Driving through the vast forests
Of Central Oregon
Through the wall of trees
I imagine them talking to me
The trees are whispering
Dark satanic rituals
Voodoo mumble jumble
Then they speak
Loud and clear
To our world
You think you are
The king of the world
The lords of creation
Masters of the universe?
Soon, all too soon
God and Gaia his daughter
Will tire of you
Their latest plaything
hold me tight.
Show me birds
in high blue flight.
Show me bare branches
once clothed in green.
Show me fields of
Help me look beyond
things i can touch.
To see God's eyes,
I love so much.
The angel of the lord
Appeared on TV sets
All over the world
People woke up
Expecting to see
The usual suspects
A stern visage
A stern old man
In a dark suit
He had a salt and pepper beard
And long, dark black hair
And piercing blue eyes
From his stern face
Piercing the soul
Of all who listened
Of the angel of the lord
Was like thunder
I cry and break down a lot
I lie and say I'm okay when I'm really not
I reminisce and look at my wrist at all the scars I've got
When you took my mother at 10 months the heartache started
God bless the souls of ALL the dearly departed
Please tell me is my child up there?
You taking her still doesn't seem fair
I get depressed and won't come out for days
God forgive me for my vengeful ways
Daddy beat me I blamed myself
The pills and therapy, I tried to get some help
Ended putting my heart back on the shelf
" God does nothing!" sigh'd the Seer,
Sick of playing Prophet:
To his eyes the sun-flames clear
Seem'd the fumes of Tophet;
Off the King he tore his crown,
Stript the Priest of clothing,
Curst the world — then with a frown,
Murmur'd, " God does — nothing! "
Bitter creed, and creedless cry
Of the soul despairing —
He who once on sea and sky
Saw the Portent flaring,
He who chose the thorny road,
Paths of pleasure loathing,
Crying loudly, " Great is God,
Only Man is nothing!"
A Song of Jubilee
Ho, heirs of Saxon Alfred
And Caeur de Lion bold!
Mix'd breed of churls and belted earls
Who worshipped God of old;
Who harried East and harried West
And gather'd land and gold,
While from the lips of white-wing'd ships
Our battle-thunder rolled.!
With a hey! and a ho!
And a British three times three!
At the will of the Lord of the Cross and Sword
We swept from sea to sea!
And lo, our mighty Empire
Rises like R OME of yore —
Another Rome, that feasts at home
Awake, awake, ye Nations, now the Lord of Hosts goes by!
Sing ye His praise, O happy souls, who smile beneath the sky!
Join in the song, O martyr'd ones, where'er ye droop and die!
The Lord goes marching on!
'Mid tramp and clangour of the winds and clash of clouds that meet,
He passeth on His way and treads the Lost beneath His feet;
His legions are the winged Storms that follow fast and fleet
Their Master marching on!
From battlefield to battlefield He wends in royal array,
Sad is the plight of Giant Despair,
In Doubting Castle sick lies he!
The castle is built on a headland bare,
And looks on the wash of a whirling Sea.
With the noise in his ears and the gleam in his eyes
Of the breaking waves that beneath him beat,
Propt on pillows the Giant lies,
Pillowed, too, are his gouty feet.
In and out the Leeches of Souls
Run and chatter and prate and pray —
But the great wind wails and the thunder rolls:
None may banish his gloom away.
Farm In The Valley — Sunset
Wondrous work of busy hands;
Still the lonely City thrives,
Rich in worldly goods and wives,
And with thrust-out jaw and set
Teeth, the Yankee threatens yet —
Half admiring and half riled,
Oft by bigger schemes beguiled,
Turning off his curious stare
To communities elsewhere,
Always with unquiet eye
Watching Utah on the sly.
Long the City of the Plain
Left its image on my brain:
White kiosks and gardens bright
Rising in a golden light;
Busy figures everywhere
8 God Is Beautiful
Thy beauty on this stillness — still as sheep
The Hills lie under Thee; the Waters deep
Murmur for joy of Thee; the voids below
Mirror Thy strange fair Vapours as they flow;
And now, afar upon the barren height,
Thou sendest down a radiant look of light
So that the still Peaks glisten, and a glow
Rose-colour'd tints the little snowy cloud
That poises on the highest peak of all.
Oh, Thou art beautiful! — the Hills are bowed
Beneath Thee; on Thy name the soft Winds call —