AUTUMN SYMPHONY

©1992 Jack W. Gladstone, Glacier Pacific Publishing/BMI

Play a Symphony for all the birds that fly and,

all the trees spreading boughs to the sky.

Play a Symphony for fallen colors by

the autumn winds that have come once again.

You can play it if you try,

add your part if you might

Few have heart enough to try. Oh why

does the city pull your spirit down from flight?

Hear the Symphony and softly fallen scree that,

rolls in rhythm with the roar of the streams.

Hear the Symphony that, drops her harmonies in,

pools that glisten with the sun’s growing gleam.

You can stay here if you like.

I will hold you through the night.

Together we shall be the melody line,

Leading our Symphony through time

Love is simply a two-part Symphony where,

we can join and be blended as one.

Birds and boughing trees make background harmonies while,

The colors change around our mountains and streams.

You can stay here, if you like.

We’ll partake in lovers rites.

Together we shall be the melody line.

Leading our Symphony through time.

Leading our Symphony through time.

 

THE BUILDER

©2004 Jack W. Gladstone

 Dedicated to the visionary souls who nurture ideas, hope and love for future generations.

On the journey that we climb

To the summit of the mountain we do find

There are heroes, there are fools

There are builders ever reaching for their tools

With their tools, they build the walls

That stand solid, fresh and tall

You know, building is a risky thing to do

When the work you perform outlasts you

Through the romance, through the dance

Over rolling plains of troubled circumstance

Into the journey, we are born

Always keep your dreams alive over the storm

And may your dreams form a love that survives you

We remember your warm grin

And the trickster that would make us smile again

You built bridges, you built walls

But now, we find you’ve built your spirit in us all

Through the joy and through the pain

Through the loving, through the rain

Sometimes rainbow colors aren’t easy to see

How you forgive and how you love is the key

Through the romance, through the dance

Over rolling seas that challenge circumstance

Into the journey, we are born

Always keep your dreams alive over the storm

And may your dreams form a love that survives you

Through the romance, through the dance

Over rolling plains of troubled circumstance

Through the journey, we are born

Always keep your dreams alive over the storm

And may your dreams form a love that survives you.

Children carry the love...

That survives you.

 

BRIGHT PATH

©1993 Jack W. Gladstone, Glacier Pacific Publishing/BMI

Dedicated to the man who is worthy of recognition as the twentieth century’s greatest athlete.
Note: Alternate lyrics from the Buckskin Poet Society album, and from the Noble Heart album, are shown in italics.
Narrative is show in Bold.

From the stars a Bright Path came

Leaving behind an infant boy

O’er the waves of the plains

An Indian son did rise

From the clan of Black Hawk

Who survived the U.S. wrath

They stole the sparkle from his spirit

Will they give it back

To Bright Path?

Seasons turned the boy to man

Races run and rivers swam

Footprints in his father’s pace

Through thirty mile days

In the hunt or in the chase

Of horses on the range

Swift and sure, so strong and pure

They beamed across the plains

On a Bright Path

A young heart forged by a native sun

Would depart into a world unknown

School loomed supreme when the buffalo were gone

So across the empty prairies he did go

His father said, He said,

“Son, you are a Black Hawk

Now, go and show the world what you can do.

Go now and show the world what you can do.”

From the hills of Pennsylvania,

Carlisle beckoned to the tribes

Offering an education

so they could survive

Jim Thorpe emerged from Bright Path’s shadow

Leaving home behind

With his legs and toe he ferried

Pigskins cross the line

On a Bright Path

On the battle fields of college

Powerhouses came to play

Penn State, Syracuse and Army

There among the fray

Pop Warner led his Carlisle Redmen

Through the foes before

Through his line with flashing thunder

”Katie bar the door”

For Bright Path

When the Earth’s call came for Olympians

Jim stood tall, proud to be chosen.

The ten-event gold medal was placed upon his chest

Our anthem played and U.S. flag unfurled

Sweden’s king said, He said,

“Sir, you are the greatest.

Yes, you’re the greatest athlete in the world.

You are the greatest athlete in the world.”

Back in school, with fluid passion

One more season still to play

Jim and Pop’s inspired Redskins

Blew their foes away

When the gridiron wars were settled,

Carlisle whipped ‘em all

Number one in the whole nation

By the end of fall

Was Bright Path!

Like a cold blade laid on a beating heart

Gloom settled in and then tore apart

When news disclosed a teenage Jim was paid in summer leagues

They demanded back the medals he received

The letter read:     From the AAU it said:

“We regret that we allowed Jim Thorpe to compete.

We must erase the record of his feats.

Yes, we’ll erase the record of his feat.”

