Village boy Impressions

I took a walk down the village path And read the tales on its face. The morning after a rainy night. A thousand-tales told and retold In the marks of those gone before. Some full, some half trodden down Some giantish, some dwarfish Some clear, some blur, vanishing. All equally lie, telling their tale For who cares to read. Tales of hope, tales of fear Some of terrors and tragedies And many unhurried paces of romance. Read:  Village Boy Impressions - The Days of Bliss Long I stood reading the silent tales As far as the eye could see For many were the words on that path Speaking in varied pitches of voice Some speak in the center of the path; And leave deep tales in the dust Those are fast trodden under and lost. Others speak gruffly on the edges Brushings thorns and stubs and weeds And hardly leave an impression But the dying weeds tell their tale. By their effort the path grows.  Many prints diverge To the right and to the

I do my crying in the rain Shrieking with the thunder Howling with the wind So that my tears are washed away My sorrow is laid to rest awhile And peace returns to my heart But when the clouds are spent I wear a smile and walk around No one sees the tears in my eyes No one hears the pain in my voice No one marks the grief on my face No one knows the pain in my heart For I weep with the clouds And my healing is in the rain That washes and dries my tears With a million wet kisses I do my crying in the rain Not because I am strong But because I am alone Many weep on my shoulder I find no shoulder to weep on So I feign strength And wait for cloudy skies To pour out my grief in full He is strong, he is solid He can take it all, they say And know not that I am weak And poor and frail even as they But maybe not for I do not cry No, not open bitter tears as they Yet I too do cry I do my crying in the rain.