| |
These are the songs,
thirty-five years
in the making.
There are pieces
whose voice,
born before my son,
never spoke until he
picked up his first
Les Paul guitar.
Others transformed
at his fingertips.
We have written enough
together to fill
many of these books.
i have been blessed
full circle
with his genius and love.
He is an accomplished
guitarist, recording
engineer, a wonderful
father in his own right,
and the best friend
i have ever known.
i dedicate these words
before him and after myself,
unto for ever to
Glen Clinton Thomas Sterner.
|
|
|
|
| |
|
The Warrior Angelo
Like a veil of water, we come fallin' down...
Yes, we stood before the ramparts in the face of Satan's guns
No man cares to be the witness, no one wants to be the one
to howl into the mystery down fate's dark canyon death
voices echoing with terror through the smoke and cannon breath
As we charge into the thick of it, both terrified and brave
the blood becomes our master and we her willing slaves
We are evil, we are holy, we are all that lies between
The masque of death, our warriors' face,
become the same, obscene
So we eat a bowl of gruel, our bare feet raise the dust
Any man alone would run, there will be no stopping 'us'
If a tear on heaven's table could wash away our sins
God might make a waterfall and forget about the men
In the country of our birthing, we be thinkin' we're a man
We cannot touch the sorrow, we do not understand
We kiss the rain this morning, look out across the land
dig a hole for glory and fill it with a man
Like a veil of water, we come fallin' down...
'Songs Walking/Sea of Pale' is a
collection of thirty-seven pieces,
including 'The Warrior Angelo'.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
The following paragraph is from 'Christopher Early'....
He put the thirteen tiny necklaces on his fingers, wearing them like happy delicious rings. He gripped the walker-thing, careful not to damage the gifts he had made for his friends. He was kneeling on his bed, arms resting on the window sill, small hands palm up and reaching out the window. He was too tired to take the rings off but it didn't matter. This time, only this time, his friends flew to him, their wings fluttering kisses against his face, their tiny mouths careful not to injure him as they walked his palms, then flew away with the gifts he had made. And this time, only this time, Christopher flew away with them.
'Boys i Have Been Me'
is five stories (65 pages)
about boys, Native
American boys, dying boys,
boys with dreams
and dreams of boys.
Esplanade (continued)
i have drunk myself into stupid,
sung her praises through my whiskey breath
for the tender peace of her body,
the long-suffering pain of her death
i keep a piece of her soul in my pocket
and i sleep with her every night
i hear the wind through the willows
and i kiss her lips when we fight
But a beggar has set her on fire
for a ransom that will not be paid
A thief has stolen her jewels;
she suffers it well... Esplanade
continued on page 'The Warrior'
|
|
|
