I Be A Minstrel Born

Come to me, oh gentle child,
My purpose is to sing,
With words become enchanted birds
To drive the spirit wild.
			
Ah, spirit come with rising beat,
A minstrel born I be.
The gull cry, storm-wind, sing in me,
Both powerful and mild.

A pulse will soar with happiness,
A pyrning in a gyre.
A joy become a tender rose,
And love a raging fire.

The slowing beat of sorrow might fall
As quick as summer rain,
And twist and rent a gentling soul,
Before it rise again.

I see it all, I sing it all,
As Triton wields his horn,
Come to me, oh, gentle child,
I be a minstrel born.

Written in the Spring of 1970 by James R. Hoye 

Thus Is Born A Minstrel Man

The minstrel, when a gentle child,
Bright of visage, warm and mild,
Viewed the world and was beguiled
And played the games of man:

Played the knight, played the knave,
Played the tyrant, played the slave,
And to each role his whole self gave;

Played the merchant, played the king,
Played the minstrel, (For he loved to sing),
And, in his dreams, He was all these things,
Forever and a day.

Time passed by, He grew to man,
Ne'er the gentle child again,
Although to him he was akin
In many a wondrous way.

In time he felt the wanderlust,
And traveled, as he sensed he must,
And found his natural calling thus,
For, as he went, he sang.

He sang to knights. He sang to knaves.
He sang to tyrants, he sang to slaves,
And, each to him, their secrets gave.

He sang to merchants, he sang to kings.
He was a minstrel and he loved to sing,
For his voice, it was awakening,
And he had much to say. 

Thus, the youth became the man,
Ne'er the gentle child again,
Although to him he was akin
In many a wondrous way.

And, everywhere his footsteps led,
From Sea-God's side to harlot's bed
He stored it all within his head
As future songs to sing,

And, he sang of knights; he sang of knaves;
He sang of tyrants, he sang of slaves.
And, to each song, his self he gave.

He sang of merchants. He sang of kings.
He sang himself and his wanderings,
And all his sorrows and joys would ring
In each enchanted lay.
	
The gentle child had grown to man,
Ne'er the gentle child again,
Although to him he was akin
In many a wondrous way.

Written Jul 1970 by James R. Hoye

Aeolian

The gentle child once had a friend
Who called himself Aeolian,
Who came from some forgotten land,
(Where apples grew on lemon trees
And natives lying on the sand
Gave homage to the honey bees).

And this strange friend, Aeolian,
Who came from this exotic land,
Had taken him aside one day,
When clouds had turned the summer gray,

And spoken in a foreign tongue, 
Which he knew not but understood,
And, taking him gently by the hand,
Had walked with him above the wood.

They didn't walk there very long,
Because it was the light of day,
And people might have been surprised
To see them walk the sky that way,

And always e’er they journeyed by night,
For that was but the first time,
And surely it was not the last.
Far and often, they roamed the skies
And o'er all the bright world passed.

They walked above the Persian soil:
Saw the Danube and the Nile:
Rested above the ocean's roar
And saw the signs of land once more.

When, at last, the night was gone,
And wandering hearts had weary feet.....
Why, then, at last, they'd journey home,
And call their evening walk complete.

In later years, when memory dimmed,
He could not call that man a liar,
Who said his friend was but a dream.
He only knew a hidden fire			                                
Had long ago burst forth in him,
And burned there deep within him still,
And that it always would remain,
Although his friend be proved unreal....

For in those days of later years,
When 'oft he'd flown to foreign shores,
He'd known with sureness, (held in tears),
That he had journeyed there before.

Written Aug 1971 by James R. Hoye

The Making Of The Mystic Mirror

Chorl, the magus,
Chorl the maker,
Struggled with his mirror.
It was the labor of his love....
The labor of his fear

Sand and ambergris combined
Forged into glass that seethed with life,
Showed far more than mere reflections.
It captured souls and through projection
Showed their hopes and showed their dreams 
		
Starkly......truly.

There was, of course, much magic born
Within the substance of that glass
For Chorl was a mage as well,
With powers only few could match

And he had woven many spells
Into the substance of this mirror,
That it might bring delight and fear
To all who saw their image there.
				
And when his work was finally done
Just one task to him remained.		
He signed its back for all to see,
And inscribed these words upon it’s frame.

“The secret of the mirror is this....
Life’s a shadow....Love’s a kiss.
You who look herein will see
All the vague realities,
That were, and are, and just might be,
Beyond the veils of time.

Images herein will dwell,
Both of heaven and of hell,
That live beneath one’s worldly shell,
Forever intertwined.

Just which you’ll see......
No one can tell.

The answer’s in your mind.”	

