Unfolding!
listen!
in every voice
something familiar!
in every face
something that
reminds you...
in every flower
that blooms.
in every cloud,
in every leaf
blowing in the wind.
in every child
that's born...
in every old person
that you bury.
in every man
working with his hands.
in every woman
raising her children.
in every mountain
standing silent...
in every river
flowing free...
the song of living,
the dance of darkness
and light....
the universe unfolding
in your hands!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Amazon
This song appears on four albums, and was first released on the different directions album, and has also been released on the gift you are and the john denver collection - sunshine on my shoulde
Ums. a live version appears on the wildlife concert album.
There is a river that runs from the mountains
That one river is all rivers
All rivers are that one
There is a tree that stands in the forest
That one tree is all forests
All trees are that one
There is a flower that blooms in the desert
That one blossom is all flowers
All flowers are that one
There is a bird that sings in the jungle
That one song is all music
All songs are that one
It is the song of life
It is the flower of faith
It is the tree of temptation
It is the river of no regret
There is a child that cries in the ghetto
That one child is all children
All children are that one
There is a vision that shines in the darkness
That one vision is all of our dreams
It is a vision of heaven
It is a child of promise
It is the song of life
It is the river of no regret
Let this be a voice for the mountains
Let this be a voice for the river
Let this be a voice for the forest
Let this be a voice for the flowers
Let this be a voice for the ocean
Let this be a voice for the desert
Let this be a voice for the children
Let this be a voice for the dreamers
Let this be a voice of no regret
Words and music by john denver
song performed by by John Denver
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In A Spider's Web
there is a voice
calling me from
that distant shore...
a voice familiar
as my own....
there is a place
where dreams are born...
and then given form;
where fire is discovered
anew every day!
there is a mountain
that no one has climbed...
a river no man has seen.
there is a cave that
goes on forever....
a path no foot has trod.
there is a flower
that only blooms once...
every million years or so.
a horn no lips have blown;
a song known only by the wind....
that distant shore,
so far, so near.....
a cosmos in a tiny shell....
a rainbow hidden in a feather,
the history of all life
woven in a spider's web!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Man Standing...
the man standing
in the shadows,
held the earth
in his hands...
until time and storm
finally had their way.
the man standing
in the shadows,
plowed and planted,
season after season,
till winter grey
closed the last door.
the man standing
in the shadows,
built a house
and a bridge...
and swept room and porch
till it was finished.
the man standing
in the shadows,
picked up nests of straw,
and opened tiny cages,
blowing light from cupped hands
till the darkness swallowed.
the man standing
in he shadows,
played a wooden flute,
caught stardust in each note...
till the great stillness came,
and the wind stopped blowing...
the man standing
in the shadows,
still smells like you!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Song of an Angel
Be still, and listen to the wind,
As it whispers through the leaves,
For the gentle song of angels,
Is blowing in the breeze.
A song that sings of little hands,
That did so many jobs,
Hands that now are gently clasped,
Within the grasp of God.
A song that sings of a little heart,
That always poured out love,
A heart that now is full of joy,
As God holds him up above.
A song that sings of little smiles,
That brightened many days,
Smiles that now warm the hearts,
Of angels on their way.
A song that sings of a little boy,
That always was a friend,
A little boy who's shown us all,
That God's love never ends.
Be still, and listen to the wind,
As it whispers through these leaves,
For the gentle song of an angel,
Is blowing in its breeze.
-In loving memory of Charles McMichael
poem by Jean Penner
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The Secret of Light
I am sitting contented and alone in a little park near the Palazzo Scaligere in Verona, glimpsing the mists of early autumn as they shift and fade among the pines and city battlements on the hills above the river Adige.
The river has recovered from this morning's rainfall. It is now restoring to its shapely body its own secret light, a color of faintly cloudy green and pearl.
Directly in front of my bench, perhaps thirty yards away from me, there is a startling woman. Her hair is black as the inmost secret of light in a perfectly cut diamond, a perilous black, a secret light that must have been studied for many years before the anxious and disciplined craftsman could achieve the necessary balance between courage and skill to stroke the strange stone and take the one chance he would ever have to bring that secret to light.
While I was trying to compose the preceding sentence, the woman rose from her park bench and walked away. I am afraid her secret might never come to light in my lifetime. But my lifetime is not the only one. I will never see her again. I hope she brings some other man's secret face to light, as somebody brought mine. I am startled to discover that I am not afraid. I am free to give a blessing out of my silence into that woman's black hair. I trust her to go on living. I believe in her black hair, her diamond that is still asleep. I would close my eyes to daydream about her. But those silent companions who watch over me from the insides of my eyelids are too brilliant for me to meet face to face.