(Musical interlude)

As a twin sport Pro he traveled

A superstar in perfect grace

Pro football’s first star and founder

Baseball’s happy face

With the century half over

A.P. took the vote

The greatest gridder and best athlete

It wasn’t even close

Was Bright Path

In ’53 Jim’s path joined a brighter sky

To the stars he returned as his body died

Thirty winters later, justice swung in toil

It troubled those whose consciences were soiled.

His name restored...

By 1984 in the summer games in Los Angeles,

Jim Thorpe's medals were restored to his family,

and his records were restored to the books.

From the stars a Bright Path came

Leaving behind an infant boy

O’er the waves of the plains

An Indian son did rise

From the clan of Black Hawk

Who survived the U.S. wrath

They stole the sparkle from his spirit

Finally gave it back

To Bright Path!

To Bright Path!

To Bright Path!

 

BENEATH ANOTHER SKY

©1992 Jack W. Gladstone, Glacier Pacific Publishing/BMI

From the corner of the universe, my soul has found a pen,

For I believe this story must be told again.

Not by some historian, not by some bleeding heart

But by the man who saw the web of justice spun apart.

In the year of eighteen sixty-three, according to their Lord,

The treaty signers split our country for the coming horde.

With swarms of hungry settlers, the miners built the towns.

They started laying claim to where my people’s bones were found.

Ollikot and I intently listened to the words

That rolled firm and strong across our father’s tongue,

“Never sell the bones of your parents or your home.

Our home is where the Winding Waters run.”

The one-armed General met with us. He told us we must leave.

Too-hool-hool-sote, the elder chief firmly disagreed.

When I spoke, I told the circle, no one else but me

Can sell my horses or my land, and I will never cede.”

“The Great Spirit blessed my people with this holy land

The Winding Waters are our only home.”

Howard rose and spoke in terms that shadowed our great war,

Demanding we be gone “In thirty days, no more!”

We didn’t want to fight.

We didn’t want to die.

We wanted to be free again

Beneath Our Mother’s Sky.

The young men’s hearts were angry, when soldiers first attacked.

At White Bird Creek, we killed their charge and drove the army back.

With families and stock all packed, we journeyed to the east.

Looking Glass assured us there, they’d let us live in peace.

When our sleeping camp beside the Big Hole was surprised,

Soldiers’ volleys rained from their surround.

Our young men rose in fury and returned a deadly fire,

Soon to pin that White Chief Gibbon down.

Fathers ran to fight

and mothers fought to die

To see their children free again

Beneath Another Sky.

Lean Elk almost died that morning from a wound received

But his flesh and voice arose, pushing us to leave.

Before dawn till after dusk, we drove without a home

Through a half moon of pursuit, we wove to Yellowstone.

With Howard near, Black Hair shared the vision of his dream

Our young men crept upon their tired sleep.

Shadows of the starlight struck and drove their stock away

Turning mounted men to infantry.

We didn’t want to fight.

We didn’t want to die.

We wanted to be free again

Beneath Another Sky.

From the Yellowstone, we turned, up to the sky beneath.

Sitting Bull had led his band to stand beyond their reach.

Our friend, the Crow, had turned against us, brotherhood betrayed.

Autumn chill descended as our plans again were laid.

A fresh White Chief attacked, then through my brother’s plan,

Were made to look like fools while we escaped.

With Canada ahead and three armies far behind,

At last we felt our families were safe.

We didn’t want to fight

We didn’t want to die

We wanted to be free again

Beneath King George’s sky

The end arrived with hooves of thunder charging from the east.

Hope descended with the moon as we prepared to leave.

Bear Coat Miles’ many rifles spoke through flesh again

Through the lines, to Sitting Bull, a messenger was sent.

Biting snow began to blow as men began to die.

The will to live and suffering increased.

Our chiefs were cut to few, my brother taken, too,

Then, to my ears there reached new words of peace.

We didn’t want to fight.

We didn’t want to die.

We wanted to be free again

Beneath Another Sky.

With peace declared, Miles promised we could return home

To the valleys that our parents long before had roamed.

I believed, I gave my gun. We would start again

With the little we had left, by the hope within.

Now I know their promises amount to words alone.

We’re removed, our homeland overrun.

All I ask is that our people be allowed our home,

The land through which the Winding Waters run.

We didn’t want to fight.

We didn’t want to die,

We wanted to be free again

Beneath our Mother's Sky

We didn’t want to fight.

We didn’t want to die,

We wanted to be free again

Beneath our Mother's Sky

Eternally, we’re free again

Within our Mother’s sky.