Written in the Spring of 2004 by James R. Hoye

The Death of the Minstrel

Once there was a mystic mirror,
That cast a magic spell.
Far stranger its enchantment was
Then ever words could tell.

An old man saw a youth inside.
A maiden saw a babe-in-arms.
A young man saw a blushing bride.
An infant saw a valley, warm.

At length the minstrel came that way;
Sang his golden tunes,
Then, stood before the mirror and moaned,
As wildly as a loon,

For no reflection greeted him
Save his, and his alone.
That was darkly withering,
The flesh upon the bone.

The minstrel laughed,
Wildly moaned,
And sighed a ,mournful sigh,
Then hurried home - sang all his songs,
And, weeping, gaily, died.

Written in the Fall of 1970 by James R. Hoye

So The Cycle Turns

Gentle child to minstrel grows;
Minstrel to aged man.
Death, as ever, claims its own,
The cycle turns again.

Aged man, a truth imparts,
Unto the minstrel's ear.
Lo, it turns into a song
For the gentle child to hear.

"Round and 'round, the cycle turns;
Thus, it turns again.
Gentle child to minstrel,
Minstrel to aged man.

Written Jan 1971 by James R. Hoye 

Dawn To Dusk

Once upon a sun-bright day
With naught a cloud in sight,
The minstrel sat with the gentle child
And watched a gull young's flight.

High on a craggy face they sat
Above the laughing sea,
And the minstrel sang of another day
Lost in memory.

"This balding rock and I, he sang,
Oft smelled the sea's salt breath.
One time, on a darker day than this,
Far distant in the past",
			
"We watched the gull young flying out,
Alone and strong and free.
Far apart from the land he soared;
Far over the turbulent sea".

"Then, Poseidon, in his wrath,
Hid him from our eyes.
Feathered death was swept to shore
Just as the day chanced to die".

So, as the minstrel's song declined,
The day, indeed, did die,
The gull young, in twilight, 		
Slipped from their view.
And the small child softly cried.

Written June 23, 1971 by James R. Hoye 

The Serving Girl On Being Scorned

How strange....How aloof that man is.
How immune he seems to my charms.
I wink, I wiggle, and still can not
Entice him into my arms.

My voice falls, low and sexy.
My lips invite him near.
He gives to each, such attention....
You'd think that I wasn't here.

Ignore him, then....Bid him goodby.
Others are waiting....most eagerly.
I'll laugh as I leave him,
And spit in his eye.
	
I'll laugh as I leave him.....
Oh.....why can't he see?

Written in the Spring of 1977 by James R. Hoye

Song Of Sadness - Song of Joy

The fair young man and the serving girl
Twined together lay.
The minstrel played the saddest song,
That he knew how to play.

And on the morrow they parted,
The serving girl in tears.
The minstrel played the gayest song
That he had played in years,

Oh, the minstrel played a brightening song
And dried the maiden’s tears.

Written the Fall of 1969 by James R. Hoye

Hard Lessons

"Gentle child, the world is cold,"
Thus said the angry young man.
"No colder than man might be to man,"
Said another, wrinkled and old,
"But man can build a place of warmth
Where peace and love can grow."

"No love see I." The young man hurled,
And flashed his darkening eyes.
"Nor have you looked," The old man moaned
Beneath the darkening skies;
And the gentle child drew near to him
For warm he was, and wise.

The young man's rage welled up like night
(For he had been denied).
He struck like thunder in a storm
And left the old man dying.

And a darkness fell on a startled land,
And a small child's muted crying.

Written the Fall of 1965 by James R. Hoye

The Servings Girl's Advice to Her Bridesmaid

We woman live in mystery.
Our hearts and minds are masked.
We love the man who stirs our heart,
But marry him who asks.

My man proposed to me one night,
And filled my heart with sheer delight,
I sent him home to clear my head,
And, with another, shared my bed.

Alas, that other did not propose,
So, he who did, was him I chose,
And, he I loved, I sent away,	
A proven fool, too blind to stay.

Though, foolish, that might seem to some,
T’is often for the best;
For he it be who loves us most,
May best bring happiness.

So, love those men who love you well,
But seek the man who’s true,
Though, he may stir your heart the less,
In time, you’ll love him, too.

Written in 1977 by James R. Hoye

Sweet Mary, Queen Of Harlots

Sweet Mary, Queen of Harlots cried
Unto the Minstrel’s ear,
“Ah, strange the love should pass me by,
That held it always dear”.

“By twelve I lost my maidenhead;
By twenty I had given
Perhaps three times a score of men
My love beneath the heavens,
And still this heart cannot regret 
The love that I have given”.

Then, Mary, Queen of Harlots sighed
And drew the Minstrel near
And made such music in the night,
That angels paused to hear.		
			 