The very emptiness of the park bench in front of mine is what makes me happy. Somewhere else in Verona at just this moment, a woman is sitting or walking or standing still upright. Surely two careful and accurate hands, total strangers to me, measure the invisible idea of the secret vein in her hair. They are waiting patiently until they know what they alone can ever know: that time when her life will pause in mid-flight for a split second. The hands will touch her black hair very gently. A wind off the river Adige will flutter past her. She will turn around, smile a welcome, and place a flawless and fully formed Italian daybreak into the hands.
I don't have any idea what his face will look like. The light still hidden inside his body is no business of mine. I am happy enough to sit in this park alone now. I turn my own face toward the river Adige. A little wind flutters off the water and brushes past me and returns.
It is all right with me to know that my life is only one life. I feel like the light of the river Adige.
By this time, we are both an open secret.
Verona
poem by James Arlington Wright
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Yesterday
yesterday was a wild wind
it blew me everywhere and i was but
a mere leaf not knowing what a direction is going to make
out of me
i hope though that soon this caterpillar
shall become another
monarch
butterfly to own a chunk of
blue sky
a capillary of a red petal of a rose that blooms
on the month of May,
yesterday was crippling and there was not crutch
no screeching wheelchair and i was helplessly bending
to a certain pain
i was wriggling and i fall upon a river raging towards a cliff
i had become a victim of a waterfall.
the hope is that soon after the wind shall have blown
and finished with its rage
the leaf shall then become free
to fall on the ground where it shall wilt
what option has it, when cut from its branch
and deprived of roots?
today is the hope of the seed
it knows what roots are, what fruits can be
today is the grains of the silent sand
light and glimmer, look over there
there is this dance of the prince and the princess
in the castle of the clouds
there is this heavy silence after
where we shall be again together
there is this smile that keeps us alive for the moment
there is this hold for a lifetime of hands that grip the softness of our being
we must agree and remember and believe
there is this tomorrow that never dies
there is this sun that we do not know how it works
tomorrow it will still be shining
there is still us i must suppose because we are tired of options.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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My heart is my hands
My hands
Is
Only my hands...
Not for
your hands....
So...
I want too work
My hands...
I want too serve
My hands...
I want to do about
Somthing of my
Hands...
My hands is
Free for only
Sleeping time only...
my hands is
working all the times
My hands not only
Hands...
It is human workers...
Allways for my friends...
My hands...is my heart...
My heart is my hands.....
Ok...How is your hands...?
poem by Otteri Selvakumar
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The Blind Couple And The Close Minded Man
a couple born blind at birth, decided that they would marry
and a child they wanted to carry.
when an acquaintance of a friend
began to question such an affair.
he had to question them, he did not care.
how can you marry one another?
when you can't even see each other?
how do you know if your partner
is a beauty or a beast?
and any children that you have
may come out the same as you.
living in darkness, is that what you
want for them too?
the blind couple holding hands, and smiles
on their faces, walked over to him.
the woman asked if she could touch him?
and he agreed.
she touched the features of his face
his hair, his shoulders, and leaned
over and inhaled deeply.
she stepped back, and in a soft gentle voice said:
you are a man 5'11' in height
but you have no clue- no insight.
by your features of your face
your looks are quite fine
your face narrows down to your chin
telling me you are slim.
the mark on the bridge of your nose
tells me that you wear glasses too.
the smell from your body, tells me that
you are a nervous person, and always on the move.
and the way you dress, makes you think
you're in the groove.
'shocked and dismayed, he did'nt know what to say'
she then said in that same tone.
because we are blind from our birth
does not mean we can not see.
we live in darkness, but love lights up our hearts.
and the other senses, we had from the start.
we do everything the same as you
and some things, we may do better too.
we dress ourselves, bathe, cook, clean the house too
and we know just what to do.
as for a child coming into our lives
and if the child will live in darkness
the same as us.
in GOD we put our trust.
embarassed and apologetic, he learned
a lesson that day.
LOVE AND FAITH, have no boundaries
and there is nothing that can not be overcome.
if you trust in the FATHERS SON.
poem by Louis Rams
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A River Poem
Inside the river are
the sky, the cloud, and the sun.
In my hands’ bowl is the river.
If I throw up my hands,
the river spills in drops, scattering
sky, cloud, and sun all o’er me.
