On Pegasus' Wings

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On Pegasus Wings

Copyright 2006Christopher C. Cain

All Rights Reserved

Published By:

Soulful Stories Publishing

Yarmouth, Nova Scotia,

Canada

www.kitcain.com

ISBN 0-9780005-9-5


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CONTENTSPage

THE POETS PERSPECTIVE 6.

SECTION 1: My Own Personal Favorites ........................................ 11.

The Captain 12.

Chance Encounter 15.

The View From Soul 19.

Released 20.

Of Power And Of Might 22.

The Blind Musician 23.

Transition 25.Jack O Diamonds 27.

SECTION 2: Of General Interest ..................................................... 30.

Choc-o-late World 31.

Questions 31.

Mind 34.

The Chasm Crossed 35.

The Plumbers Approach To The Soul 36.

The Seer 36.

The Thin Line 37.

Dancing Light And Sound 37.

The Image Of The Dreamer 39.

Yarmouth Harbor 40.

The Sea And Me 42.

In Time And Space Removed 44.

The Redemption Of Cain 46.

Eat Dessert First 47.


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CONTENTS (contd.)

SECTION 3: Short Stories And Prose ............................................. 48.

An Old Story With A New Twist 49.

Bird Of Paradox 52.

The Hero And The Fool 56.

Za Zen Master 57.

To My Children 58.

A Letter To My Youngest Daughter 60.

The Last Lesson 64.

SECTION 4: Early Poems ................................................................ 66.

Life In The Yukon 67.

The Silver Dart 70.

Freedom And Duty 72.

Clouds 74.

SECTION 5: Song Lyrics .................................................................. 76.

Chains Of Freedom 77.

Theres Always Another Dream 78.

Time Men Learned To Cry 80.

An Aussies Lament 81.

Wings Like A Dove 84.

Freedom On My Side 85.

The Willow Tree 88.

Hello California 90.

Think Ill Go To Frisco 91.

Next Of Kin 92.

Me Old Scalara Hat 94.

Dancin In The Street 97.

Lets Fall In Love 98.


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CONTENTS (contd.)

Without You 100.

The Rhyme In Time 101.

Song Of The Wind Bell 102.

The Midnight Physician 103.

Mirror Image Of Me On The Wall 106.

A Song For Chima 108.

SECTION 6: Esoteric, Spiritual and Mystical .................................... 110.

What Is The Sound Of Freedom 111.

The Whole-I 112.

So MuchFor God Realization 113.

When The Heart 112.

The View From The Source 113.

Departure From Gate 14 114.

0 115.

The Riddle Of Synergy 116.

Credo 116.

The Voice In The Wind 117.

SECTION 7: Authors Commentaries .............................................. 120.

Comments About A Commentary 121.

Pegasus: Authors Commentary 122.

Wings Like A Dove: Authors Commentary 123.

Questions: Authors Commentary 124.

The Redemption Of Cain: Authors Commentary 125.

The Captain: Authors Commentary 128.

The Blind Musician: Authors Commentary 138.

Alphabetical Index 145.


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ONPEGASUS

WINGS

The Poets Perspective

I don't know how one would set out to be a Poet. It was certainly one of the very

last things I ever thought I'd be. It was rather something that happened "along

the way" that is to say, along my own long and arduous journey to spiritual

understanding. I found myself thinking and talking in sentences and words that

rhymed without any conscious effort. With that impetus as a start, I then began to

add conscious effort to intuitive impulse to bring the intuitive impulse into a more

universally coherent or storied form.

An intuitive impulse would be, to me, a single line or a catch phrase such as:

Bore the brand of the Captains hand; or Stepped into the firelight and impaled

me with his eyes. Phrases like Chains of Freedom, Released from the

manacles of matter, the Blind Musician, and even single words that carried

some emotional power within them, like Released, Lost, Power, or Tears

would be cause for me to write them down immediately, along with the frame of

reference in which they occurred and most often in the early hours of morning

just prior to full wakefulness.

These instances have been, to me, as fleeting as the wind, and so I always

carry a pen and small pocket notebook to catch them before they vanish into

nothingness and a blank memory. Restricting my efforts to those widely

separated instances of intuitive/inspirational motivation, the joy of composing

and writing has never become a burden, and thus, for me, quality has replaced

quantity as a result. Neither money nor fame have ever motivated me for long

enough to be bored with their accumulation.

