JOY

There is only blue above, sky so deep I feel it

Untouched by cloud, fog, lightning, rain
Time cannot enter, age cannot alter
The memory of doors flying open, children
Racing from the party, red, yellow, green
Bright balloons trailing on strings
Wild mustard on skin and hair as we run under
The endless sky of childhood we are
All the energy of summer, mind free of birth
Work, war, fear, death, darkness
A dream in slow motion, a feeling of the heart
Moving from despair to hope, ignorance
To knowing, then deeper, a wellspring of peace

Where one drinks and drinks to the fullness of joy.

28497

 

Rayn Roberts 2012

Lullaby

Star stalker light walker
Night dissolves you dream talker
Speaking the colors of symbols in time
Grow quiet
and small myth balker
Your mind lifts like fog over water
Like mist over land
Imagination is creation–
Countless ways open to wisdom
Follow one, woman, go on man
There is one road to take
The one you’re on
You are who you make: Religion

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Rayn Roberts 2017

WE

WE

Greater has one who gives the little he has
Than one who gives from plenty

For one gives from abundance and has more, while the other
Has nothing, yet gives–

This isn’t the widow’s mite, giving to a temple or church
But living the Light of Life, healing
The sick and poor–

We, the rich, need heed a call to love and give them more.

From this Side of the River

I invented this river, dreamed it up

Been dreaming it wider and wider,

 

I stand on this bank and the other side

Is lost to me, even as I am lost, each day

 

What I think I am, is less and less

What is all about me, more and more

 

And yes the river is deep and wide

Who or what’s on the other side, hidden:

 

Dreaming is a hard skill to master—

I toss my hat the length of the river

 

But cannot see the other side

Dreaming it wider, wider (a statement

 

worth consideration and not

profound at all)  I stand and fish,

 

Catch my limit most often, dinner

For friends as well, yet questions

 

On the nature of dreaming rivers ways

Are as many as the colors of fish, answers

 

Fewer than seem far somehow—

But the river is my own dream

 

If I don’t mind where it takes me

The river can break me in the deep.

 
Crossings are hard task to master.

The river is my own invention.

 

 

 

Christmas Morning

Christmas Morning

 

There was a sidewalk troubadour, twelve-string in hand
He said, “Come hear me warm up my guitar man …”

A vagabond in rainbow poncho pushed a shopping cart
Decorated with snowman, reindeer, garland and a sign that read,

“Happy Xmas, I’m homeless, please help.”

A red, white and blue wolf visible only to me,
Moved him down the street nipping at his heels.

A group jammin’ to a jazz trumpet and drum called out,
“That guy’s a taco short of a combination plate!

Their laugher filled the sky… The full moon floated
Like an empty plate– I wanted to walk into the desert
Find the place where heaven split apart and fell to earth…

I wanted the earth to open and swallow me up, but
The troubadour sang a song of three ships in a harbor

He sang, “And all the bells on earth did ring on Christmas day

…in the morning…”

An angel, audible only to me, sang into my ear,

“And who will ring the bells for the poor on Christmas day

… in the morning?”

The singer he was warming up, He sang for me
He sang for the bum, Christmas morning:

Monday night, December 15th.

 

 

 

 

 

Revisions here by Rayn Roberts 2016

Published in different form December 2005 in Turbula

(originally published in “Jazz Cocktails and Soapbox Songs,” 2003)