From my hands’ bowl, if I drink
the river, then within me,
the sun, the cloud, and the sky.
Tell me, who is in who?
poem by Mamta G.Sagar
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Getting Out
i did not say it was a mad house.
perhaps it was me, when i left it.
perhaps i have not seen the light.
or perhaps it was too dark inside.
or perhaps the darkness is just inside myself.
but then i left it. It is now a fact.
i smile to the world now.
i have many choices about what colors
of shirt, or pants or socks to wear.
i can read any book and i can be anywhere
i want.
i did not change my face or modify my body.
there was no pressure to adopt my vision
to anyone else
or to that house that is set in the middle of the
big city and walled as high as the clouds.
all i felt was the hanging
and the inhibition as though i am caged
but you have always said
this is part of the molding and it
will be painful for a time.
i want a ring with a name and date on it.
i want a house without walls.
a face with eyes open and hands outstretch
to the sky.
i want to listen to the sound of the river
as it longs for the mouth of the sea.
i went to the mountain with trees and
listened to the songs of the birds
and the aria of the wind.
i went on top and saw the city
and it is too small for my hands.
now, i have seen the light.
now i feel freedom.
now i am myself. there is no fear
and all i have is love and
compassion.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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When the Wind Returns
a soft strong voice called me,
a voice i'd heard before
but couldnt quite remember...
and my spirit rose from my body,
and left through the bedroom window
without looking back...
there is a space beyond the stars
in the darkest sky... a place
beyond the mind's understanding...
when light returns to darkness
and is reborn.... in tiny particles
of dust that gather and are formed....
a song that has no human words...
but is known and knowing... and
can only be played by human hands...
i do not know... dont have to!
but i know beyond knowing...
and have drank water from that brook...
when the wind returns, so will i...
i need no name, no familiar face...
you'll know i'm there when you breathe!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Our Song
a song I never knew
has now become the song I can never forget
it is the song that can cure all
for I sit and listen to that song everyday
its reminds me of all the good
it reminds me of so much
for these lyrics I will never forget
for no matter how bad a day
all I have to do is hit play
and it will all be ok
with this one song I become
so peaceful
so happy
so relaxed
I never thought I would ever feel this calm
but now I do
everyday
because of this song
our song
the song that reminds me of you
of us
of love
of happiness
of everything good
so now I lay here and just listen
listen to our song
I lay here in happiness
as I listen to our song
word by word
I become happier
as I listen to this song
not one time
but over and over
for this is the only song I want to hear
its me, you, and this song
our song
poem by Caleb Jones
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Read This Aloud
i am beautiful
i am not alone
i am self-sufficient
i am kind
i am happy
i am peaceful
i am living in the grace of God
i am human
i have erred &
i am forgiven
i am exuding happiness
i am a ray of hope
i am the sun of warmth
i am the rain of satisfaction
i fall upon the grass
i give life to the earth
i am like a bird singing on a twig
i am a song in the air
i am a lotus sitting on a pond of water
i am a river flowing peacefully on the banks of the Nile
i am the child of the universe
i am a star
i am a tree
i am a leaf
i am a rose
i am a sailboat sailing peacefully at sea
i am everything that i can be
i am a wish
i come true
i am the happy child of God
i am loved
i know how to love
i love
i am smiling
my eyes speak
my mouth waters
to the sweetness of this world
i am everything
i am this universe within me.
i believe.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Listen My Children
listen to what i have to say
my children listen to what i have to say
i weep for you all the time
yes i do
i see and feel you your pain
so please stretch out your hand and ley me help you
let me light your way through the darkness leading you to happiness
listen to what i have to say
my children listen to what your father has to say
i want to rain my blessings down upon you
and heal you when ever you're ill
my children come to me don't stray to the wrong path
what i can give you is more precious than gold or anything else
and that is a fact
my children listen to my voice
i love you
i care for you
i'll never leave you
i'm always here for you
listen! listen to what i am saying i'mwaiting for you my children
poem by Candice Freeman
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Move On
Move on
for there is no cloud
that brings the same rain
no new day
that brings the same wind...
Move on
for there is no the same flower
that blooms in the garden
and no the same water
that flows in the river...
