Some Long-lost poems

I was rummaging through some old incomplete music and lyric notes when I ran across  some texts that I had done years ago. On reading them, they still resonated with me, so I thought I'd add them to my blog files. The first one is very appropriate, given the occasion:
                                 Lost
The melody tugged at the hem of my awareness
while the words hid in the folds of my feelings.
Around them swirled the maze of dailiness.
Soon, lacking attention,
they crept away into the comfort of oblivion --
maybe to remain secluded;
maybe to try again another day.
                                                                 4/6/88
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Another had no date noted, only some preliminary guitar chords.
                          The Search
Highway, long 'n' windin' highway.
Don't know where it's going, but I'm trav'lin.


River, deep 'n' muddy river.
Can't see what I want to, but I'm lookin'.


Questions ev'ry day keep fillin' up my mind.
There's myst'ry in ev'ry part of my life.
Ev'rywhere I turn, answers appear
Only leadin' to other questions.

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Still another needs an image I had drawn of a twig with two arms reaching out like a U from a single stem
                              Ambiguity


Twig of two minds, reaching right and left,        
         teach my heart to be so.
                          
Teach me to embrace your between-ness;
         the wisdom of order,
                the truth of freedom,
              the wholeness of God!
                                                4/30/88
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The last one I want to list today is also from 4/30/88. That was a fruitful day of reflection with the Franciscan poet, Murray Bodo.




                       A Pondside Trilogy
I     I sit -- dwelling for the moment in passivity,
                     letting the world go its way,
                         waiting for that which is.


II    Green reeds rise from quiet waters;
          misplaced grass glimmers from wet sun;
             bold cattails raise their heads above the pool,
                 and gentle winds steal brown tufts to bear to unknown shores.
      Cheerful sparrows chirp while an emerald beetle scurries to its nest.


III   Why do I sit -- doing nothing?
       What do I wait for, my world -- anything?


       I know -- it is the Voice;  it is the Creator;
           it is the One whose touch is always there, always here;
               always within, always around.
      It is the One who says "Here I am; come and see!"