I Am Weary of War, Sir

 I am weary of war, sir

The fight has made me old

The battles rattle in my bones 

The struggle leaves me cold

I am weary of war, sir,

And as the sun retreats

It hurts to lift my weapon up

Or move my tired feet

I’ve seen the greatest works of men

lofty in their day

But like the mortal frame I bear

War hastens their decay

In am tired of war, And 

I can struggle mo more

And so my shield lies in the sand   

While I rest upon the shore 

Stare

Do the flowers bloom under a new moon?
No, that's not how flowers grow.
See, a flower only shows its face
when it basks in the suns warm glow.

So why do you suppose
that your neighbor needs your stare,
when the only way that you bloomed and grew
was under someone else's care?

Can a duckling hatch in the frozen snow?
Does an eaglet soar in rain?
Well the devil knows he can keep you down
by reminding you of your pain.

So why do you suppose
that your neighbor deserves your glare
when the only way that you learned to fly
was under someone else's care?

Please don't let go of my hand,
please don't let go of my heart.
I can only sing, I can only dance
if you show me where to start.

Monuments

I walked by the great stone monuments today

Engraved with the names of our dead -

Binders full of them - 

And I wondered

Do the builders of the monument think we will remember?

As if their names explain their sacrifice?

As if their sacrifice explains why they fought? 

As if they knew why they fought, before it was engraved?

And then I thought: 

Would they build a monument to us?

And

To me it's not history; 
it seems like the other end of one of those 
moving walkways in airports. 

I feel like if I really wanted to I could turn around 
and run back and everything would be 
just the way I left it. 

And if I touch it, that part of my life will simply start again, 
right where it left off. 

Great Grandpa Earl's garden sheds, 
the broken window by the service door on Cambridge Drive in Michigan, 
the parquet floor on the stage in Warroad, Minnesota, 
and a kiosk selling little packages of flan in Santiago Chile Lindo. 
I never could eat flan again, because of the ants. 
And then again in Minnesota - 
the oak pews in the Waconia chapel and 
the painted carpets in the orchestra pit in Chaska. 
And a little Sunday School classroom in Oakton, Virginia. 

And you will be there, waiting, 
because in my mind you're all still there, 
exactly where I left you. 
And I'm keeping you there in my mind, and 
you aren't lost or gone because 
good things are never lost, and 
those were really good things.

Faith

In darkness and in cold
we walk, stumbling
then tiny light!
Still we do not see
all that we thought to find;
but we press along,
waiting to feel
and to see what we
already knew was there.

To the Pianist

Sit up, sit quietly, drop your shoulders,

raise your chest, relax your neck, and listen;
for all of the music ever written,
every sigh, every tear, every laugh,
is playing instantly, simultaneously, now,
freed of the temporal line that binds the player.

Wait until you hear it, until you feel its pulse;
and then, only then are you authorized
to place your hands upon the keys,
to allow the weight of your arm
to carry you downward, plunging
into the universal chorus.

Play it never boastingly, and never shyly,
for we are only one of the harmonies,
and even the most salient of our melodies
is but a counterpoint, suspended
against the tune of the Creator
and with the symphony of all of creation.

Rarities

Perfectly pure honey, from
only four-leafed clover;
Rain only in season while
travelling the whole world over.

An unthorned stem that ends in
a rose with no bruised petal;
A hill for children to roll, in
a field devoid of nettle.

The statement I'd intended,
the point I'd wanted made;
doth equally often match that
which was finally conveyed.