jarindreamsinger

Love is a spark kindled between two lives. Chasing out the dark till the dawn arrives. Kindled between two lives, becoming an undying flame. Till the dawn arrives, love is never tame. Becoming an undying flame, fusing lovers heart to heart. Love is never tame, even from the start. Fusing lovers heart to heart, chasing out the dark, even from the start, love is a spark.

Alone with thought and memory, I ponder reflections of my past. Seeking a piece of history. Who I was from first to last. I ponder reflections of my past, Fragments, figments given form. Who I was from first to last. Gentle breeze, oncoming storm? Fragments, figments given form, How to tell what's false, what's real? Gentle breeze, oncoming storm, What should I think, what should I feel? How to tell what's false, what's real, Seeking a piece of history? What should I think, what should I feel, Alone with thought and memory?

The old, lush green forest, The vast, rolling sea; Both now are calling, Are calling to me. I'm a child of two worlds, The forest and sea. Both wildly different, Both wild and free. So I took up my lyre, And I took up my pack. And I went, and I wandered, Though I vowed to come back. Now, I've lived in the greensward, I've traveled the sea. And I've found that I love them, They're both part of me. But in all of my travels, Wherever I roam, There's no place like this one, My hearth, and my home.

Mists, swirling; a dank and bitter morn. Like unto, yet different from, so many come before. Mists, swirling; a haze before my mind. Like unto a bitter fog, my soul it seems to bind. Mists, swirling; bane to man or elf. Unless I fight my caged soul free, I'll never be myself.

A poem is not a written thing, rather, it's evoked. It's born of dreams, and dust, and light; of mirrors, and of smoke. A poem is a thing eternal, even after the poet dies. It's read in the hearts of gods and men, as they gaze at the clear night skies. From poems spring the heartsblood of the whole human race, the blood of our fathers and sons. We might survive the dreamer's death; but where would be the fun?

Men call me a bard, but that's not what I am. A master of songs, fit for Kings and their men? I am but a minstrel; A small and meager scribe; Jotting down the words Of the great, unending song.

Green grows the forest, Bright green doth it be. Wild grows the greensward, Every plant, shrub, and tree. Wild the woods are, Wild and free. For here there is magic, for those who can see. For in all of this freedom, so fantastic to thee, dwell centaurs and satyrs; unicorns... and me.

Dandelions grow yellow and green, Suns amid each fertile field. As signs of hope and life they're seen: Earth's bounty, nature's yield. Suns amid each fertile field, Bringing color to the earth. Earth's bounty, nature's yield, Dance the dance of death and birth. Bringing color to the earth, Growing on each hill and dell. Dance the dance of death an birth, Manchild listen, listen well. Growing on each hill and dell, As signs of hope and life they're seen. Manchild listen, listen well: Dandelions grow yellow and green.

The Song of Life is simply sung By bird and beast, moon and sun. Until the last note soft is rung, Mother Nature has her fun. By bird and beast, moon and sun Living magick we do see. Mother Nature has her fun Courting them and you and me. Living magick we do see In every breath and every day. Courting them and you and me, Life herself at work and play. In every breath and every day, Until the last note soft is rung, Life herself at work and play: The Song of Life is simply sung.

Hear the cry of the old bard's song. So painful is the memory... He'll be forgotten and lost before long, But he'll live in this melody. So painful is the memory: Trembling hands and fading voice. But he'll live in this melody, That bard whose songs made souls rejoice. Trembling hands and fading voice, Fire in his eyes, and a passionate drive. That bard whose songs made souls rejoice, He kept the ancient legends alive. Fire in his eyes, and a passionate drive... He'll be forgotten and lost before long. He kept the ancient legends alive. Hear the cry of the old bard's song.

Summer Storms By: Joey Maxwell 12/30/02 It seems that when a storm comes, the whole land anticipates its arrival. The water buffalo lay down on their knees in the fields, the women in the rice paddies gather their tools and head back towards the village. Birds gather in the trees above the gardens and groves, their songs quieting, only to give way to the soft jingling of temple chimes as the wind comes, snaking and eddying around old crumbling statues and shrines that have seen more than their fare share of the raging heavens over the long years. But to some the coming storms would excite a raw sense of wonder and awe. The little fox pup