Cry of the Stars

Ride the dragon, ride him high
Weave the story 'round the sky
Let him guide you, turn no oar
Only faith will let you soar
Find the snow, then find the sun
And will then your task be done
This your task and this your road
Till another takes the load
Ride the dragon, leap the sea
Then his eye shall set you free

Jaden dragon, how it roars
Precious stone but yet alive
Stony winging, how it soars
Beware, beware that precious dive
This is not for you to know:
Where, oh where the treasure lies?
Till you find the sun with snow
Dragon bears you as it flies

While soldiers languish, battles rage,
By summer death is wrought
Not cannonballs, nor musket shells,
But sickness from the swamps, unsought
Malaria, typhoid, strike them down
A well man scarcely to be found
The deathly summer soon is past
But troubles far from gone
An Army lust--the natives crushed
Forced out again, the Walk that's Long
From their homes, like Trail of Tears
Hopes are buried under fears
Another battle claims the most
Antietam: a slaughter site
Cornstalks wave o'er scores of dead
Neither truly wins the fight
Mutilated men that groan
Forever, what a day to mourn!

Sherman marches to the sea,
Women, men, and children flee
Smoke, it billows to the sky
Left behind--twisted rail ties

Livestock slaughtered, houses burned
Fields are trampled, burnt, and spurned
When you see him, stay not, fly!
Leave behind--twisted rail ties

Soldiers spread for sixty miles
Raid and burn with bitter smiles
Not a scream, no, not a sigh
Left behind--twisted rail ties

Tomorrow is a stranger,
a stranger I’ll never know
Yesterday is now only a memory,
of radiance and grieves of past
The Present is where we’re at,
but what do we really know?
The Past, Present, and Future,
they are holders of our hope

Little noses press against icy windowpanes,
as they exhale warm breath to form a canvas
Stout fingers squiggle across the glass,
and little landscapes begin to take form

The worn kettle screeches with delight,
as it lets off its puffs of steam with merriment
Caring hands pour the warm drink,
as the clumsier hands of eager children drop handfuls of marshmallows

A smile stretches across the dim face,
at the sight of a snowman braving the cold
His coal grin brings a new kind of warmth to the pale face

A sigh is let loose from chapped lips,
as a tired Papa steps through the door
Little arms cling to him with enthusiasm
And suddenly the lines of worry have decreased

O, the small wonders of the Winter season

Jesus the Lord of all
Is lifted on a tree
To break the curse of Adam's fall
And set the captives free
Now nailed His holy hands
For guilt that once was mine
A cry that rings throughout the land
"My Spirit now is Thine!"

Why the stinging rain?
Or snow, or deep yawning caves?
Is there an answer?

Purpleys and blacks
Horizontal stripe patterns
Warm for the Winter

((author's note: Can you??))

Why is there never inspiration,
Rhythm, thoughts, or words that flow?
Why is there always cruel frustration,
Never knowing what you know?
Why is there never truth for knowing?
It is sought but never found
Always nothing there for showing
Seems a waste to make a sound.
Can you understand my rantings here?
Do you have an inkling, see?
If you have, then thrice a cheer,
You have done it more than me.

Flowing swiftly, off we fly
Leaping rivers, trees, and sky
I'm not riding, he's not ridden
One we are, merged and hidden
Thundering softly, touch no ground
Move so fast, not a single sound
Flying off then, wild and free
Just as one--my horse and me