friends

pray on their knees to the universe and to make amends

for their goodness and their beauty

so i offered her a drink like it was my patriotic duty

to act like the leader of a touring band

writing exactly what i was feeling

while on my back pointing up at the heavenly ceiling!

Bob Dylan was nearby 

singing constantly,

all the while

with his Minnesota accent and a Ginsberg smile

when the lady took the next elevator up to the sky,

looking for her lost horizon and not wondering why

i kept gripping her by the forearm,

blowing my horn while rounding her curve.

but she wondered where i got all my romantic nerve

before everything erupted in flame;

i finally remembered to ask her for her name!

clearer than if it were from the distant past,

i realized my single bottle of champagne would never last.

well, put a cork in it, i heard myself say, 

but the bubbles inside my head already popped

and i knew even with the punishing traffic laws they couldn't be stopped.

the overhead lights flickered and went low

but what happened with the lady i really don't know:

she ran out the front door with a bottle of cheap wine and Michelangelo.

"Hey, Lukashenko! Go away!"

 A sea of people

in Belarus:

thousands of women are 

preparing to cook the head goose

where crowds of voices for independence

are marching on the loose,

waving banners to say

"Hey, Lukashenko! Go away!"

take your security and your forces

for a final exit ride on frightened horses

and that's a natural fact,

so please don't look back.

like a bee without his hive,

can this embattled leader survive?

without a glass of his favorite drink

of Soviet commands and government red ink,

he stares confronting the deep abyss and doesn't seem to think

that hundreds of thousands of people want him to capsize and sink,

and not one protester is willing to blink.

losers and suckers

 he said i was a loser

or was it lopsided lollipop sucker?

well, coming from an angry ladies-of-the-night fucker,

that's quite a thing

but now he fancies himself a modern day king

who once had a suspicious foot problem

which excused him from serving in the Vietnam war;

he's now asking for loyalty and demanding so much more

from his favorite daughter and his personal staff.

it was said to be tiny bone spurs sleeping inside one foot so let's laugh

when he's playing golf and bends to cheat:

it's obvious he's driving down the fairways with two good feet

looking for his tiny white ball,

but it's escaped to the rough and he'll need to crawl

on all fours to find where it timidly hides.

and to my astonishment he now resides

in the infamous American White House

where he wears an 'I Don't Care' blouse

while eating vanilla ice cream with his wife who's on the phone

talking to him from her bedroom in another time zone.

our best plan

i worked with her on an evening plan

before the sunset ran

and the rain drops fell

into her basement stairwell.

we agreed it would be nearly perfect

with just a few changes yet to make:

one idea was a recipe for rice and bean cake

i gave her to bake,

but on second glance

she said she'd rather dance

than cook 

from a simple kitchen book.

so, we stood looking through her small window

at a passing burlesque show

when another novel notion,

like a brown bottle of lavender body lotion,

stuck to our noses,

like a fragrant bouquet of freshly-picked roses:

it was to turn the ticking wall clock

into an image of a busy metropolitan city block

where swift crowds of people rattled and roared,

trying their best not to seem bored

by the futility of another insignificant day,

with not much of importance to say.

yes, we had a hell of time together

as the inclement weather

smacked us between the ears,

but we had our ice-cold beers

and a decent bottle of red wine:

our best plan was that everything would turn out just fine.

Come and See

Come and See

what is left of me

after crawling through the mud

spitting blood

listening for the break of dawn

trying to carry on

wondering where all the other children went

as if my youth has been misspent

reading words from important library books,

grooming myself and worrying about my looks,

when nothing is anymore what it seemed

i try to remember what i once wistfully dreamed

but it's easy to forget when life is being torn away

and everything is more difficult than it was yesterday.

Come and See

an angry soldier suspended in the tree

struggles as he points his rifle directly at me;

i can clearly hear

as his shot comes near

yet strangely i have a moment without fear.

