W. Jude Aher Poems

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on years,
on the dance of whispers.
where have we gone

when the merry pranksters
painted the soul
of a child to woman born
where dares she grow

from woodstock
she chanced to dream
but what did those
years, mean.

she thought they
would stay... forever.

but a child to woman grows
it’s all a body knows
and
it’s the stains
that paint
on one’s remains
as they ride the wind
sweet wind

and so,
still she rides
on tomorrow’s dreams
sweeter wind stitching
a woodstock witching
never...
and always free...

- jude

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