from Peter John

Archive for the ‘religion’ Category

Love Survives


Photo of George Clark Stone walking across wilderness bridge with fishing pole

George Clark Stone May 25, 1936 – November 4, 2012


Love Survives
By Peter John

Do you search for an answer in the rising Sun?
Do you reach out for comfort from the Moon?
Does your heart long for friendship when the day is done,
When the sky seems dark too soon?

Love survives in the desert.
Love survives in the sea.
Love survives in the memories
Of you and me.
From before we are born
To beyond our lives
Love survives.
Love survives!

When you welcomed your brother who was on the street
Did you offer him shelter from the rain?
At the crossroads where happiness and sorrow meet
The joy overcomes the pain.

Love survives frigid alleys.
Love survives fields of snow,
But it still takes a burning
For a hearth to glow.
When our vengeance has answered
Our hateful drives
Love survives.
Only love could still survive.
Love survives.

It dangles our hearts on a web between
The best and the worst we can feel.
For love sends a scalpel to slice our souls,
And love brings a balsam to heal.

Love survives every promise we fail to keep.
Love endures every fault we pass by.
After anger and envy have wept to sleep
Love alone still survives.

Love attends to the sunshine
But can offer the shade.
Love inhabits the hovels
That our hatred made.
When the night’s creeping darkness
Has left us blind, fear arrives
Love endures it and survives …

When you’ve found all your answers in the sunset’s glow,
When you’ve danced with the moonbeams on the sea,
When I’m never returning, only then you’ll know
The depth of your love for me.

Love survives — I remember
Tender nights, you and I —
Love survives when we wish
That it could simply die.
From before we are born
To beyond our lives
Fate contrives,
Anger weakens,
Hate deprives.
Love survives.

—-
(c) 1991 Peter John Stone. All Rights Reserved.
COntact the author for permissions.
—–

Read Why it's important to say "I love you"on the Mind Candy Blog

Advertisements

Down The Road


"The artist's muse moves on down the road" by Tony Karp, http://timuseum.com

Picture by Tony Karp, http://timuseum.com . Used by Permission



Down the Road
By Peter John

Right here my roots are growing.
Right here my corn is tall,
And I know every fencepost
Like a brother.
I’m leaving God this chunk of sod
My sweat has tilled and hoed,
‘Cause I know I’ll find another
Down the road.

Down the road –
I’ll find a place to pitch my tent
And spend the night.
Down the road –
I’ll find some peace of mind
And set the wrong things right.
Right here your touch is velvet
And your kisses burn like flame,
But down the road I’ll find a village
Where nobody knows my name.

Right here we drink of friendship.
Right here we sip of love,
Applauding every honest
Man and cheater.
But in this town my jug’s run down,
I’ve paid all that I owed,
And the water will be sweeter
Down the road.

Down the road –
I’ll find a place to pitch my tent
And spend the night.
Down the road –
I’ll find some peace of mind
And set the wrong things right.
Right here your touch is velvet
And your kisses burn like flame,
But down the road I’ll find a village
Where nobody knows my name.

My thoughts of you weigh more
Than any treasure in my pack,
And that’s the only reason
I might have for coming back.

Right here I saw you smiling.
Right here I took your hand,
And never thought my future
Could be brighter.
Since I can’t flee you’re memory
I’ll bear the heavy load,
But the burden will be lighter
Down the road.

Down the road –
I’ll find a place to pitch my tent
And spend the night.
Down the road –
I’ll find some peace of mind
And set the wrong things right.
Right here your touch is velvet
And your kisses burn like flame,
But down the road I’ll find a village
Where nobody knows my name –
Down the road I’ll find a village
Where nobody knows my name.
—-
(c) 2002 by Peter John Stone. All Rights Reserved. Originally published in “Songs in the Key of See” (C) 2006 by Peter John Stone

Dark Oracles



Dark Oracles
By Peter John

Electric jungles, black and white,
With bullets broadcast every night,
And body counts from Walter Cronkite.
That’s the way it was …

When screams from someone else’s war
Entranced me on the parlor floor
And Daddy said, “We’re killing for the right
Our country does.”

Now Technicolor airwaves beam the battles from abroad.
The heavy decades of regret and still we’re playing God,
But I have shed the biases my father taught his son,
And recognize the wrong our country’s done …

Now I scream –
This is the wave of tomorrow, it’s breaking,
No soldiers to train.
No sons for the motherland.
No daughters to chain.
No fathers can force us to follow
The trails their lies have worn
No beatings can bring us to follow
The empty oathes they’ve sworn.

Dark Oracles blind us from knowing
The destiny we earn.
They tell us tomorrow must burn,
But the tables still can turn.

Today we are contemplating
Destroying Earth and sky.
No armies will need to be marshaled
If we should ever let the missiles fly.
Our navies will drift unattended
On seas of glowing blood.
Our bones will be washed with extinction
On shores of steaming mud.
A thousand millennia linger
Till dawns another age.
We’re smudges of ink on a finger
That helps to turn the page –
That’s all we are …

Dark Oracles echo our questions
With riddles of their own.
The answers that slice to the bone
We interpret alone.

Our planet is plagued with a species
A tumor in her head
Infesting her face with a growing
Malignant urban spread.
We poison her provident waters.
We scrape away her skin.
We synthesize sunspots in kettles
And melt her flesh to tin.
The hands of the stopwatch are frozen
A second to the bell.
One moment will show if we’ve chosen
To make the Earth a paradise or hell.

