Poetry in Motion
Imagine as this snow is melting how
a bird is opening its wings to welcome
a new dream, imagine as your weeping
heart is beating how your eyes are looking
for a cloud, a shelter for your soul’s desire,
imagine as this day is closing how the night
is entering, its dark embrace invisible, silence
then, imagine as this snow is melting how
it welcomes you, whispering, arms only for
you, then fly, fly, so you melt too and woo.
There is little left, as if all the snow
has melted, all the birds unwinged,
fallen angels, lovers lost in agony,
their song is echoed by the water
now that keeps on pouring in my
home land, o, there is little left, a
treetop reaching out, six thousand
rings that lead to this, o, there is
little left, all has melted, lovers lost.
Once there was a river and the water sang to me,
I crossed its melody and answered with a tear or
two, then went on, forgot about what I had left
behind, there always is a better road in mind so
I was told, and don’t look back, just go ahead,
and follow what is written, and I did, till finally
I reached a beach that stretched to the horizon,
as if the sand had swallowed all the sea, and there
I wept, and wept, then came a wave or two,
and took me in, in tune for a familiar melody.
What are we looking for, since what we
hope to find has always been at heart.
There is a seagull gliding proudly on
the breeze, waving, calling but we keep
on turning our own wheel of fortune.
How then could we stumble on a hidden
treasure if what we hope to find has always
been at heart? We have forgotten how its
beating was a steady compass even during
stormy weather. We have forgotten how
its silent drum never once let us down.
How could we not but tenderly accept
its offering? What are we hiding from?
Is it our fear to be discovered, to be
left uncovered by the wings of Love?
Then what we’re looking for is not our
heart’s desire, but only heart’s disease,
and to be cured we need to listen to the
seagull’s call. When we are looking for
that hidden treasure then the map is
here, we wrote it on the breeze, waving,
calling, gliding proudly, easily.
(picture taken @ Biarritz, France, Atlantic Ocean)
Some smoke is dancing in the snow,
it makes me think of You, my Love,
some smoke is dancing in the snow,
there are no leaves and trees are naked,
O my Love, some smoke is dancing
with the snow, is there a message
then for me, are You inviting me, O,
so graciously, so graciously, I hear
Your voice, it hasn’t melted yet,
O Lord, my Lord of Frost, shall You
then keep Her here, before my Love
has melted, melted by some smoke,
here, dancing in the snow.
Boutman 