Confidere

Movement One: "I Want Him To"

I want him to send me a music box

With a song by his father about his mother and his mother,

And just a note explaining

That I might understand this song

Too familiar to us all.

I want to send him some musical notes

With a song for him and not for his father or his mother

But just for him.

Hiking in sandals, who else would try?

Perhaps the stream understands why,

Lapping at our feet.

He loves water.

He wants to send me a lullaby at two a.m.

But he asks me to sing it,

Timid and afraid that his voice isn't good enough,

That the tree of his family has grown so tall and strong

It has shaded him in

I won't let him give in.

I want to show him

A box of paints

And ask him to paint me away.

He could let me hear pictures.

Intellectual feasting

Under the harvesting moon.

Time draws near

But there are no watches in this field,

Because Nature has overgrown even the slightest trace

Of the most ancient sundial.

His father rediscovers it

And says it is our ancestors who put it there.

I say it was the Romans, though to me it is the same.

Blue eyes blond hair sandals son wears no leather, climbs to a resting place to see the big picture.

From above, he asks me to look up,

And says that from a distance I am Beautiful, but not so much as when I am standing

with him

Together alone.

His father wrote that there was an eclipse.

We were too busy with modern inconveniences

and something called satellites

Which may also define a destructive force of the universe,

Coming to take our lives away.

His father asks him about that often,

And then he looks to me for the answer,

I show him poetry as defense against this weather

And the stars do not respond until our eyes are true:

Green intertwining cold ice melting blue.

Colors and visions at times become one

Creating roads and paths to follow.

I choose paths, with me he agrees,

Sometimes we make our own.

Our fires from deadwood we burn

They start again, old life we churn.

Nothing in our hearts will go to waste.

His father stays with her alone in his home.

We camp outside and look above and wonder,

At the heavens and at his room

And see a visible rainbow path

Connecting that man to his home to our earth,

And we are part of it.

Some people worship his father.

He is not a Lord,

He deals with angels,

But to do so we will all lose so much.

he has shown us with so many

What love is.

To not have that, but to understand it

Burns like the deadwood

In the ashes it churns.

His father draws the curtains,

From a canteen floweth wine,

Flowers, and angels still present with us

My music box has yet to unwind.

Movement Two: "Crossing Hands"

Crossing hands crisscross the light

Moon upon us, falling night.

We do not have to rise,

But the horses will run.

Playful he seems,

Curious am I,

But the wonder of love

Flickers from his eye.

Falling upon us is a dying star,

Yet we see its birthplace ubiquitous still,

A nebula, colors like our eyes

Locked and intertwining

A field for our love to till.

Into the garden we root in the dirt

We take some from the wound

Of his father's hurt.

It is no promise but in his son he believes

The trees and the forest shan't die,

Though the garden of lilies do cry.

Uneven metric metronomes unwind

My music box rhythm,

My lover my rhyme.

All within me is from somebody else,

Each particle in connection

With those we still love.

We are part of that distant star

Cosmically being a trip to far.

We allow his father to journey alone

On his trip

On his path

To his Standing Stone.

I say that I worry,

Love says

"Father is fine,

Forget about him

And finish my wine."

For promise forsake me

A conscious doth not,

Grapes surrounding

Visions abound.

Skyshot.

Movement Three: "Skyshot"

Skyshot upon us,

Destruction at ends.

Searing words,

Father

Painful

Amends.

We talk of origins

We feel our beliefs

Forgetting the man

At Stone with his grief.

We silence after breathing

Heavily through the night

As morning rises,

He is there as solid

As his father's monument

He prayed at that stone.

We keep the firelight,

As his father rushes in

We ask not where he was,

We know where he's been.

We wrapped in blankets

He still in plain clothes.

He fixes dinner

He insists upon this.

We enjoy laughter

Guilty upstairs

Freezing below us

The man who still cares.

He watches the storm pass,

He lets out a sigh.

He blesses our love

Gives us kisses Goodbye.

We pack with a purpose

A sadness

But love.

Hands in each other's,

His mother's...

A dove.

To be on our own

Father, survive alone.

Yet still,

They both insist to me

That is how it should be.

Movement Four: "Together We Walk"

Together we walk

Unknown purpose at hand.

Midnight sun follows.

Give way to great dark

I compose him something

He prepares dye

He sings,

I weave

We dip and cover our hands

Red like blood

Like birth

Like love.

Blood like everything

Starting once more.

From his father, a feast,

Father understands,

He now walks with a purpose

He has calm demands.

His soul is at rest,

His body protecting us

Two parting, too living

For all to embrace.

That is his nature.

We represent the returns of these natives,

The bringers of love,

These Poets of ages.

That we feel

In melding eyes

Music box surprise.