Previous William Thomas Sherman Info Page postings, quotes, observations, etc.
The yellow butterfly of August
Greets our noontime stroll,
Yet a squirrel scampers up a tree
And robins scurry off silently;
In wary dread
At the sound of our
Approaching tread.
Now if you look down
The shaded lane ahead,
You’ll see bushes, trees,
And flower beds.
And if you listen closely,
Hid in them you can hear
Small birds singing cheerily.
Sunny beams meanwhile
Illume the grass a vibrant green;
While up and down
The long path before us
Lie purple petals of drying lilac
Strewn in a dizzying stream.
No flower flourishes,
Or bud fervidly flowers;
Such as foxglove, fuchsia,
Snap dragon, delphinium,
Thimbleberry, hibiscus,
Marigolds and geranium,
But also feeds and nourishes
The air and the breeze.
And no bird cheeps in isolation,
Howsoever humble their station,
But chimes in harmony and as one
With the music of the Spheres;
And though such music we cannot hear,
We at least feel its rhythm
In the changing of the season.
“Good” then must be love.
Yet what is love?
Love is the feeling
Such as a veined leaf knows.
Warmed by the sun;
Flowing with water,
Filled with life.
‘Tis a spark given
That sets one’s soul aglow;
Raising it up into
Beauty’s heart unseen.
Yet where is love?
Love is everywhere
But where it isn't.
For munificently
He bestows His blessing;
Is such who so can bless;
Saying: “Have faith. Be of truth.
Seek and you shall find.”
Arriving home
In the soft twilight
And the thickening chill of eve,
Tiny bushtits come into sight;
In and out the bush they weave.
Twittering like a cricket,
As they flutter in the thicket.
Lord love and protect it.
Yet more near or close,
We dare not further go.
For there Nature kisses them
In such sanctuary and repose
Which only innocence may know.
Let us rest content then
In viewing them from far,
And perhaps one day we too
May live the calm that they do.
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[To be continued...]
With a FINALE to die (or at least feel very queasy) for...
>
["Roy Orbison - More (1969)"]
The Good That Is Always [resumed from earlier]
To kiss the robin warbling,
Perched on the roof’s peak
When day breaks,
I am too ponderous.
Nor less clarion or beloved
Of a summer’s morn
Is the seagull’s shout
Skyward borne;
Loud, prolonged, and gay;
Like a trumpet voluntary;
That sounds with merry joy
The royal approach of day.
But once on a morning
When it was dark and overcast,
I saw a lone seagull
Who too wanted to give thanks;
Who too wanted to laugh,
Yet because the time was not right,
Soon departed in humbled flight.
These regal birds of liberty,
After thousands of years;
Soaring over land and sea
For what should they live?
Of what do they dream?
The young gulls gathered
Ready to do what right deems;
The veteran, afraid just a little
At what his charges don’t know,
Has yet plenty of love to lead them
Before on their own they go.
Perhaps what at last he teaches is --
“If each to other you your heart give,
Then ultimately life should let you live.”
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[To be continued...]
Of course, I had to save the very best for last...
["Liberace Medley from the 60's" -- Hollywood Palace along with Milton Berle]
The Good That Is Always [resumed from earlier]
Though as sometimes strained
And sometimes grim the city gets,
Beneath the raucous din there is yet
A warm, humming memory
Of the very good known here,
Reminding one of the very good
That yet is or may be done.
Sauntering in in pairs and packs,
The crows still gather as friends
And like noble savages
Bellow out in tribal unison.
They caw out and reply to
Sacred strophes of jocund song.
And when gray dusk lowers coolly
Then disperses that sable throng.
Light falters; boughs begin to dance
Bright blossoms of radiant white
Sense and thought entrance
In the dimming light.
Now all who’s left is a single rook,
Solitary and lone as the dulcet breeze,
Strutting quietly the verdant lawn,
Pensively like a gentleman.
Gradually droplets start to fall,
Tapping gently green leaves.
He thus alights to leave,
And now comes eve.
Soft silver patter of the rain
Turns to a rushing downpour amain;
That spills from the clouds
In watery sheets and shrouds.
Then the lightening flash;
Then thunder distant,
But even so a happy flood
That brings life to flower and bud.
And when at last the welkin clears,
The kind moon of May appears;
Covering with a halo the roses’ scent;
Closing with peace one day’s career.
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[To be continued...]