Articles of Confederation

no story can tell the true tale

but sometime late in mid-afternoon

the flapping flag got loose,

and became a flaming balloon,

blocking out the setting sun and the blood-red moon

over the Mexican border and across a tall fence;

it began lighting fires 

and immigrant piles of bilingual incense.

there were caravans of desperate people heading north

weaving carefully across a flooding river

back and forth

to where it seems

it might still be possible to entertain big league dreams,

in spite of all dire warnings and the crazy coughing cries

of advertising cheers and the Mother of all Lies

of when's and how's and ifs and why's;

many Christians thumbing the pages inside their bibles 

looking for parables about how to treat their rivals

and then up the polished steps inside each pious church,

poking around in solemn search

to bridge the holy gap between what is promised and what is real 

and for Porky Pig and all the barnyard animals that scramble and squeal

along with Rocky Raccoon and Jesse James and his criminal gang,

hoping to hear the now-famous songs that they sang

about injustice and the Articles of Confederation:

especially the small print which is hard to read

about the founding of a newly-independent nation

and the rattling of southern chains,

across the cotton plantations and the great, grassy plains.

it might be all that remains,

but there were little puffs of gathering smoke

so it didn't totally resemble a school-yard joke

with moving public discourse

keeping the ship of state on a righteous course,

away from the perilous rocks,

picking away at the prison locks,

remembering that shining city on that distant hill

without a second glass of bourbon or hallucinogenic pill.

no one could wish for any less.

it was said and written in the liberal press,

so it must be true, 

and much like Ulysses S and his famously loyal crew

with salt-spray stinging every abolitionist face,

they prepared for a thrilling chase,

but it wouldn't be a simple foot race;

they stayed buckled up for a wild ride 

across the changing countryside

refusing to run and hide,

just in case

anybody wanted to gather and embrace,

or disappear completely without a trace,

to save personal memories of honor from disgrace.

too proud to kneel for another expensive Western meal

The Yellow River

with its' mighty brown flood,

and the Yangtze

with potent dragon's blood:

millions of buried ghosts,

tears dead and alive!

brave protesters in Hong Kong

finding it hard to thrive

inside Mao's little Red Book,

raising their heads for a gambler's quick look.

See!  there's the Great Wall:

a Terracotta army of the first Emperor

holding swords and shields, standing tall.

Dynasties leading deeply into the historical past,

with echos of great tragedies

which last and last.

fields of plenty and loss

almost too far to walk across;

sprawling cities on the expansive coastal plains;

thunder over the mountains followed by torrential rains,

arriving early or leaving too late,

keen eyes sipping pearl milk tea from a special China dinner plate,

too proud to kneel

for another expensive Western meal!

the No. 4 reactor

you're telling me what to think

you're telling me how to think

you're telling me what to drink

you're telling me your shit don't stink

well, i'm saying watch me wink

'cause you're blowing smoke

blowing smoke

and your pipe is broke

a walking tangerine eating his own bad joke

spitting out the seeds

watching to see what bleeds

'cause you're blowing smoke

blowing smoke

and your pipe is broke

like the No. 4 reactor

you're a deadly, dangerous actor

blowing hot radioactive air

blowing your tuxedo-styled hair

you're blowing smoke

blowing smoke

endangering lives

discarding dirty laundry like former wives

like the No. 4 reactor

you're a deadly, dangerous actor

blowing hot radioactive air

blowing your tuxedo-styled hair

you're blowing smoke

blowing smoke

a walking tangerine eating his own bad joke

spitting out the seeds

watching to see what bleeds.

the path over the cliff

the path over the cliff to Monterey

it would be a tough road to get there, they often say

unforgiving sun and dry desert sand

where i found a beautiful mirage but i don't think it was planned

traveling light

under the stars past midnight

she once gave me a map which i could no longer find

and i had a letter she wrote but it was never signed

i couldn't hear her thunder and i didn't feel any rain

while looking for some relief but i didn't feel any pain

i remember how i used to sing in the choir

how my voice came out softly and easily flew away

i'd give anything to have that voice again

but i've forgotten how to pray

and anyhow there are too many twists and turns

with lots of steep uphills and scary downs

crowds of heavy people hanging heavy heads

hiding natural smiles behind their unnatural frowns

i've walked to the tower and i've seen the wider view

wanted endless happy times but i've only had a few

i can't recall

all the ugly moments that i saw

crossing the river and wading the stream

but in the mirror i see an old man

still chasing his dream:

looking for a sand castle that no tide can destroy

waiting for her laughter to tickle my skin

holding hands with my lover in the middle of the road,

not ready to call it quits but ready to begin

the path over the cliff to Monterey

it would be a tough road to get there, they often say

unforgiving sun and dry desert sand

where i found a beautiful mirage but i don't think it was planned

traveling light

under the stars past midnight