A few years ago, I was invited to submit a piece for the KEO Project, a time capsule to be launched into orbit, programmed to return in 50,000 years. I sent the following bit along with Legend of New Horse, a song written and performed by myself, my oldest son, Tommy and son-in-law, Troy. Tommy’s doing the guitar work, Troy’s the drummer and I am trying, once again, attempting to sing.
We aren’t much more than weathered tomes to your eyes. I’ve come to seek that which more than magic reveals, language, the texture of my skin, cloth spread across bony my spar, a cobweb sail blown by the winds of time. The time and life I have lived must occur a thousand times more, sets of fifty years of existence. I see the hand of my grandson on the hand of my son. Over a hundred and fifty generations this eternal stack of hands will represent, a fine promise and some proof of aeon.
This message is a thin whisper to the younger, word secrets whispered into your ear. We aren’t doing so well in this world of bombs and bullets we have made, our epithets of peace or else, the mad science of overkill. I hope exist in spite of us, have learned something because of us and are, better still, yet one of us.
I am a man who dreams. It has even been suggested that I dream in color. I do so hope you have color and a host of dreams upon waking. To this end, I have penned a song whose tune my son has taught he guitar has sing. I have chosen to include the lyrics that its music might find your lips. I sure, if you descended from me, you will find a way to sing.
Legend of new horse
Momma told her first son, “Come sit down by my side. When everything is said & done, all you can do is try.
Remember when you wonder which way and what to do, sometimes only hunger will see a spirit through.” And we’re standing in a crosswind, bad moon bound to carry a legend on the rise.
When you follow your heart, face the risk of breaking down, set yourself a part awareness of the sound, the arch of earth and sky, peace, angelic fall. Momma said, “Son we can only fly when we’re not above it all.” And we’re standing in a crosswind, bad moon bound to carry a legend on the rise.
Where winter makes its mark, what decades find, lay claim, a howling voice the dark and New Horse is its name. A pounding heart of rage, tempered passion, will, when it’s time to turn the page, a destiny fulfill. And we’re standing in a crosswind, bad moon bound to carry a legend on the rise.
Breathless fall from the womb, a four-point landing to, maybe shake the mother spoon, find a path that’s true. We are only what we are, a kick in fortune’s ass. Honey, we may hold the stars, kiss the nights we pass. And we’re standing in a crosswind, bad moon bound to carry a legend on the rise.
So, there you have it. I keep a tenuous grip at best, so at odds am I with the ways and time. I live near the mountains and share the wonder of them with my children, your next of next of kin. Be generous and good to one another. Look forward and not back. Most of what you may learn from us is how not to be. In history’s stead, keep a good heart. Care about your young and old. Those in between will thrive in a circle of wellness.
I like to think of myself as your father for it is what I have come best to be, one who cares for children, sings when he gets the chance and appreciates blessings of love when they occur. Remember, if you will, that your spirit resides within yourself. You are a living pagoda. No one can show you the way, yet you may close your eyes and wander unclothed in a snowfield to be kissed by gods. Be humble and proud, simply courageous.
I promised myself I wouldn’t preach when I penned this piece, yet it sounded just then as if I were. Listen, if you know me when this is found, come get me straight away. We will make a circle and pound our bare feet into the dust of our Spiritual Ground, howl the legend to the heavens, press our faces into the flesh of New Horse and run the hell away.
© 2017 artwork, music & words
conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2017 ©