(c) 1988 by Archie R. Whitehill

Take this silver ring, my love,
It symbolizes our faith.
It's round and endless end-to-end
As is our passion for each other.
It shines in the darkness of despair
And leads us both away to care
For that is the way our love shall live,
And it shall be endlessly silver too.

So like the moon our love, our ring
Its round and perfect silver face
Watches over us, our love, and then
Takes our lives away each night;
Each night our breaths we hear, we share.
Ever present, ever round it is you see;
It feels the beat of love's sweet pulse
Each beat lingers into the next.

We turn the ring a quarter turn,
And spring is gone into summer.
A waxing moon, we go for strength
While our love waxes full as well.
Next quarter turn it goes to fall;
Our love's matured and so have we.
The turn to winter and the moon does wane,
But our passion's still the force it was.

For in the end, we meet the riddle
Of life's sweet end to meet its start.
And on we go, we live love's strength
That walks us through the ages.
It never ends, this ring of ours;
To tarnish was not its karma.
The moon is full as we meet our selves
We die, we judge; we love; we grow.

(c) 1984 by Archie R. Whitehill

Memories, mirrors of the past, show us ways to the future.
Unlike mirrors, memories show truth tarnished by desire;
Memories reflect truth tarnished by the desires of the soul.
Some memories are reflected because events were good.
Some memories are reflected because events were to be good.

Memories, lights to the future, show us ways from the past.
Unlike lights, memories sometimes hide unpleasant scenes.
Memories brighten the path the soul wanted to traverse.
Some memories are bright because they were of shining times.
Some memories are bright because they were of times meant to shine.

Memories, paths connecting past and future, show life's purpose.
Unlike paths, memories can not be revisited except in dreams.
Memories connect events the soul has deemed worthy of remembrance.
Some memories are points on the path for their worthiness.
Some memories are points on the path for their potential.

(c) 1988 by Archie R. Whitehill

The knife lay open, glistening, in my hand.
What good, what evil have you done?
I imagine both, I do. I see the blood;
I see the image of bread, of lives lost,
Of honest work, of pain most of all.

Oh where have you stuck, thou knife of old.
From where you struck, knife so bold.
Tell the stories of your lives lost.
Tell me the stories of you lives saved.
Of strength and happiness, too, I know.

I pick you up, o knife so wise, so old.
I look at the sharpness of your soul,
Your point so deeply forged by man, yet
A shallow sense follows near that point.
Tell me the tales you know.

Glory, pain, life and death 
Are all parts of your history right here.
So true to form you teach me how
To forge ahead, with keen wisdom
And sharp with life.

(c) 1988 by Archie R. Whitehill

The Goddess' Day is done again;
She taught to make it work for good.
Her beauty adds in sun and rain,
And makes earth be as it should.

Now and again the day gone by
Is not the best it can be.
But that's no cause to cry,
For then happiness falls back on me.

Our days are ours to make, each one;
Goddess makes sure we learn how.
We make our sadness; we make our fun;
Each tomorrow can be our now.

We are taught by Her to make our own:
Our wealth, our friends, or nest.
The world is ours, as She has shown,
To ruin the land or to do our best.

The Goddess' day is done for now,
But starts again each day.
It is we who have to pull the plow,
And to win this game of life we play.