Words Poem by Joseph White

Birds in flight beat wings with all their might
in the chilly morn on the boggy marsh land
In the western sky, the pink and purple sunset faded
for Orion, the Big Dipper and the North Star
to sing the song of the inky night
The mournful cry of the guarded one
stood by the rope coiled like a cobra
When the time was near quivered and his ears rang
the odor was deep as a well and his eyes
like a rabbit ran with tears
Somewhere a fire rages and fills the air
with a choking smoke, houses burn
and good people die
A war is being fought by those who do not want
to be there and by those who do
as good soldiers die and have forever
They all want the rain to fall and give a small measure of relief
rain of long duration first falling lightly and then in torrents
to wash away fear, loss and sorrow
However, most of us live in a desert where little rain falls
to alleve hurt or harm and we cannot wet our breathe in misty morns
Or keep the trees and plants alive or smell
the fragrance of sweet summmer rain
Dust from whirlwinds and dust devils will not be settled
as dried leaves and scraps of paper blow into each yard
Brown grass is overtaken by wind-whipped dunes of sand
with sidewinders and scorpions as neighbors
Alas, the trials and tribulations of life will not be washed clean
but remain to be buried in the comming sand
All that remains of the boggy marsh are shards
of the life we once knew and loved
We are poorer for the loss