Dark Oracles’ blinding ambitions
Are fostered by our fear.
They say a catastrophe’s near,
We create what we hear,
And then we say Dark Oracles are right –
Dark Oracles calling in the night –
Dark Oracles swallowing the light.

The future offers these footsteps,
Oh, Mothers! Your sons refuse to kill.
Your daughters’ desperate oppression is over
Protected by the pill.
No promise of life without aching,
But one more day to live.
No glorious prize for the taking,
But one more chance to give.

Dark Oracles promise tomorrow
Humanity must die,
And then leave us wondering why
Without a clear reply.
It’s time for Dark Oracles to die!

Electric jungles, colorized,
While bullets go unrecognized,
With freedom blindly jeopardized,
Just like the way it was.
——-
“Dark Oracles” – Words and Music © 1991 by Peter John Stone. Video © 2010 by Peter John Stone; Brief tune in video, from “Dark Oracles, © 1991 by Peter John Stone. Please contact author for permissions on any use, but the atuhor offers reasonable terms.

The Cross I Carry


The Cross I Carry
By Peter John

I’m not worthy of the cross I carry
But I carry it anyway.
I wear it with the weight of wood
Anchored on bone
By a nail I won’t let fall away
Long as I can feel its loss.
So I still carry it,
But I’m not worthy of The Cross.

I wear mine tattooed on an arm
Of bronze, muscle, and pain —
Drawn from an angry road,
Leather, and steel —
On a one way run
That once begun
Takes  a miracle to leave undone.
But rage won’t let the miracle take the wheel

I’m not worthy of the cross I carry
But I carry it anyway.
I wear it with the weight of wood
Anchored on bone
By a nail I won’t let fall away
Long as I can feel its loss.
So I still carry it,
But I’m not worthy of The Cross.

I eat my fill. I stake all my claims
And claim all of my due,
Confident the poor and weak
Reap what they sow.
Through a cross they made
With a surgeon’s blade
Beats an offering beyond all trade,
And pride denies my gratitude
Room to grow.

But I’ve been blessed!
I’ve been blessed —
Though God knows I don’t deserve it —
Blessed in spite of each old curse
I entertain with each new dawn,
When I choose my daily dues
With loaded dice each losing toss.
Although I carry it, I know
I’m not worthy of The Cross

I bear mine in bottles of dreams
I drain empty and stale,
Or any battle I fight
When I should flee.
For my own strength fails
Facing up at tales
Of a sturdier Cross than the sharpest nails,
No cross I carry, but The Cross
That’s carried for me.

I’m not worthy of the cross I carry
But I carry it anyway.
I wear it with the weight of wood
Anchored on bone
By a nail I won’t let fall away
Long as I can feel its loss.
So I still carry it,
But I’m not worthy of The Cross.
Yes, I still carry it
But I’m not worthy of The Cross.

(c) 2009 by Peter John Stone – All Rights Reserved. No use is authorized without permission from author, but the author offers reasonable terms, and entertains any proposals.

The Wind is A-Risin’


THE WIND-IS-A-RISIN’
by Peter John

I feel those drops begin to fall.
I watch them splatter on the wall.
Is there a way that I can call my home?
Can’t buy a car, can’t hitch a plane,
And waiting for a drenching rain,
I wonder if it’s worth the pain to roam.
Is it worth the pain to roam
Too far to call back home?

And the wind is a-risin’
And the clouds are a fallin’
And the sky is hangin’ low,
And if you ask me where I’m goin’,
I’ll say, “I don’t know.”
And if you ask me where I’m from,
I’ll say, “The place I’ve been.”
I’d like to move, but I don’t dare
Until that voice can tell me where,
Until that still, small, voice can tell me when.

I’ve played the games that rule the night.
The winning’s never worth the fight.
The fighting’s never worth the teeth I lose.
I’m living hard, and living fast,
I’m hoping that my life won’t last
If living’s never worth the life I choose.
Will the memories I choose
Be worth enough to lose?

And the wind is a-screamin’
And the clouds are a-crashin’,
And the sky’s about to fall,
And if you ask me what I want,
I’ll say, “I want it all!”
And if you ask me what I’ve lost,
I’ll say, “I’ve lost my place.”
I’d move ahead, except I fear
No still, small, voice will reach my ear.
I need a voice to coach me in this race.

The storm of life has worn me out.
It’s torn my mind and made me doubt
My purpose here, and in a life beyond.
The waves of time soon pass away.
Though some might capsize ships today,
They’re only troubled ripples on a pond.
Will the ripples on my pond
Lead to a life beyond?

And the wind-is-a howlin’
And the clouds are a-drainin’
And the sky is almost down,
And if you ask me what life is,
I’ll say, “A beggar’s town.”
And if you ask me what death brings,
I’ll say, “You let me know.”
‘Cause when I get there, I’m afraid
That facin’ each mistake I made,
A still, small, voice will say, “I told you so.”
I’d like to move, but I don’t dare,
Until that voice can tell me where.
Without a still, small, voice I just won’t go.
—-
Peter%20John
Hear Peter John perform “The Wind is A-Risin'”for a live audience
—-
Lyrics copyright 1979,1988 by Peter John Stone. All rights reserved. No use is authorized without permission from author, but the author offers reasonable terms, and entertains any proposals.

%d bloggers like this: