The Dream
One hundred pounds of leaded lids
Crash down across my tired eyes;
Loud echoes from the high school kids
Become the songs of lullabies.
A swarm of bees that can’t be seen
Buzz to and fro and past my ears;
Their hum, at times, sounds like a scream
That quickens me with childhood fears.
I run to find a place to hide,
But marbled land is all I see:
Like sheets of glass; Like Oceans wide;
This desert world runs on with me.
With miles behind, I pass Love’s Lake
With swan, with hen, with goose and dove;
And in my dash I trip my gait
To dive unclear—To fall in Love.
At rest in lake and drenched with Love,
The swan sings out a childhood song,
Her words are old—as God above—
And ring with beauty: light and long.
The hen is quick to rescue me
And dries me under downy wing;
When task is done she scolds at me,
Then hums a tune, but never sings.
The goose comes next to lecture long
And honks and sneezes twelve commands,
But I ignore her silly song
And off she swims with folded hands.
Then from above flies down the dove
And coos to me a priceless poem;
And by the lake we ponder love—
This lake could be our happy home.
Then suddenly I ‘come aware
That I’m asleep and must awake;
My open eyes reveal young stares
And mocking grins that teachers make.
And as they laugh, I hear the tunes
That swan and goose had sung to me;
And from afar, I sing hen’s tune
That fits the poem dove cooed to me.
© 1973—1974 Steven L Campbell
The Sleeper on the Hill
O visions, sweet, come like dreams to the sleeper on the hill;
Come with hands so warm and soft
to chase away the cold that crawls on daffodil,
sweet meadow,
kind field,
young sleeper on the hill.
Her daydream reverie delight,
whispers secrets
from young reservoir of pleasure—
the id so innocent,
not yet married to the ego,
lies pure and peaceful—
sweet girlchild’s kiss,
a memory to have until true love—
O love, sweetest—comes
and smiles
like a child caught playing in the well
and laughs with truth not yet spoken
until he awakens
from visions—
sweet dreams—
the young sleeper on the hill.
© 1974 Steven L Campbell
In a Time When Days Seemed Brighter
In a time when days seemed brighter over that three-story farmhouse—a clattery home to seven—there was plenty of laughing, playing, working and learning, and chores in the mornings before riding buses to school and back. Then chores in the evening before supper and baths… Where did we find the time?
In a time when days seemed brighter, when we had schoolwork, homework, housework and fieldwork, we tended to our neighbors and friends, attended church every Sunday and Wednesday, and sang songs and Psalms before doing chores again… How did we make the time?
In a time when days seemed brighter, there were holiday dinners, socials and banquets, and weddings, birthdays and funerals to attend. We did it together by a sharing will of the community. A place of love and caring, hugging, comforting and strenthening; of fighting for, living for and dying for, in a time when days seemed brighter over a three-story farmhouse and that blessed clangorous home to seven.
© 1976 Steven L Campbell
When I Could See
“Come in from the ocean,” she said. “Don’t you get tired of sailing the seas?
“Return to your homeland,” she cried. “Return to me!
“There’s a darkness storming,” she warned. “And it’s raining a chilly misery.
“Return to your loved ones,” she wept. “Please return to me.”
But I set sail to another sailor’s tale,
one of the sea, and found a way to awaken and see each day.
‘Though greater eyes have seen what I saw there—
a better view of things that have always been me,
in brighter lights and deeper darks—I did awaken and could see.
“Climb down from your mountain,” she said. “Don’t you get tired of touching the sky?
“Return where it’s safe,” she cried. Then: “Don’t make me cry.
“There’s a nightfall coming,” she warned. “And it’s bringing a lonely misery.
“Return to you loved ones,” she wailed. “Please return to me.”
But I set foot to another hiker mile,
and I could see I’d found a way to stand tall and see for days.
‘Though deeper blues have been sailed by whiter clouds,
never had I seen till my discovery
there’s a rainbow in my sky … which I could see … I could see.
And I could see when I could see.
© 1977 Steven L Campbell
Our Song (Sing to Me)
Somewhere in the corridors of time
written in between the lines of everything said and done
a song lying dormant deep inside our minds is a message for the ages.
Someone with a password and a key
chosen for a destiny of great things yet to come
with brilliant oracular memory will decipher coded pages.
And we will rejoice to hear our song again.
With refreshed voices we shall sing again, our many voices one
one perfect chorus on till all of earth rejoices to hear and sing again.
Rejoicing to hear our song again
earthbound bodies of shackled spirits will rise and shed their chains
in the course to live again.
Someday on the calendar of man
circled by an insightful hand more steady than our own
an exemplar of preeminent consciousness will be bequeathed by sages.
And we will rejoice to hear our song again.
With refreshed voices we shall sing again, our many voices one
one perfect chorus on till all of earth rejoices to hear and sing again.
