Efforts run a trickling stream and Good Intentions leap a head, Dedication fights the hardy fight
Lackadaisical rides the flow.  Respite comes up fare, Desire strives ever forward, only few will
Make the race, but Doing lags behind.  Effort holds up, slowing a tiny bit the end not yet in sight
Good Intentions has already died, Dedication surges toward the finish.

The finish line is not so far, Lacky fell off quick, Respite finds one or two, Desire is crawling, Effort
Is right behind, Dedication takes the easy way out.  Doing is plodding, trudging up the hill, but, picks
Up Desire before it falls...Effort is gone, some laugh, laugh at the race, but winning is None the Less
with Doing and Desire right along.

Masses move like clumps of weeds
Floating narrow outlets, making corners,
Pieces breaking off, sliding, new turns
Some stopping, disappearing, moving on.

The stream divides and crosses
It loops right then left, no seeming end.
The cars all dusty brown and wet and arrogant
Sound bleating cries, jostling to win.

Each one thinking they are the only;
Unconscious to all others, but having to.
Quick moves, sudden turns, ignore to negotiate
Serving a tiny purpose, finding a tiny end.

Above the rush and floating mass
Peering sharply down, closing in
The monoliths and testaments, providing each
One a burrow, and a fence, against escape.

Envy.  Mixed with pride and shaken well, creates the emotion around the endeavor
Taken so forthrightly on, with little hesitation and with adventures pen of promise,
marking an others victory.

Goals.  Set so high, but reached with sweat and blood, are the flavor to make adventure live,
No accolades could compare with the knowledge of a triumph well conceived
a job well done.

Adventures pen.  It writes of loves lost and things conquered, it tells of determination, hardiness
and desire, In picture painting feelings, it writes of some braver, some willing to accomplish
more than the rest.

Call.  It will be best, keep it best, live it the greatest, no other can feel the same feelings or know,
The sacrifices, the hurdles crossed, and no other can remove or,
take away the conquest.

The classic touch of time and wisdom meld,
Holding knowledge, bearing witness to life,
Exposing small wisps of experiences,
Teaching, ever learning, guiding feet along the path.

Sound and sense, straightforward to direct,
Culling waste and wanton distractions,
Feeding, nurturing, expanding outward
Building others as well to success.

Wisdom and experience shared, serve only
To increase the givers own,
Working for no the lifetime,
But for the life, the working time provides.

Dare to to eulogize a living man,
Follow only the lead of respect,
In return respect will find you,
And all its benefits you shall claim.

Scanning above the heads of the crowd, looking
Forward, ahead, never erring to glance at the feet
And risk a stumble or fall.  Crowns of brown and
Black and blond sprigs of grass on moving soil.
Stepping lightly from time to time, watching close
For another ones eyes to meet, rare though possible,
And when they lock it is an intensity, one of knowledge
That communicates, divines, sees inward, respects.
A downward glance can bring it on, and lift the
Other up to reflect the shine, and give so complete
A pictures, as though the minds close around one
Another and share the common bond.
Meeting eyes of equal height, a rare and priceless
Privilege indeed.  One savored, placed in memory,
And learned from.  The ultimate respect in knowing,
The others downward glance provided you the lift.

The magician waves his hand over experience and knowledge,
Recites the incantation of flight and gravity,
Power rises from the dust of the trade, illusion, distraction
Become miracles, levitation becomes reality.

Great spans suddenly shortened, distance is misplaced,
Total control so fragile, dependent no longer on magic
And spirit, now on man and mans machine. Propelling
So high, in reality and fantasy.

Experience becomes the magic wand, the incantation,
Clouds and winds become the dust of the trade,
Storms and lightning, the evil.  Return inevitable,
Returned desired, the feather floats softly home.

Keepers of the time hold the harps, and pluck the strings,
Sending the resonance of the future forward, and back
In the listeners ear, plotting every move, filling
The voids and molding, shaping, creating the destiny.

The sounds first pure, then impure, a learned amateur
Taking the expected mistakes in playing new notes,
Leading, guiding, misdirecting, sounds so close
To perfection, so close to tragedy.

Keepers of the time hold the harps, each listener
Discerning the tones and changes, the falling of a key,
The breaking of a crescendo, winds swept with music;
The calm of the pianissimo, direction to the end.