In my earlier years of private schooling I had been given instruction in some of the

basics of poetic construction, but the only words that have stuck in my mind are "

iambic pentameter", couplets, and sonnets. Far be it from me to define them any

further today. If I can attribute my poetic capacities to any factors whatsoever,

they would be to the genetic factors resulting from my father having been a very


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excellent drummer and thus having given me an inbred sense of rhythm through

genetic transfer and childhood association. Secondly, to the fact that I come from

two generations of schoolmasters who specialized in languages including French

and Latin, but particularly English and English grammar. Both my Grandfather

and Father were very excellent public speakers and communicators, and that

cannot help but transfer through close association from birth and through life.

I know that my father had a fondness for certain poems, and I recall having

him read them to us as members of his sixth grade class at Calvert School in

Baltimore, Md.:

"In Xanadu did Kubla Khan

A stately pleasure dome decree

Where Alf, the sacred river, ran

Through caverns measureless to man

Down to a sunlit sea

This first verse of Samuel Taylor Coleridges KUBLA KHAN was one of his favorites

as were several of Kiplings poems. Dad also loved to sing, which he would do

without hesitation whenever anyone could play the piano or was willing to listen.

He also had a repertoire of bawdy songs and ballads which embarrassed me no

end whenever he had more than a nominal share of alcohol because the major

portion of my being seems to have been inherited from my shy, modest, gentle,

retiring, but extremely able and creative Mother.

Though trained in early childhood to have the manners and dress of a Boston

Brahmin, as had been my father, I inevitably opted for the companionship

and dressof the less staid and more adventurous souls who seemed to find a

greater freedom of both movement and expression as tradesmen, self-employed

individuals, and whatever it is that keeps the renegades of life alive outside the

bonds of social integration.

My favorite poets actually emerged from the '60s as the protesters and balladeers

who so aptly expressed their own poetic views of life through their folk songs. I

still firmly believe that they are the true Poets of our turn-of-the-century times.

To name just an exemplary few: Peter, Paul, and Mary; Joan Baez, Bob Dylan,

Judy Collins, Tom Paxton, Don McLean, Paul Simon, Steve Gillette, John

Denver, Leonard Cohen, and Gordon Lightfoot. I mention only these names


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because I either knew them personally or happened to feel an affinity for their

particular choice of ballad and medium of expression. There are many more, and

I apologize to those not mentioned here for not being able to call them instantly

to attention.

Still, there is something about poetry WITHOUT Song that stands in a dimension

by itself. The power of words alone, when spoken by an actor who can PROJECTthem, seem to reach into different dimensions of the human psyche than when

accompanied by music. I would call these dimensions the upper levels of the

mental body of man, or the Soul of man. Music seems to distract from the pure

power and mental imagery of the words reducing them to a more emotional or

entertaining response. Not that theres anything wrong with great entertainment

through poetry and song, I just dont have a word to describe the power and

depth of feeling of universal or mystical words and concepts spoken alone. One

thing is for certain this category of communication has a decidedly narrower

audience than almost any other.

Words which speak to the soul require a capacity to see life with deep insight

and deep insight seems to require a breadth of experience beyond the normal,

coupled with a perspective beyond the normalpowers not easy to come by,

and which require a price few people are willingor capableof paying.

The great poet seems to be an "adept". He or she is adept at blocking the mind

at performing a certain kind of "leap" beyond the mind into the mystical regionsof the soul, while at the same time not negating the essential nature of the mind.

Looking down from this high perchthis Eagles roostone sees afar with a

sharp, totally objective and unbiased discernment. One sees, if the capacity is

there, the wholeness in Duality. This kind of vision seems divorced from -- and at

the same time accepting ofthe travails and traumas of life on Earth. He or she

FEELS the vision first and then has the unusual capacity to almost by second

nature put the vision into words that are simple words which a large portion of

humanity can connect with their daily life experiences and their own personal

inner being.

This poetic transition through the mind and into the soul is not easy and I don't

know how one would practice doing it. It's almost a desire one has that one

waits patiently for and the fulfillment gradually emerges as though it were a gift.

However, without a concept of the soul and dimensions beyond the soul, one


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has no point of growth to reach toward or expand into. The mind then tends to

get lost in the sheer volume of information within the mental realm, becoming

more and more highly specializedand with a narrower and narrower frame of

referenceso that it must manufacture new words to describe the never-ending

discovery of new phenomena. There is nothing wrong with this pursuit per se,

as long as the discoverer (observer) is at the same time cognizant of where all

things originate and where they finally lead.

