Smoky Hoss (01 may 1962 / U.S.A.)
I cannot find my voice.
I only hear it echo, here and there;
In Groucho Marx's laughter at conventional-stuffiness
and Frederick Buechner's words of true understanding,
in Paul Gruchow's beautiful relationship with nature
and Martin Luther's love of grace,
in desert canyon croonings
and mountain top vistas,
in trees and rivers swaying and flowing
and across endless points of the stretching plains,
in reckless love
and unconditional compassion,
in all the money I've simply gave away
and in possessions I'm no longer possessed by,
in the wild wind and roaring rain
amongst the amazing clarity of pure, fresh air,
in the severe emptiness of dark
and the sheer overflowing beauty of sweet sunlight,
in the few irrefutable men, who are my real brothers
and especially from deep within their open hearts they share.
In all of this
this soul, this spirit-of-being,
I hear, my voice.
when I turn to look at it directly, earnestly,
though its scent lingers deliciously,
like the warmth of the sun on a deep winters day.
And still, my voice, however intangible,
continues to flow as echoes of sentiment
coursing through the relentless runnels of my mind.
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