Monday, December 13, 2010


by horace p sternwall

illustrated by rhoda penmarq

freedom's just another word for something - i forget
freedom's just a word, they say - and yet
every night we dream - and of what?
only freedom - the door we can never shut

why else in dreams do we fly?
or care if we die?
the murmurs from a distant shore
there must be, must be something more

i ran away to find it, many years ago
walked the empty highways, in sun and snow
waiting for freedom to call my name
but the beautiful whispering voice never came

the only voice that came to me
was asking for my i d
at the end of the endless trail
the dreams were all for sale


Dan Leo said...


Definitely my favorite modern poet, with Arnold Schnabel second and Bukowski coming in third.

Oh, yeah, the pictures are pretty swell, too!

rhoda said...

quite a statement, dan! i hope arnold's feelings aren't hurt (or mr bukowski's too). i thank you on horace's behalf - and let's not forget the fine efforts of madame in contacting him!

human being said...

hey seems you are answering the crow again...
this is sooooo beautiful! though i cannot dig how dreams can be for sale... they can't be dreams anymore... or perhaps they have not been dreams at all!

and timmy... guess what... the meaning of my family name is freedom!
our life's journey is from our family name to our first name... (a fact discovered by crow many years ago)... perhaps that's why our id's matter quite a bit... of course just as a map we might use while traveling...