Methods may be gray,
but motivations are fairly clear—
compassion or greed,
it all stems from here.

How you will act
may depend on detail and fact
Complex and divisive, easy to hide,
But the reason why is easy to spy:

Compassion or greed,
self or surrender,
Be honest and the truth
will rise like a cinder.

How the fire started, or the physics of the burn,
These objective elements are irrelevant
To the shades of light cast on faces of concern.

If the flames of conflict rise
What shall we hold on to?
There’s no structure
Incorruptibly true

The only hope we have
Is to draw each other near,
Hand fast in hand
Turn to face our fears

And if we fall
We may well bruise,
But no reason to believe
We’ll not rise through

The uncertainty that pins us,
The history we don’t know,
We’ll trust each other’s hearts
And learn, wide-eyed as we go,

To put out the fires
That began so long before
And reach across
To those others have ignored.

It’s not a game
one hopes to win,
We all will lose
There in the end.

A sad known truth
You might consider:
We can’t protect
The ones we love;

Choose this path
And it will claim your heart,
For those who volunteer
Are sure to part.

It won’t be light,
It won’t be easy,
But you may find something
As your eyes meet

Those of others who
have made the choice
To live for those
Without their own voice.

Some absolutely
Elemental sense
That life can be more
than self reference.

Stand upon your own will,
Join the line of rough claspt hands
Only if you know you can
Give up safety for solidarity’s demands.

And know that even
When night falls,
You are not truly left alone:
The voices of rebel tradition call

To fill your breast
With one more gasp
Of living empathy
That warmed the souls of many
before you, and before me.

Where are we now?
Take a look out the window
And tell me what you see.

Are there rivers and streams,
Hills and houses
Built by people with dreams?

Do you want to try
Finding that place
After our feet have touched the ground?

Do you think if we walked
For 2,000 days
We’d understand what we’d found?

This confusion of people
All pushing and thinking
And trying to find something true;

If we spoke to them all
Do you think we’d learn
Or just become more blue?

Oh, where are we now,
Where have we come to,
I wish you could tell me that.

Is it anyplace better than
The one that we left
Or haven’t we been here before?

I could swear I’ve heard
These words in days past,
For power and progress and proof,

Discard compassion
and elect reason only,
It will lead to prosperity’s truth.

But for all these years,
Humanity’s fears,
We’ve never managed the simplest:

To put aside focus
on excellence and pride
And choose to live contented,

To create our work
Not for prizes that rust
But for the value of creation intrinsic.

To recognize
the light in our eyes
is not in truth the brightest,

And even if it really were,
It would be nothing
Without someone to sight it.

We’re stronger by far
if we join hands
Than the most brilliant who would divide us.

Where are we now?
Are we moving at all?
Are we always caught between sides?

Between those who want speed
And those who want fairness
And those who ignore out of pride.

Is it possible
To make them care—
To tug their hearts into motion?

Or is the theme
Of equality’s dream
Another stone in the ocean?

We’ll gaze back at it
Through history’s waters
Now and then as all other ideas

And wonder how
such thoughts began and
how they journeyed on.

Unless, of course,
you choose to stand
And change the scales by one.

The weight of history
Is odd in that way,
Sometimes a grain of sand

Is lost amidst
a breathing desert
And never tumbles free.

But, other times,
One grain displaced
Can tip the whole company,

Or fall into
such a place
That it rubs great engines raw,

Creating heat
With one small presence
That breaks convention’s law.

Note well,
It’s not by exception
This grain achieves its cause,

Just by placing
One valuable common
Into action instead of pause.

Where are we now?
Have we gotten any closer
To finding where we stand?

Give the window a scrub
With the edge of your hand
And see if it comes clear,

See if you can spot
A path for us
In all the ages down there.

If not, I guess
We’ll have to keep
Relying on our feet,

Placing one
before the other
Without much certainty.

Opening our eyes
To each new day
To try to recorrect

The thoughts
We thought yesterday,
Which now we redirect,

Holding tight
to what seems true
And seeking better values,

The way to live,
The way to feel,
A reason to give respect to others,

And simply how
To endure a day,
before we rest forever.