 

CIRCLE OF LIFE

©1992 Jack W. Gladstone, Glacier Pacific Publishing/BMI

In a bottomless sea of timeless space

In the center of a trillion stars

There’s a circle from which we all have come

That reflects who we are

From this circle we hear her seasons sing

in four scene harmony

And from this song we know her love

in all the Earth receives

From the snow pack in the highlands

Her blood flows with the Spring

Forever the Sun’s lover

A songbird choir sings

She’s the Circle of Life

She’s the womb of the Sun’s creation

She’s his forever wife

She’s a harvest of every nation

She’s the Mother of every life born

Through each day and each night

With the Father she gave the Earth form

She’s the Circle of Life

In our paths of time we share the sky

With those upon the wing

And with those living ‘neath the waves

Whose motion is unseen

All life around stems from the green

In green all life abounds

We step her dance and speak her song

When each season sounds

From the snow pack in the highlands

Her blood flows with the Spring

Forever the Sun’s lover

A gray wolf choir sings

She’s the Circle of Life

She’s the womb of the Sun’s creation

She’s his forever wife

She’s a harvest of every nation

She’s the Mother of every life born

Through each day and each night

With the Father she gave the Earth form

She’s the Circle of Life

She’s the Circle of Life

She’s the Circle of Life

She’s the Circle of Life

 

DYIN’ FOR A METAPHOR

©1992 Jack W. Gladstone, Glacier Pacific Publishing/BMI

I know you know what I’m a’feelin’

Words tumble short to say

You know I know time is a’stealin’

Will time climb our way?

What is the proper way to express what can’t be seen?

For our senses grasp only a glimpse of the mystery between

Therefore, I’m resigned to weave my way

through the forest of word lore

  Dyin’ for a Metaphor

     Dyin’ for a Metaphor

People straining in pure sunlight,

black and white perceived.

Forget about the color gray.

Lawyers training, prepare to fight, right is their own way

  What are the changes that the child within goes through?

  Does the spirit or material reflect your point of view?

  Lost, we weave our way through mall-faced stores

  In the neon of word lore.

  Dyin’ for a Metaphor

Mountain dancer in the moonlight

close your eyes and dream

Step into another day,

our adventure begins tonight. Cast your loom my way.

Through all the changes that our inner child goes through

May your love reflect the spiritual into your point of view

Drifting hearts have longed to wash ashore

Through the currents of word lore

Dyin’ for a Metaphor

Explore the metaphor to inspect what can’t be seen

‘Cause our senses grasp only a glimpse of the mystery between

That’s why we’re designed to weave our way

Through the forest of word lore

Dyin’ for a Metaphor

Cry'n for a Metaphor

  Try'n for a Metaphor

       I'm Dyin' for a Metaphor

 

THE OWL AND THE EAGLE  (Wisdom and Vision)

©1992 Jack W. Gladstone, Glacier Pacific Publishing/BMI

The Owl and the Eagle are Chiefs of the skyline

Wisdom and Vision are yours

The Owl’s seen the forest grow long before humans

Walked down the ice corridors

To the land now perceived as America

To the gifts of a God-given sun

With the eye of an eagle, we see the tomorrow

And a thousand years yet to come...

The eagle is nesting up high and away from

All that can damage its young

The eaglet is resting, soon to be testing

A wingset to fly in the sun

Through the sky now perceived as American

Over mountains and rivers and plains

Through the heart of the cultures preceding Columbus

When legends were passed through the flame...

Of Wisdom and Vision

We now stand on a crown of the Triple Divide

Where the waters run down to three seas

We are commonly close to the shadowy axe

That lumbers across history

Like the Owl and the Eagle

we are the people

with vision and wisdom to share

May the strength of our caring

and source of our love

help the world become more aware...

Of Wisdom and Vision

The Owl and the Eagle are Chiefs of the skyline

Wisdom and Vision are yours

The owl’s seen the forest grow long before Humans

walked down the ice corridors

They've both seen this country grow long before Humans

walked down the ice corridors...

 

SPEAK TO ME GRANDMA

©1992  Jack W. Gladstone

This song was written at the Babb, Montana schoolhouse on the morning of my Indian grandmother’s funeral.  It was really an amazing gift that went smoothly from spirit to pen in only 14 minutes.  It is dedicated to the awakening within us of the sanctity of oral tradition within the family.

Speak to me Grandma I’m alone in my thoughts

Speak to me Grandma You’re at home with the thought...

There’s a wind blowing off the top of Divide

Through the valley of our old St. Mary

You have thrice earned the rest that you’ve got

And the cross your fingers carry to beyond...

Now, I really can’t believe that you’re gone.

Speak to me Grandma, stories blossom in you

Speak to me Grandma legend blended with truth.

