Does It seem that you've forgotten your way home?
Does it seem your walking backwards and you're all alone?
And the friend that you left far behind keeps calling out your name.
Have you listened to the wind your friend?
Has life seemed one mountain after the other?
And the valleys are just as low it seems.
Have you come to the cross roads where your life became a dream?
Have you Listened to the wind your friend?
Listen to the wind your friend.
Its voice comes through time and time again.
Now if you can't find the answers, and the tears never seem to end.
Have you listened to the wind your friend?
Now the sun is shinning brightly on your pathway.
And you're standing on the mountain now you see.
And the friend that you left far behind never left you, just let you be.
Now you're listening to the wind your friend.
This is the kind of companion poem to be read like a psalm in times of emotional, spiritual and cerebral emptiness.
I often think about an adolescent friend, wondering what it is he is doing now, where he is, how he is. We both fell out in our late teens and never reconciled. Through dimly lit memories, I can see that the reasons for our parting were the stuff of juvenile discourse. Sadly, last I heard was that he was brain damaged and put in a home. The retrospective nature of your poem prompts me to ask myself if his voice is calling down the windswept empty streets of that memory wherein he occupies. Intriguing thought. How does one answer the voice though? Ethereal dimension intrudes.
Regards
Dai
Reviewed by Andy Turner (Reader)
Reviewed on March 10, 2007
They say the answers blowing in the wind, but all i've ever heard is wooooosh.
Good poem about life's paradox....Cute pic too..
In the Whirlwind is a poetic storm that frees history from the cages of corruption and puts it in the hands of everyday people. Words are weaved into a new fashion statement that has nothing to do with runways but everything to do with projects!
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Regis
I often think about an adolescent friend, wondering what it is he is doing now, where he is, how he is. We both fell out in our late teens and never reconciled. Through dimly lit memories, I can see that the reasons for our parting were the stuff of juvenile discourse. Sadly, last I heard was that he was brain damaged and put in a home. The retrospective nature of your poem prompts me to ask myself if his voice is calling down the windswept empty streets of that memory wherein he occupies. Intriguing thought. How does one answer the voice though? Ethereal dimension intrudes.
Regards
Dai
Good poem about life's paradox....Cute pic too..
nice .....Art sun...