what music will we sing

what music do you sing
in your heart when you dream
what is your stereotype?

is there room in your soul
for more than what you know
to be the ambiguous archetype?

can you swing, can you sway
is courage there to play
in colors more than hype?

can you groove in the shoes
of different souls than you
in rhythms that are ripe?

are the skins of bronze and rouge
and browns with all their hues
coloring your world tonight?

can you share in the joys
of multicolored girls and boys
who dance in musical delight?

will you jam in your soul
as the inner-city grows
with drumming power and fight?

can your burdens unite
in common human strife
to breathe life’s vigil light?

can the music’s sweetness flow
from your head to your toes,
bring peace to your darkened night?

can we open our eyes
to see a paradise in
hides of our neighbors plight?

can we lay aside ways
long instilled through our days
to bring peace into purest light?

can you take my tarnished hand
and dance in demented lands
to usher in the noble knight?

will you lay down your blades
and calls for jihad’s ways
to dance with me in plain sight?

can you trust my outstretched hand
which longs for you to stand
with me, although i am white?

will you give me a chance
to act far beyond the romance
to dance in peaceful respite?

can you join my rapt jazz
and play a tune that has
the peaceful rhythms of right?

what music will we sing
in our hearts when we dream
when we write the new stereotype?

© 2007 BY W GARY FORRESTER

if ere there's been a time

if ere there’s been a time that longed to call
upon a pow’r with greater strength than i;
to reach out to another one; to fall
upon my knees in humble fear, then why,
can it not be now? what wretched pride made
naught my fearful heart, and gallant folly
filled it's noble place? o that my faith was staid!
my unbent brow in contrition would be,
in awe before the holy majesty
of life and death and all that is unseen.
i'd bow in fearful hope to share my plea
to see beyond the way that i have been.

but yet, alas the fruit of death once hung
has poured it's deadly wine upon my tongue.

© 2007 BY W GARY FORRESTER

out tamarack way

out tamarack way
we roam the mountain spines
up grandpa’s crooked back
smelling of laurel bay
where outlaws dream
in lonesome refrain
as sisters watch
and brothers play

out tamarack way
summer winds blow cold
on mossy rocks
over valleys broad
where peaceful rest
finds heavens day
upon the appalachian’s
ancient sway

out tamarack way
where beech king’s reign
and river’s new blood flow
we left a piece
of who we’ll be
when days of old
are ours to hold
as memory of today

out tamarack way
my heart does fly
across the morning mist
on sculpture strokes
of creation’s host
upon the godly crest
i long for the life of mountain folks
upon tamarack’s clay

© 2007 BY W GARY FORRESTER

in my dream

in my dream, the world is a place that sees
with blinded eyes; that knows no means to steal
the hopes and dreams of those who dare reveal
a vision pure, of life as all could be.
with blinded eyes she can, and will, not see
the status of the dreamers flesh appeal,
or judge envisioned themes by carnal seal,
to dash the dream upon a crimson sea.

and in my dream, the world knows only peace
that’s bore on shoulders scorched by golden sun
alone, without the wars of man, or run
to bear the weight of mourning death’s caprice;
but strong with lifting bountiful increase
of earthly gifts, and store that pour upon
the labored toil of hands that never shun
loves burdened chore to give to all, a feast.

and in my dream, the mystery we seek,
the corporeal way; the keeper of life;
in peaceful curiosity that’s rife
with common ground for each man to bespeak
of eternal life in his own way unique;
no fear of any other man’s vain strife
to drive him from his goal of living life,
or alter his search for god through critique

and in my dream i’m free to dream of what
my heart desires. and dream of what i can
become. and be what only i can stand
upon my own two feet to be. my thought
shall only dwell upon this dream that taught
me how to see the good that’s in a man
and not upon the fear of what i am
when the baneful waking hour is duly wrought.

and in my dream, i see a world where all,
like gifts upon a barren alter, show
that not the taker reaps the givers vow,
but gifts do flow to they who give enthralled
to give like they who give not less than all
of what they have to live. they give although
they risk it all to free the grief and woe
and leave their burdens at the wailing wall.

and in my dream, no man does live without
the riches of the earth in all her share.
and no man seeks to harm a soul or err
against the love that lives in man throughout.
no harbored stores of harvest gold are cast about;
no helpless hungry mouths lie silent there;
but mother earth pours forth, their living share
that none, to feed, will live their lives in doubt.

and in my dream, diversity embraced
is mankind struggling in common fate.
no feeble bigotry or sanctioned hate;
no misspent anger aimed for racial chaste.
each human soul, in harmony is placed
in unity with heart and soul’s innate
redress; our loving care for all mandates
we all embrace each others dreams in grace.

and in my dream, all gods pour love and promise
upon creation, mortal, and aware
of heavenly guides who give all care, and share
their goodness without fear of their demise
by mankind’s longing search for compromise
‘tween pleasure, faith, carnal lust and prayer;
to join the flesh with spirit and repair
this dreamers soul, rent wide in sleeping reprise.