To my perspective, the mind is simply another kind of experiential body for souls

imagination to play in, lose itself in, empower itself within, and eventually tire of

when the time comes to take that inevitable leap into the unknown realms of soul

and beyond.

To me, the ultimate Poet is one who has reduced the complexities of life to

the simple has developed a complete and whole vision of the artform of the

universe and the ultimate source of all Being, thinking, ideas, and even of souls

themselves.

It is my hope that you enjoy these poems, short stories, prosaic writings, and

insights as much as I do constantly, day after day. Though they have rolled off

the end of my pen, and seem to be a product of my own life experience, I still

cannot rightfully say that they are mine, for yet do I still grow into them.

.....Kit Cain


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Pegasus

The Poets Wings

I climb upon my trusty steed

and on his back I ride,

my view now from The Source of things,

my seat so firm astride.

His wings of power raise us up,

each leap a chasm wide,

until we merge into the Sun

whose light doth banish pride.

His journeys end

.mine just begun,

All words now versified.

See also Authors Commentary, Page 122.


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My

Own Personal

Favorites


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The Captain

The Captain of the ship I sail

Is merciless with me,

his teachings all designed to foil

the unforgiving sea.

I cannot be the victim of circumstance

nor leave to chance my vigilance

Its honed to the Nth degree.

About the time I think that I

have everything in stride,

Ill be caught between a strong wind

and a quickly moving tide

that bears the brand of the Captains hand

to stay my indolence and check my pride.

The Captain of this impeccable shipis a stickler for detail.

Hell not abide a rope untied,

or a worn or tattered sail.

His constant exhortations

make strong men from the frail.

I remember the roaring forties

and the test I know as nine.The storm came up out of nowhere

and covered the ship with brine.

The lee rail went down till I thought Id drown

So I tied myself on with a line


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I stood before the wind alone

my death perched on the bow.

I noticed not that grim ergot

who seemed to say, What now?

Id assumed the role of the fearless soul

Had taken the Captains Vow.

Id trimmed the sails; Id tied things down

Id covered every hole.

Put every man of the crew below

I couldnt risk a soul.

And, cold to the bone, I stood alone

The sky as black as coal.

Id done my part from the very start

Yet still I could not see

The seventh wave was the killer knave

and it was headed straight for me.

The vessel shook; I dared not look

as water foamed by the lee.

And then up spoke the Captainfrom his seat behind my brow

His presence there in the calm and still

And the storm which faced us now.

Your parts well done; now Ill do mine;

You do not question how!

And so we roared on through the night

No longer did I tire.On the mast of the Brig, at the top of the rig

I saw Saint Elmos Fire.

It bore the brand of the Captains hand

How else could such transpire?


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And when the seventh wave arrived

It smashed on the starboard beam.

I roared aloud above the din

Then heard a stifled scream.

My death had fallen off the bow

Had passed me byfor now.What efforts fail from human travail

The Captain can redeem.

And when the foam had settled

The wind began to die

The damage to the ship was nil

I did not question why.

For it bore the brand of the Captains handThe knot

Ill not

untie.

~

See Also Authors Commentary, Page 128.


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Chance Encounter

It was late in the fall of 62The weatherd turned bad and I couldn't fly through.

Hemmed in by mountains on all sides roundThe fog and the clouds forced me down to the groundDown into the valley of the Wind and the Peel,

Wild rivers of the Yukon whose feel is surreal.

The wind howled down from the mountains tall

So I tied my ship down to keep it safe from a squallAnd there in the shelter of boulders huge

Built a fire of driftwood for the night's refuge.

The fog settled in when the wind died downAnd I sat there alone a hundred miles from a town.

I had radioed in while still in the airThat I wouldn't be back till the weather turned fair

For t'was often the case of the Bush pilot's fate

To be plagued with bad weather he could not but outwait.The roar of the river soon put me to sleep

But the wild was untamed and my sleep not too deep.

As I lay there quite lost in my dream-like bliss

I suddenly felt there was something amiss

Then out of the night a man emergedHis presence so strange my adrenaline surged.

He stepped in the firelight bold as could beAnd impaled me with eyes that could do more than see.

I reached for my gun, but could see he had noneHis hand raised in friendship, wide smile as in fun.

Two wolves at his side, yellow eyes in the light

Whined and shrunk back to the cover of night.I smiled in return, but could speak not a word

His appearance and presence all seemed so absurd.


