The Season of Hidden Hope

SEASON OF HIDDEN HOPE

a radio musical

by

FRANK MOORE

November 23, 1993



1



Walking along

cold dark homeless

roads

clogged with ice fears,

my only friend

is the wind

chilling my bones

into longing

and lost

and beyond...

into a cynical loneliness.



Herding my sheep,

looking in windows

of unattainable desires,

looking at presents

useless

because

I don't have anyone to give them to,



looking into the past

soft colored warm homes

that are no longer mine.



Everyone has left,

everyone is gone.



Even the sun has left

long ago,

long before the manger.



And the sun

will not come back

ever

again.



This is the season

of dark depression

and fragile suicide.



Yes,

I know

I can always bum up

the $29.95

to buy

the plastic hope and faith

at 7 Eleven

and pretend

it is my wonderful life

playing

in the video store's window.



But instead

I wrap myself

in a jaded pretense

of dry ice isolation

of not caring,

and drinking

the stale

but warm wine of regrets.







2



The birth

of new hope

has always been hidden within

the long cold

winter darkness.



Huddle together,

clinging to our tribal warmth

as our only protection

against dying

into the scary

black

unknown,

we always have been blind

to the evergreen

hope of life.



It has always been

the first time

the sun

and easy hope

have gone away.



So we always think

they will never

come again.



The evergreen hope

has been hidden

away

in the womb

of the humble

and in children's dreams.



The forces of greys

have always overheard

the possibility

of the hidden hope...

have always searched

for it

to pervert it

into human isolation...

or,

failing that,

to kill it

for all time.



But the forces of power

always overlook

the hidden human hope

rocking

in the baby's cradle.



As power

goes on a desperate killing,

chopping

hacking

gorging,

eating

the old world up......

we huddle together

in the silent night

upon the hill,

rocking together

in our tribal body warmth.



The shaman,

the holy woman,

the medicine man

have always shifted

our attention away

from the dark

cold

outward

fear,

have always shifted

our gaze

to the guiding light

of new birth...

at first

in the stars,

then in the roaring

tribal fire

which pulled

all human feelings

within it,

and still later

into that corny

home hearth

crackling

with bright colors

popping.



Into this fire

we have always gone,

hearing

the drumming

of our innocent heart

beating

in a slow excitement,

meeting

again

our love of life.

We curl up

with our love

and wait

for warm spring

to arrive...

as hope grows

into knowing.


In Freedom,
Frank Moore


**********************

From: Dorothy . Beag Beagle
To: Frank Moore
Subject: Re: SEASON OF PEACE SHALL BE EXTENDED TO ALL YEAR!

14 years and such is hope for peace, it is strongest when there
is least of it.

The beautiful painting is downloaded and will work its magic for
good cheer. 08 is the year of OUR PREZ FRANK! His plank is
not the one you walk with no hope but the deep blue sea. It is
the plank of common sense and good will.

Jesse

**********************