And your words brushed a portrait for us

In the Valley of our old St. Mary

Your eyes were the light for us

When our bodies couldn’t carry us beyond...

Now, I really can’t believe that you’re gone.

You felt the buffalo go

You heard the stagecoach roll

You saw booming Altyn rise and fall

You rode your pony upon

Moccasin Flat at century’s dawn

The trails became roads

and the roads became old...

We listened to the stories that you told.

You wed a man from the north

Then ten fine children came forth

Alex still is your groom.

You were the center of us.

Still in our valley we trust

The vision of St. Mary

appeared upon the lake

And leaves me in this fast-closing wake.

Speak to me Grandma I’m alone in my thoughts

Speak to me Grandma You’re at home with the thought...

There’s a wind blowing off the top of Divide

Through the valley of our old St. Mary

You have thrice earned the rest that you’ve got

And the cross your fingers carry to beyond...

Now, I really can’t believe that you’re gone.

There’s a wind blowing off the top of Divide

Through the valley of our old St. Mary

You have thrice earned the rest that you’ve got

And the cross your fingers carry to beyond...

Now, I really can’t believe that you’re gone.

No I really can’t believe

It’s so hard to imagine.

I really don’t believe that you’re gone.

THE BEAR WHO STOLE THE CHINOOK
©1992 Jack W. Gladstone

Among indigenous peoples of the northern hemisphere, the bear, in his winter slumber, is the symbolic holder of the warmth and light of the world.  The mythic imagination has recognized this in various artistic forms.  This song blends this symbolic link with the classic mythic form of a hero’s adventure.

The snow came early and lay on deep

The cold blown bitter made the women weep

Our men tracked hard but could find no game

In our children’s bellies were cryin’ pains

Our elders gathered in the eve and dawn

They prayed and waited and looked

But, little did they know that way up high

The Bear Had Stole the Chinook.

A ragged orphan boy living alone

Called to the animals in his home

Owl and Magpie flew on in

With Coyote and Weasel, there were four of them

As their council met, the Magpie “cawed”

As our heroes shivered and shook

He said, “my relatives told me so”,

He said, “The Bear Has Stole the Chinook.”

Our heroes’ journey to release the wind

Turned west to the mountain bear’s den

Four days they teamed and traveled along

Together they did ascend…

Up to the den that held the Chinook.

The Grizzly snored and snarled in his sleep

Owl crept close, into his lodge peeped

Bear punched Owl’s eyes with a stick

So they sent in a brother who was lightning quick.

The weasel slithered easy through the hole,

And found the elk skin bag of the crook

The bear, enraged roared, “Go Away!” (and said)

“I’m the Bear Who Stole the Chinook!”

Then our friends made medicine smoke appear

And blew it in the Grizzly Bear’s den

The big ol’ Griz fell fast asleep

As Coyote crept on in.

He found the bag where the wind was kept

And pulled it to the light of day

There a Prairie Chicken picked the stitches out

Then the Chinook blew on its way

The Chinook blew on its way.

The Bear burst suddenly from his sleep  Grrrrr!

Our friends all fled, their job complete

The Bear, in vain, pursued the wind

But, the warm wind never was again his friend.

Now Bear sleeps underground the winter long

In his lodge he grumbles and looks

Back to the days of the winter warmth

To the Bear Who Stole the Chinook

To the Bear Who Stole the Chinook

I’m the Bear Who Stole the Chinook!

I’m the Bear Who Stole the Chinook!

Grrrrr!  Grrrrr!

 

THE ROMAN ROAD

©1992 Jack W. Gladstone, Glacier Pacific Publishing/BMI

I was born to a working class family

At the fringe of the city down by the sea

Father chiseled our name in stone

Working on The Roman Road

In the distant past, we battled their legions

Wilderness kept us free

Freedom withered in the face of

The freezin’ winter of the refugee

We didn’t like livin’ under their reign

We swore the Sun would rise for us again

We learned to think in a cross blood way

Workin’ on The Roman Road

Workin’ on The Roman Road

The Circus Maximus would cheer and sing

As the wave rolls ‘round the ring

Players clash, we forget the tax

Blood upon The Roman Road

I can still hear Grandma’s voice

Echoing her morning prayer

Our old men seem to have no choice

Stuck in the ruts to the who knows where

On The Roman Road

   On The Roman Road

I must escape from this Roman freeway

Inner state of my mind

'Cause they are we and we are they

Trottin’ down the Interstate line

I can still hear Grandma’s voice

Echoing her morning prayer

Our old men seem to have no choice

Stuck in the ruts to the who knows where

On The Roman Road

   On The Roman Road

On The Roman Road...