© 2007 BY W GARY FORRESTER

some days i feel so strong

some days i feel so strong. and then i don’t.
like a virgin rose I greet the ruddy dawn
with glory, but to wilt and fade upon
the parched and crusted land as scarcely gaunt.

i rise in joy to find the strength within
awaiting me like a gaucho’s trusty steed
tramping rich to gallop in flowing speed
harnessing power, forsaken to the wind.

i soar on wings like knives upon the breeze
like blinding light i cut across the sky
to carve the way that is mine alone to ply
in raptor’s dive, with talons borne to seize.

but then it’s as some spirit robbing shade
steals the life, and leaves the tab unpaid.

© 2007 BY W GARY FORRESTER

my kimberleigh

so sweet and pure, my kimberleigh, adorned
with glory’s smile; her radiant joy shines sweet
like new found gold, a fortune-filled retreat.
she grows in grace and peacefulness, she’s born
with charm and care. her dignity was formed
in years before her birth; passed down complete
with honor found through passion built on deeds.
She shares her trove with all who seek her store.

my kimberleigh, she fills my days with more
than i should know. her loving touch is where
i need, and when i need it most. but not
before her wisdom fair has found the source
of that which caused my heart to pain, and shared
her healing grace, the smile my pain has sought.

© 2007 BY W GARY FORRESTER

when at the end of days

when at the end of days i stand, alone
and silent in a land that i know not,
memories of you will flood my soul, wrought
in joy and pain that only can be shown
in peaceful rest, and life renewed and honed.
shorn of fleshly lust that youth has sought,
free of fear, distrust and shallow care. caught
in arms of love where aging years were grown.

you, my love, are the measure of my worth;
the balance of my life, paid from my birth.
your beauty far exceeds the flesh we bare;
you touched my soul with everlasting care.
my days now done, eternity is clear
you, my love, are with me and ever near.

© 2007 BY W GARY FORRESTER

the stream

each day your life blood flows from start to end
upon the crusted brow your shadow flows.
from dawn to dusk your urgent power sends
all precious gifts upon your step bestowed.

you bring new life to they who pause and rest
upon your banks to cool and touch your soul.
of life, they drink of you, upon their breast
while dining free on deadly feasts untold.

vile curse of killing fields take life for life
and feast in sight of all your glory staid.
who tastes the blood of every victim’s strife
but they who lie in rest beside your shade?

pour forth healing waters upon my face
and rid me of this deadly fall from grace.

© 2007 BY W GARY FORRESTER

what you make of it

life is what you make of it
so the story goes
maybe more or less of it
maybe so…who knows?

we breathe in and we breathe out
no one seems to know
the truth of life…what it’s about
in and out it flows

sages say it’s in our heads
in our hearts to hold
maybe just...can it be said?
the truth can't be told

wise men, priests and godly souls
seek the face of it
out there hidden in the knolls
lurking 'round a bit

we all want to know the thing
that sets us all free
grasping for the cosmic string
to garnish life with glee

meaning seekers high and low
abandon all at last
on their deathly beds they show
mortal shadows cast

standing on our violent shore
pause and seek new life
spring in paradise adorned
burdened seeds of strife

life is what you make of it
leave not a stone unturned
grasp it all, take all of it
as lessons thankfully learned.

© 2007 BY W. GARY FORRESTER

by cursed fate

for Sam... b: 3/29/50 d: 5/23/07

by cursed fate i stand in awe anew
to view again death's shadow falling true.
an open chasm cries for mortal flesh,
like weeping babes baying for the breast.

the gaping earth, she yearns for fleshly krill
unsatisfied she cries wanting more, still;
longing for bones, she widens more her girth,
never enough, her hunger for more is birthed.

O cursed are thee, foul death, who never wanes
but lives to wrack our lives in mortal pain.
cursed are we who watch in fearful shame
as you, foul death, our loved ones live to claim.

who, cursed grave of earth, are you to feast
upon the mortal fruit of man and beast,
to dine upon the souls as common fare
and macerate the loneliness without care?

why? ask we, in a deep and mournful drone.
why we are left at all, empty, alone?
what shall we do and how shall we go on,
and why shall we not die before the dawn?

i stand and stare into your vile and gaping wound
cursing your thirst for melancholy boon.
never filled your invitation calls clear
to lie in fallow earth, for all men is near.

© 2007 BY W. GARY FORRESTER