Zmiana sposobu prezentacji
The water was
dark and brown,
two turtles rested on a nearby log
soaking in the sun.
A large grey heron swooped lazily down
landing effortlessly
while looking around for a tasty morsel treat.
Overhead a squawking jay served as sentinel
to warn of my intrusion into its domain.
All I wanted was to sit and dip a line
into the cool brown pool.
Perhaps an unsuspecting fish would seek
the dangling worm on the end of my line.
Even if there were no takers
I wouldn't mind.
It just was a chance to visit
the calm and quiet of that dark and cool
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If I had the wings of an eagle
I would soar to the heights of the sky,
To look down on the beauty of life itself
And the marvels of creation from on high.
I can imagine all that our Creator does see
As He watches from heaven above,
Every creature, every thing that He has made,
Every beauty, each thing how he must love.
If I had the wings of an eagle
I would soar to the heights of the sky,
To look down on the beauty of life itself
And the marvels of creation from on high.
Can you imagine what it would feel like
To soar through the clouds way up above,
To kiss the edge of Heaven itself,
And feel the touch of God's own love.
Oh, if I had the wings of an eagle
How I could feel so free from earth beneath.
To soar to the very heights of the sky,
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I dream dreams of beautiful things,
things that I love to see and feel.
I dream of waterfalls
and see the sparkle of sunlight through the water
that from its radiant color forms a rainbow
and hear the rush of wind as it falls far below.
I think of a flower
and dream of the perfect nature of a petal,
the sprinkling of color so perfectly settled..
uplifting in its nature.
I see birds soaring in the sky
and dream of their soft call as they seek
another from far away.
I dream of one who loves me
as deeply as I love her
and dream of her touch on my bare skin
and feel the warm caress of parted lips.
I dream of a baby sleeping quietly in its bed
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Far away from the noise of the city
I walked in the quiet of a country lane
nothing to distract me this day
but the morning mist,
turning into a summer rain.
I was born to be free from my troubles
born to smell the freshness of the day
nothing to accompany me on my trip
but the morning mist, turning into a summer rain.
There are times when I must be free,
away from the cares and worries of this life,
when I can walk alone in this world
with nothing but the morning mist, turning into a summer rain.
Sometimes in all my wanderings
I talk with my God up above,
it's amazing what I will hear,
when walking in a morning mist, turning into a summer rain.
A symphony of sounds are present
from the creatures who live nearby,
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I opened the closet and walked on in
my foot hit something that had fallen from its bin.
An old pair of shoes - wrinkled and worn,
lay out on the floor reminding me of a long lost friend.
Quite a story old shoes can tell
where we've gone - a life that's been lived well.
Oh, I know that some folks
don't care about the past,
only the present - 'cause times are just too fast.
But old shoes go slow
with memories from so long ago
of times good and bad
smiles and tears
of things happy and sad.
Old shoes are like friends, they stay around
in good times and bad,
they are really quite sound.
At times we struggle in life to find
a place of happiness, peace and a companion to be kind.
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A road that goes and doesn't come back
a train that travels a one-way track
life seems long and hard sometimes
but then, a new day breaks
and all seems fine,
for we travel this way but once in time.
Now and again we need our friends
some folks to lean on when times are tough
people who are made of real strong stuff,
those to guide us and point the way
when we get lost and don't know what to say
friends who will follow after us
to show us that all can be fine
for we pass this way just once in time.
It takes a village to raise a child
cause life's not always acting so mild,
things are dealt us along the way
that makes this life seem not so gay,
but there's no need to get distressed
for there is a way to deal with this mess.
All we need is to try and be kind
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It sits empty and sad
having gone from good to bad,
where once there were people
now there is only a vacant steeple,
the church is bare, except for a few;
there's not much left, only the morning dew.
Like so many places across this land
this old whistle stop sits closed and broken down.
Where once as children we played, catching fireflies
in Mason jars, and dancing with sparklers in the front yard,
now the homes are closed and falling in,
the stores and movie and grocery too
stand bare and empty with nothing left to do,
and down the street there is hardly a trace,
of the old school, so that we wouldn't recognize the place.
We called this old whistle stop home
and memories we still keep,
every time the freight passes it makes us leap
fireflies still light the nighttime summer sky
and millions of stars still live close by.
So even if the train doesn't stop any more,
and all that is left is its' mournful whistle;
home it is, and home it will be,
no matter if there is nothing left for us to see.
A faint outline appeared in the early morn
a full moon still shed its light,
dark shadows
spread across the land casting an eerie
shadow over the far
distant hills.
An old buckboard clattered along a dusty
road bumping
roughly over pot holes
washed out by an early winter rain.
The old
mule plodded along - ribs
showing from a life of hard work prolonged,
a
rather tired animal trudging slowly along
tugging at its heavy load.
The old man sat humped over on the seat,
nodding as though he was
asleep.
A low hanging branch served to awaken him as
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