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Wore a dark sheepskin coat that hung down to his knees

Tall leather riding boots well-oiled for his ease.

He looked Scandinavian, blue-eyed and fair

A dark Crimson kerchief tied round his blond hair.

No Indian, trapper, or hunter was he

And his words were as strange as any words could be.

"What is the purpose of life my friend?

What happens to YOU ... when it comes to an end?

This I can teach you and many things more

Things you can't buy at the corner bookstore."

So he sat on a log while I brewed him some tea.

The wolves lay at his feet all the while watching me.

Then I sat next the fire and bid him talk on

As though he were the chess master and I the pawn

For long had I sought what he offered to tell

Long had I labored under Earth's blinding spell.

"I give you this warning about what I say,

Your whole life will be changed, beginning today."

I nodded in agreement and so he went onThat dark, foggy night in the northern Yukon.

"If you contemplate my questions then you'll have the first clue

The answers are confusing, but not none-the-less true

This world is not one it's divided in two;

To reconcile its perfection is the job we must do."

"Of what value the demons which cause us to cower?

How can they be seen as the source of our power?When you work in the gym and sweat hour after hour

Is that not the source of your physical power?

What part of your being makes your countenance glower,

But events of the mind and heart building their power?


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"What is this "Soul" that no-one can see?

Do you think that it dies ... has no reason to be?

This I can tell you with full certainty

When the body dies, the Soul goes free

And keeps coming back with renewable glee

Till it finds what it is

and becomes like me."

The total of wholeness is the sum of two parts:

Man, King of power, and Woman, Queen of hearts.

Each soul must learn both like the horse learns the cart.

One lifetime brings only this knowledge in part

In no other way is one soul split apart,

Nor is it meant to be fun from the very start.

From whence come our thoughts ... inspired or vain?

Are we always the cause of events filled with pain?

We have thoughts from within which we have to sustain

And thoughts from without which we have to re-train.

Each travesty in each lifetime that we cannot explain

Is a lesson that teaches us to restrain or abstain.

The purpose of life has to do with the soulThe sole part of you that can make you whole.

And now, who can tell you who it is makes the soul?

Who can tell you its reason and what its role?

No man can do more than peek through the keyhole

For the Source exceeds mind ... is far vaster than soul.

There's no end to the known, but we still have to try

For only with effort can the grounded bird fly.Fear not to ask questions that others deny.

Seek out the things of life money can't buy.

Does the wind really blow? Can you tell me how ... and why?

Who are you really ... and who am I?


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The purpose of Life is to be what we are.

What we are is the knowledge of any great Avatar

Who has gone beyond mind in his journeys afarAnd discovered the Source of the most distant star.

For the Soul in its body is like the driver in his car

The Soul goes on, though it may seem bizarre,Till it shines like the soul of the Knight Lochinvar.

So profound were his words that I fell off to sleep,Or was it all a dream that arose from the deep?

And when I awoke as the dawn light appeared,I was snug in my bedroll.and the weather had cleared.

I looked all aboutno sign could I see,

But two boot prints in the soft earth....and they were not made by me!

~

AUTHORS NOTE

See the poem Lochinvar by Sir Walter Scott to fully appreciate the reference to the gallant,fearless, audacious soul of the Knight Lochinvar.though a fully-developed soul he may

well not have been!

Alas, only portions of the above-described event occurred to me in my bush flying days.

Would that I could have met such a man in true person rather than in my imagination!


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The View From Soul

So you say that its all too much

You enslave yourself for your freedomAnd when its finally within reach

Youre too old or too infirm to enjoy it.

Your beautiful body that moved so freelyRising to each challenge,

tasting with sensual thirst,

Has become ugly.It moves with difficulty and with pain

And cannot resist the earthward pull.

Now, I ask you..Can you dance to it?

And though you cannot single-handedlyBring peace to a war-torn earth

And you cannot staunchthe lightning-started fires of renewal,

Or guide the Tornados path of Destiny;

Would you really want to....If you could?

Do you have so vast an intelligence?

Have you risen high enough

To see the order in the chaos..

To see that it is your own beliefs..or the lack thereof..

That place you in the storms path

Because you have ignoredThe subtle tap on your shoulder

..or your neighbors words.

Have you failed to see that the outwardInevitably

disintegrates


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Leaving you Naught..But the integration of the inner?

Can you make beauty from your aging ugliness?

Can you laugh about it?Can you hear the music it makes?