Written the Fall of 1969 by James R. Hoye

Gull Cry - Gull Song

Gull young, born of the sea,
Gull young,
Hauntingly cry in the violent night,
Cry in the turbulent storm,
Cry in my heart, 
(Forever warm).
Gull young.

So did the minstrel sing
Through youth, and as slow age
Blazed hot and strong within;
Through mood of rage
And mood of love,
The piercing long gull cry
Echoed forth from him.

And the gentle child, he listened,
And the gentle child, he smiled,
(Deep within his eyes),
And long before he knew the sea,
He felt the gull young cry.

Gull young, born of the sea,
Gull young,
Hauntingly cry in the violent night,
Cry in the turbulent storm,
Cry on through an endless linage of hearts,
(Forever warm).
Gull young.

Written the Fall of 1969 by James R. Hoye

The Minstrel In Spring Time

The fragrance of blossoms in his head,
The minstrel roused himself from playing,
And 'cross the emerald grasses swaying,
He, like the swift-doe, fled.

The honeyed air racing past his face,
Burning warmly in his breast,
He gulped in Nature with a zest,
As on, he madly raced.

Then, at last, he finally fell,
And to the warm earth closely pressed,
And gently curled himself in rest
Beneath the lilac 'top the hill.

There, the sweet winds mussed his hair,
Tenderly there, his cheek, caressed,
And there was peace within his breast
As softly slept he there.

Then, from far around him, came
All Natures's children, one by one,
Dancing gaily 'neath the sun,
And settled 'round him, as if tame. 

Thus came the linnet, the lark, and dove,
The squirrel, the beaver and the deer.
There, they gathered, bereft of fear,
At ease beneath bright skies above.

When, he awoke and saw them there,
He welcomed each with his bright glance,
And breathed the blossoms on the branch
Whose essence sweetly filled the air.

Softly, he raised his voice in song.
Warmly, sweetly, did he sing.
He sang the coming of the spring,
And all of Nature sang along.

Written the Spring of 1970 by James R. Hoye

According To His Perspective

“This is Man’s age”
Said the brash young man,
“The age of his reality,
With garbage laden seas,
And open tombs with piles of white thin bones,
That rattle in a cold wind,
Speaking of death, cold death,
Speaking of war.”

“Sweet romantic love”, he said,
“Is not the sweetmeat of this age,
And has lost its power.
Rather, for us are the spilt sperm seed,
The sweating wilting thighs,
Waging a war called passion”.

“Such is the Fashion”

“This is a time to sweep shed skin away,
And mock the images of God,
To raise all Holy Hell,
And lay your neighbor neath the sod.”

And the Minstrel nodded
And gently smiled, deep within his eyes,
“You have reason to feel  that way, my friend”
Thus did he reply,
“And though I’ll grant your words ring true,
Still the sun is bright,
The sky is blue,
And my love is to sing.

I am joy....and my songs are joy
And the nightengale’s on the wing”.

Written in 1978 by James R. Hoye

Trust Unto The Minstel

Dust thou art.
And dust leads unto dust.
That is something
I cannot explain,
But Minstrels travel onward
‘Cause they must.
Often dust will settle with the rain.

Oh, the Minstrels lock of hair
Is gold as corn.
Gold the sound he
Murmurs in our ears:
It echoes like the call 
Of Triton’s horn
Across the multifolate map of years.

Stop then, and listen to him if you will,
And follow somewhat softly in his wake,
For each sweet fruit you find upon the way,
More bounty is than all the dust can take.

So set your feet to dancing if you will.
Trust unto the Minstrel to be kind.
Hold the sweetest lemon to your lips,
And never leave the sugarplum behind.

Written the Spring of 1965 by James R. Hoye

Wiser Are Thee, Nereus

The Minstrel said to Nereus,
Beside the laughing sea,
"Oh, wiser are thee, Nereus,
Than ever man could be."

"But, I've lived ages longer."
Said Nereus to he.

"Then, age  alone brings wisdom."
The Minstrel, quick, replied.
"Only to he who first is wise."
So, Nereus sagely sighed.

And with that, old Nereus winked a eye
As into the sea, he dived. 

Written the Fall of 1969 by James R. Hoye

Serenade

The minstrel teased the gentle child,
"Ever do you smile,
The world is filled with sadness,
Yet, it passes you the while".

As if in proof, that sweet child beamed,
A smile as bright as day.
The Minstrel man suppressed a grin.
His songs rose bright and gay.

The gentle child drew near to him;
Listened to his tunes,
And raised his deep and knowing eyes
Unto the dark'ning moon;

Raised his sad and knowing eyes
Unto the dark'ning moon.

Written the Fall of 1971 by James R. Hoye