They say the moonlight is always deceptive,
but is that so or is it only that to the perceptive
by soft alternate persuasion,
the moon reveals more idealistic creation?

The silhouettes cast are no less real
than those rendered by sunlight and captured by day,
it’s just that the pale chooses to linger on different curves
of these parts of life’s play.

In darkness as in light our perception has limits,
but with the moon your instincts exceed plainer senses.
What you see painted silver must by imagination gain the missing tones,
and therein is revealed the bias of your own.

The world does not lie to you at these moments,
rather it forgives you its own imposition,
and in what you see your own fault is hidden.
But moonlight by this does us no harm—
the fault was already there, so by finding it learn:

what it is you expect can distort your perception,
so take note and balance so as not to fall from your position,
as a heart in this world seeking for truth,
a change in the light is a gift you can use.

Just another singer/songwriter,
you’ve heard them before.
But the thing about strumming your own little tune
is the job of telling the people the truth.

Others might sing and others might strum,
but the sight you have seen as you walked this world
rests on you as a personal sooth.

The stories you see belong to the world,
but without your voice they might go untold.
That’s the job of the singer/songwriter,
just one in a field that reaches far back,
to catch the tears and the smiles
of the ones with whom they interact,

ones who disappear between history’s broad strokes,
except for the moment you saw and you spoke.
For as it was said, by many before,
a song it goes on in the heart and the mind,
far longer than ever a sermon by rote.

What are we gonna do now~?

Everyone says they just want what’s best—
for freedom, for hope, for development and progress—
just support the one who yells it out best.
But what do we mean
when we say words like that?
We never do manage to say where they go—
the people you mean? Oh honey no, the money!

You know, that’s what travels most.
Beyond borders and visas, no need for a check,
it’s money they send and money they get.
“The people!” they cry, “we must make them safe—
for freedom and hope and more commercial space!”

So generously our companies fund
development, factories, and don’t forget guns!
It’s all out of care, we act on principle,
to rescue from fear those dollars we hold so very dear.
For companies, they tell me, are people too!
So don’t forget we owe them their due.

People or profits—the question is skewed,
for profits are people if you take the Friedman view.
Free markets for growth, free markets for progress,
free markets free men from the need for the docket.
Freedom and principle, oh I heard you clear,
but my question remains:
is it freedom for people or money you hold dear?
Jara, Walsh, Letelier, and more,
did these men die on freedom’s door?
Or did misdefined freedom cost their countries more?

Watch out what you’re funding, my countrymen proud,
for the cost of our neglect will not go unfound.
I believe your compassion still can grow,
but wake up now and make it boldly known
before hands moved by greed redefine what it means
to face the world from the American scene.

"Get off the streets!!"

Listening with the rapt attention of a sermon
to the voices of wandering souls
trapped in the repeating refrain
of cheap melodies more often ignored.

Searching in those fragile lines
for some truth the author knew
before it was packaged
and buried in the sale

Of day-to-day life
that we take for necessity
even as it hardens our brittle bones
from empty motion,

leaving the messy beating hearts we had
to wither in wordless frustration
at the contrast of what should be
and what we know continues.

Still, the slow melody of a harp
can still the rushing breath
and ease the tightened fist
of a soundless, searching heart
with no solution to the troubles.

Imperfectly bound,
in this our mortal coil.
We yearn for the edge,
knowing all has been lost…

lost to time and tide
and tired eyes
that could not bear to see
the stumbling path we tread,

the hands we reached for
that withdrew, unawares,
as through the empty space we fell,
a tear for lost humanity.

We know not why, or where, or how,
just that we are, here for now—
with breath that shivers through us
and holds the strength to act

if we knew but some just cause,
some cold idea of truth,
that shone through space as dark as night
to lead us out of our youth—

our bright eyed dreams of purpose
or fiery throws of fear,
both alike in uncertainty
and both leaving us year by year.

Imperfectly bound,
we feel our own rough edges
and know there should be more,
but have not sense to see the way

to guide our ships to shore
and reach the rest we dearly need,
the place where all is still,
where questions do not linger
and we have no need to know.