Poetry from Friends of the Wild Wind                                           There in the Setting Sun                                   A Thing of Beauty, A Sandwich Forever                                   Footprints in the Sand                                   I Stand For What I Stand On                                                            The Troubadour       There in the Setting Sun ... ©b.d.foster Always when I look out toward the west It's the infinite blue ... the infinite shades and hue deeper reds, pastels, colors and a deeper shade of black the infinite dark of night. And I'm drawn ... into the love of the voids. The West finds it's size ... but we can not find our way. The perils, the trials ... the light of day when we seek to deceive that which we do not respect. And it is the West ... which calls us ... to embrace to stand to love ... that which is there before us... Naked and wild..... The West. And there in the setting sun, the miles of skyline and shade drawn hills between the evening reds and twilight dark ... There in wisps of night time clouds, I live.    Return to Top   A Thing of Beauty, A Sandwich Forever By Kathy Miner of Madison, WI Beauty as well as bread, said Muir; bread and beauty together, said Leopold, as if they were separate things- but beauty is my bread, the staff of my life; I need it, feed on it, relish it, slather it generously with wonder and chow right down. Sometimes I make sandwiches with it and sometimes I cube it into pudding and some desperate times I eat it hot from the oven, too impatient for manners, tearing the loaf into rough handfuls and stuffing them into my waiting mouth. Some slower times I participate in its making, cutting down fair tawny wheatstalks with a scythe of my own careful crafting, grinding them to flour in the mortar and pestle of my consciousness, kneading and shaping and punching the dough until I am satisfied with its texture, then watching it rise and become golden as it bakes and solidifies. Beauty and bread? Hardly- for some they are one and the same, minimum daily requirements not yet established.    Return to Top   Footprints in the Sand Original lyrics by Jacquie Schmall On the cold Pacific shore Miwok Indians roam no more Sandy footprints on the beach echo their name. Of the life they did adore, The Miwok sing no more, But in my heart and memory they remain. Where have the old ones gone before me? Where is their magic other land. How can I tell them I remember. Miwok footprints in the sand. Redwood forests greened the hills. And the Miwok had their fill, Ere the Golden Gate and Chinatown had fame. Then the wagon trains arrived. And the newcomers did thrive, But the gentle Miwok could not do the same. Where have the old ones gone before me? Where is their magic other land. How can I tell them I remember. Miwok footprints in the sand. The Spanish first 'n then the gold. Then all the sickness that took hold, Miwok land was sold and then the earthquakes came. And of the life they did adore, The Miwok sing no more. But in my heart and memory they remain. Where have the old ones gone before me? Where is their magic other land. How can I tell them I remember, Miwok footprints in the sand.   Return to Top   I Stand For What I Stand On      By Dennis Fritzinger from his collection of poems, Earth National Park i stand for what i stand on if what i stand on is a muddy swamp with leeches or the bottom of a rice paddy or a mountain. i stand for what i stand on if it's a waving meadow with tall grasses a forest clearing or the compacted duff of a centuries old old growth forest. i stand for what i stand on when i stand on what i stand for which is Mother Earth.   Return to the Top     The Troubadour (For Walkin’ Jim by Gail Woodman)   With calloused feet Earth’s angel Treads lightly upon her skin… Absorbing Love Until… Lest he explode – A melody, a poem, a story is born – Becoming part of the ever-expanding Universe…. And then  -- stardust once more!    Return to Top Return to Poet's Place          Return to Books & Art           Return to Home