The Playhouse Stage

The Playhouse stage

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Where do I go,

How far do I travel

To find the places and people

Who visit my dreams?

Do they come here,

Do I go there?

Is it all as real as it seems?

Where is the playhouse stage

Where the plays are played?

Who writes the script

And tells the time,

Who appoints the place

Where dreams are made?

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It Belongs To Them

It Belongs To Them

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It belongs more to them than us;

They rhyme with the wind and wave,

Move with the primal motions,

Each a dancer in the cosmic dance.

We have made ourselves outsiders,

Passersby watching without knowing,
Vandals of the cradle

With no ear for the song.

We think it is ours

But it only waits our passing.
And when we are gone
No anthem will praise
No dirge will mourn.

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Fifty Thousand Years

Fifty Thousand Years

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I know about the unaloneness

Of friendship

That lasts 'till you're alone;

I know about moments of amusement,
Trips to get away,
And promises that seem sincere when made.
I know about the brief intensity of pleasure,
The sometimes endlessness of pain.
I know about working for a living,
The often slight rewards of effort,
The slowness of getting ahead,
How easy to lose and hard to gain...
And I know about the merciful silence of solitude,
Being wrapped in the absence of sound
When everything human is nowhere found.

But let me know if you

Find any meaning

To fifty thousand years

Of war and killing.

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Near The Exit

Near The Exit

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Best not to be an actor

In the play,
A partisan upon the stage;

Nor a member of the mass
Who adoringly pay the wage.
But mostly not a member of the throng
Who applaud the players of the fraud...
The singers of the loyal song.

For when the closing curtain falls
Upon the last turning of the page,

Best to be a watcher in the wing

Near the exit from the coming rage...

The coming coming rage.

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