snip, "The Meek Shall Inherit the Earth"

Page 161: At seven o'clock in the morning, it had already become a strikingly bright day. The sun's brilliance sparkled its rays in a kleidoscopic panoramic array of colors dancing accross the sheene of the snow covered landscape. The air was crisp, clean and cold. There wasn't a cloud in the sky. The morning stillness reflected the peaceful nature of a contented neighborhood at rest and looked as pure as if being seen through a polished looking glass. The trees reflected a silvery glitter off the frozen icicles which hung copiously about their heavily laden branches. There was no breeze at all, and not a sound to be heard at all on this winter's day; the day that Bobby Taylor went off to Vietnam.

Page 260: Overcome with the gravity of an admission that she had never, in her short life, expected to hear, she stood there dazed before him as a blank tablet awaiting the imprent of a new chapter of life to be impressed upon it. And impress her he did, when he put his left hand behind her back, leaned forward and gently placed that fatal kiss upon her lips. "Oh, God help my soul," she prayed, having her knees give out beneath her. Thigtening his grip around her waist she fell listless within his arms and instantly he knew she was the one. His tawdry days of loneliness were at an end and suddenly he felt shameful about his past.


Page 207:                                                        The Artist's Charge

                                                                When poetry defines the poet
                                                                And art defines the artist
                                                                Does inspiration really show it?
                                                                Or is their truth the farthest
                                                                Thought within their minds?

                                                                For rythm, rhyme and meter are but rules
                                                                As paint and clay and canvas are but tools
                                                                To help the spirit of the work prevail.
                                                                The verity of its message must entail
                                                                The soul within its times.

                                                                The song of life belongs to one and all,
                                                                Composer or conductor matters not.
                                                                To give a pound of flesh is small,
                                                                When sacrifice indeed becomes your lot
                                                                To be within your kind.

                                                                For creativity is born alone,
                                                                God's gift unto the integrity of a soul.

Enjoy.