The Mountain Top:
A place where life’s scarred fingers
effortlessly sink into the warm and sacred rock.
a haven where dreams become a healing reality,
and wishes can be warmly felt;
where hope has substance,
and the breeze whispers, "Freedom.”
it is the holy sanctuary where every breath gives strength,
and the beating heart at last has purpose;
a comforting realm where vulnerable openness is not feared,
and even the most tender soul is secure;
a refuge… a rarified kingdom whose battles are won
with warmth and acceptance,
and its banner, when unfurled, is Love.
The Valley Below:
A native land whose rivers run with pain,
and whose mornings are heavy with foggy sorrow;
whose soil is hardened by droughts of artificiality,
and whose shores are mined with the quicksand of pretense;
a world of foreign lords… always demanding, demanding, demanding;
giving little thought to the resources within one’s grasp;
a land of shadows,
empty and distorted…
a throbbing sea of obscured shapes,
void of any comforting substance;
a wilderness of tangled thought;
a desert of strangled emotion,
and orphaned children…
oh, yes, the children…
the bloodied, wounded, children…
Someone, for reasons unknown to me,
chose to place innocence in this dark and desperate valley;
frail flowers, delicate seedlings, defenseless emerging shoots
lie hidden beneath the jungle canopy,
each struggling towards the light,
in mortal need of a Champion.
But, alas, to survive,
I will secure the Mountain Top within my heart, within my soul;
a treasure that defies description,
a gift beyond price.
1993
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