John’s Windsong

April 12, 2007 by Karl.

Howdy again, my friends 

It’s a cloudy, windy day. The wind is blowing like a restless gypsy out of the southeast, scattering my ever decreasing chances of going fishing to the northwest and other points of the compass. Isn’t it strange how the wind operates?  When you want to fly a kite, the wind is as calm as a sleeping baby.  If you want to fish, it blows up a blue norther or a gale from the south.

 I’m sitting here listening to John Denver sing, “Windsong” again.  I’ve listened to his CD a hundred times, always singing along, but for some reason, I never listened closely enough to this particular song to really hear the words. Being an author, you’d think I’d pay attention to words.  I apologize, John.

Since I’m not heading out on the bayou, I’ll take the time to listen and share them with you.  Here they are:

The wind is the whisper of our mother the earth

The wind is the hand of our father the sky.

The wind watches over our struggles and pleasures

The wind is the goddess who first learned to fly.

The wind is the bearer of bad and good tidings,

Weaver of darkness — bringer of dawn.

The wind is the crayons that give us the rainbows,

The wind is the singer who sang the first song.

The wind is the twister of angry red mornings,

The wind brings the freshness to freshly mown hay.

The wind is the racer and wild stallions running

And the sweet taste of love on a slow summer’s day.

The wind knows the songs of cities and canyons,

Thunder of mountains, roar of the sea.

Wind is the taker and giver of mornings

Wind is the symbol of all that is free

So welcome the wind and the wisdom she offers,

Follow her story until she calls again.

In your heart and your spirit, let the breezes surround you,

Lift up your voices and sing with the wind.

Kind of neat, isn’t it. Damn, John, why’d you have to go and learn how to fly?  What a waste of such wonderful talent.

I’m editing my first book for the final time, the one I think I’ll call “The Lost Priest.”  I’ve sub-divided it into two parts, “The Lost Soul,” and “The Lost Spirit.”  It’s a story of twin brothers, Tim and Tom Fitch, Bermudan residents, but U.S. citizens; their adventures, lives and loves.  There’s a very nasty man-eating shark in it too.

Out of the five books I’ve written or am writing, I submitted “Signs of Our Times” to the publisher first.  I plan to send “The Lost Priest” in next.  I think my women readers will love it, while the men in the crowd will enjoy the adventure part, especially the shark. 

Somehow John’s Windsong seems appropriate.  It has that eerie wind blowing in the background that seems to set the stage for his marvelous voice.  Sort of an inspiration, if you will. But, back to work. 

I’ll never get this edited if I don’t stick to it. Sing on, John.  You may be dead and gone, but your voice lives on and echoes in the wind.  I think you’d like that. Here’s a verse I wrote for you: 

The wind teaches you wisdom, if only you’ll listen,

Maker of sand dunes; friend to the sea.

The wind gives us kisses and then makes us wonder,

Were her soft caresses meant for you, or for me?

Via Con Dias,

Karl

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