Move on
and discover more
of the many wonderful things
in this universe.
poem by Marites C. Cayetano
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Prayer
Can we touch the soul of heaven
Can we unite a sacred lesson
Every child creates a skylight of beauty
Can you hear cathedrals falling
All the universe is calling
Cry a single cello from your heart
Since the world has lost away
Loneliness journey endlessly
Yet the promised chance remains
Gift of what could be
So let the children remember the sun
Let them dance let them soar
For their lives have begun
Let the children engender the rain
As the river runs through fields
Forever's subsiding their pain
Prayer
Every voice along the shoreline
Standing still within time
Spinning unresolved
Walking
As each season passes
Wonderland of looking glasses
Secret garden shines because you
Gentle flower
song performed by by Celine Dion from New Day Has Come
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The First Jasmines
Ah, these jasmines, these white jasmines!
I seem to remember the first day when I filled my hands with
these jasmines, these white jasmines.
I have loved the sunlight, the sky and the green earth;
I have heard the liquid murmur of the river thorough the
darkness of midnight;
Autumn sunsets have come to me at the bend of a road in the
lonely waste, like a bride raising her veil to accept her lover.
Yet my memory is still sweet with the first white jasmines
that I held in my hands when I was a child.
Many a glad day has come in my life, and I have laughed with
merrymakers on festival nights.
On grey mornings of rain I have crooned many an idle song.
I have worn round my neck the evening wreath of bakulas woven
by the hand of love.
Yet my heart is sweet with the memory of the first fresh
jasmines that filled my hands when I was a child.
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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The Weakest Thing
Which is the weakest thing of all
Mine heart can ponder?
The sun, a little cloud can pall
With darkness yonder?
The cloud, a little wind can move
Where'er it listeth?
The wind, a little leaf above,
Though sere, resisteth?
What time that yellow leaf was green,
My days were gladder;
But now, whatever Spring may mean,
I must grow sadder.
Ah me! a leaf with sighs can wring
My lips asunder -
Then is mine heart the weakest thing
Itself can ponder.
Yet, Heart, when sun and cloud are pined
And drop together,
And at a blast, which is not wind,
The forests wither,
Thou, from the darkening deathly curse
To glory breakest, -
The Strongest of the universe
Guarding the weakest!
poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
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The Garden Shukkei-en
By way of a vanished bridge we cross this river
as a cloud of lifted snow would ascend a mountain.
She has always been afraid to come here.
It is the river she most
remembers, the living
and the dead both crying for help.
A world that allowed neither tears nor lamentation.
The matsu trees brush her hair as she passes
beneath them, as do the shining strands of barbed wire.
Where this lake is, there was a lake,
where these black pine grow, there grew black pine.
Where there is no teahouse I see a wooden teahouse
and the corpses of those who slept in it.
On the opposite bank of the Ota, a weeping willow
etches its memory of their faces into the water.
Where light touches the face, the character for heart is written.
She strokes a burnt trunk wrapped in straw:
I was weak and my skin hung from my fingertips like cloth
Do you think for a moment we were human beings to them?
She comes to the stone angel holding paper cranes.
Not an angel, but a woman where she once had been,
who walks through the garden Shukkei-en
calling the carp to the surface by clapping her hands.
Do Americans think of us?
So she began as we squatted over the toilets:
If you want, I'll tell you, but nothing I say will be enough.
We tried to dress our burns with vegetable oil.
Her hair is the white froth of rice rising up kettlesides, her mind also.
In the postwar years she thought deeply about how to live.
The common greeting dozo-yiroshku is please take care of me.
All hibakusha still alive were children then.
A cemetery seen from the air is a child's city.
I don't like this particular red flower because
it reminds me of a woman's brain crushed under a roof.
Perhaps my language is too precise, and therefore difficult to understand?
We have not, all these years, felt what you call happiness.
But at times, with good fortune, we experience something close.
As our life resembles life, and this garden the garden.
And in the silence surrounding what happened to us
it is the bell to awaken God that we've heard ringing.
poem by Carolyn Forché
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Hear My Voice
A woman with a child,
A writer with a pen,
As a light that shines in dark places;
So is my muse for you all in this world.
Hear my voice,
Look for me;
Like the mass suicide in Guyana.
Hear my voice,
Read my lines,
Like a personality caught with a prostitute;
Body pains for two when, the flower blooms.
In the year of release,
The fishermen will fish for them;
In the darkness of sin,
The hunters will hunt for them;
If today you will hear my voice.
To roar like a lion,
To think like a poet,
Like the woman who brought forth the man;
Learn a parable from the fig tree.
In the valleyof Berachah,
Gain knowledge after your experiences;
Cos', i have ideas behind the looked doors.
Talents so extaordinary to touch,
Today if you will hear my voice.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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