Rejoicing to hear our song again
earthbound bodies of shackled spirits will rise and shed their chains
in the course to live again.
Leave behind the machines that took away your voice
I want to hear you sing to me.
No more newspeak new-age technology dubbing our communication
Just sing to me.
Don’t hide behind perfunctory drumbeats that echo through our jungles
or among the strutting alley phrases that stutter in exhausting patter.
Sing to me straight, not around a corner
Sing to me pure, discerning and profound, the way you used to do.
Let me fall in love with you again.
And we will rejoice to hear our song again.
With refreshed voices we shall sing again, our many voices one
one perfect chorus on till all of earth rejoices to hear and sing again.
Rejoicing to hear our song again
earthbound bodies of shackled spirits will rise and shed their chains
in the course to live again.
© 1978 Steven L Campbell
Family Tree
Although at times, you don’t think we listen, Preacher and Teacher, we hear and either agree or disagree. (Is the whole world preaching and teaching, their minds bloated on isms and fatty thoughts far outreaching the structures of our family discipline?) It stands to reason we will argue, but we’ll go on wondering, pondering, disagreeing and debating.
Ageless at times, we shall try to enlighten. Brother and Sister, we are and will forever be a family. Let’s not uproot the family tree. And let no one cut it down.
© 1979 Steven L Campbell
Winter
Days are shorter and skies are grayer
A belfry sounds the coming of winter
with tolling throughout the town
Nights are longer and seas are darker
A searchlight turns to scan the horizon
for ships in impending doom.
Breath is shorter and hair is grayer
An old man waits the coming of winter
and shivers away the chill
Nights are longer and dreams are darker
With icy eyes to browse the tenement
of ghosts on the falling sill.
© 1979 Steven L Campbell
Eyes of a Temptress
Eyes. Haunting eyes.
Eyes that see inside me.
Dark lit pools of mirrors reflecting time and space;
yours are quick to haunt me ablaze within your face.
Eyes. Wanting eyes.
Eyes that reach and grab me.
White-light beams of motion romancing to the brain;
yours are short flirtations gone still without a name.
Eyes. Secluded eyes.
Eyes that wish to love me.
Rooms of ardent passions insisting lust is love;
yours are lost in fancy beneath the moon above.
Eyes. Deluded eyes.
Eyes that hide false secrets.
Long gone days of intrigue pretending I was yours;
you are always knocking upon the fettered doors.
© 1979 Steven L Campbell
Woodland Birds
Crows talk … noisy devils they.
Jays squawk … raucous rascals they.
Birds walk, some hop…
And birds track bird tracks.
Ruffed grouse … aggressive take-offs they.
Woodcock … bursting thickets they.
Birds fly, some soar…
And wings beat wing beats.
Woodland birds call woodland bird calls … listen.
I hear chicken-like birds drumming on logs,
and snowbank divers bursting from bogs.
Woodland birds live woodland bird lives … see them?
I see perching blackbirds watching it snow
on tree branch beauties grooming below.
Woodland birds talk woodland bird talk to me—
they answer me,
fly up to me…
Finches, cardinals, charming chickadees…
So many woodland birds
where woodland birds call woodland bird calls … listen.
© 1983 Steven L Campbell
Night
The night came tapping at my door
But I with book heard not a sound;
It entered on its own accord
Trespassing on my private ground.
Night crept about my house with ease
And darkened everything from sight,
Till through my study’s door it squeezed
And skirted past my candle’s light.
I did not peer to watch its flight
Across my shelves and down my wall;
I know not if it bade good-night
I heard not if it spoke at all.
With book aside I pondered why
That one so strong as dark of night
Who snuffs the light from day’s grand life,
Could not put out my candle’s light.
© 1986 Steven L Campbell
The March of My Grandfather: The March that Cut the Trail
It started as a march
Long … Forced
An exiled lot to a foreign land:
Prison? …
Multifarious voices sang songs of hope as families toiled further
Distance …
Spirits dashed along the way
Fallen … Broken
Sickened and consumed
They did not die.
Faith … Restored
Alive
To march again with children they had carried
This time singing a new found hope
In a different time
A different place
To allow me freedom attained by strength of peace and wisdom
To let me remember by marching within a march of the march that cut the trail.
© 1987 Steven L Campbell
The Old Pump
A relic of a time past
A curio of a generation gone by
Every farm had one, child.
Run to it … Hoist its heavy iron arm
And try to touch the blue summertime sky
Let flakes of rust fall into hair
Onto sticky skin to freckle-up a sweaty nose.
Push it high … Let it drop … Push it high … Touch the sky
Pump it child
Until you feel earth’s cleansing clear cold water rush down upon your face
Gulp its sweetness
Quench a summer thirst.
No. Come away, child
The handle is decayed and the well is dry
And the farm is a memory from an era gone by.
© 1989 Steven L Campbell