..And can you

......Dance To it?

~

RELEASED

I have been released from all the manacles of matter

The shackles and the tyrannies of having to survive

Released from reams of busy thoughts ,And ceaseless mental chatter,

Lust, and greed, and vanityTheir measure do derive.

And yet as long as I remain

within this frame of clay,My freedoms just a point of view

From well above the fray.

I do hereby release myself

From holding on too tight,

From goodor bad

From being sad

or choosing wrong from right.I do hereby release myself

To ponder greater things

And find I doPrefer the view

From whence the pendant swings.


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I have been released just like a soldier from his battleOr even like the dairyman

Whos freed from all his cattle.

I have been released just like an inmate from a prisonWho finds, in time, his freedom blocked

Where newer walls have risen.

Up cannot be Up without some Down firmly attachedWisdom does not come unless

..from Ignorance its snatched!

I have been released from being lost and being foundFrom wandering through the forest

In search for higher ground.

I have been released from all the sickness and the painI have been released from all this coming back again

I see that what I am

Is what I find myself to be,And in the finding comes the gift

Of being, almost, free

As I look back along the track

Of my journey through time and spaceI see no atom nor event

Not perfect in its place.

And though confused and often lostI stumble and I rise

Each rock and rift upon the roadExpands my soul in size

Until at last I stand before

A mirror bright and clearProclaiming to the image there

Without an ounce of fear

I do hereby release myself..from further busyness here!

~


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Of Power & Of Might

What Demon made this realm which saysThat I must kill to live?

How quench the guilt that troubles SoulAnd though condemned forgive?Constrained am I by night and day

Like a soup poured through a sieve.

The tide rolls in; the tide rolls out

All pleasures lead to pain.

The days so urgentnights so darkI fear the Mark Of Cain,

And I fear that I may never findMy way back Home again.

My weariness bewilders me;

Im bound by where I stand.The fog so dense I cannot see

And there seems no place to land.Alone and yet again I feelThe Hand within my hand.

When will the weary night unfold

Into a crystal light?

When will the grounded bird arise

And take to pristine flightAs daily I gather more and more

Of Power and..Of Might.

~


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The Blind Musician

There once was a blind musicianWhose music cast a spellHe said it was his intuition

Where it came from he could not tell.He said it flowed from him like a wellspring

From out of the depths of Naught;Said it came to him when he was dying,

And only then let Itself be caught.He asked me the source of my perception.

I replied that Id never been taught.I see said the blind musician...as a kind of an afterthought.

Then, how is it youve come to this place, he asked,That youd plumb the depths of this well?Ohtwas not a matter of choice, I replied,

Twas a force that I could not quell!I told him about the dreams Id had

And how Id tolled the heights of thought.How Id come to be the estranged monad

Instead of what Id thought I ought;About the many lonely days Id spent

In the search for what couldnt be bought.I see said the blind musician,

Himself having felt the things Id sought.

And then as the writer would reach for his pen,Or the carpenter for his saw,

He picked up his lute and he sang to itOhhh. he played it without a flaw!

Its vibrating strings were like magical things,

His words a clarion call;A voice that flew through the air on wingsThat carried his words through the hall.

Ive tried to describe the songs that he sings,But my words all proved too small.He could see, that blind musician;

Knew the sounds and the words that enthrall.


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And when the song he sang was through,He leaned back in his chair.

Though the magic was gone, he still looked on

Through eyes that seemed only to stare.Whos blind? .and who can truly see?

Whos lost ?and who is found?

What is it that this man projects?From whence come his words profound?

Golds hidden in the silence

Between the silver sounds.Thus spake the blind musician,

In whose darkness Light abounds.

And, Lo, these many years Ive tried

To reconcile the two.What is this word..and what the sound,

That brings the Tuza through;

That cuts the dark, and awakens mindLike the notes of a Bugles call;

That feeds the heart from a deeper source

So it flies above its prison wall?I believe in the imagined state,

Though its oft been my downfall,

For I..

I am that blind musician;

The Fool who sees Nothing in all!Yes.I am that Blind Musician;

The Fool who knows Nothing...and all!

~ADDENDUM

Nothing, in this context, simply means No-Thing. It does not mean the absence of

consciousness, awareness, intelligence, power, feeling, or the other uncountable potential

attributes of the Source of all Things. Authors commentary: P. 138


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Transition

I hear the bugle call methrough the misty morning light

A lifetime ago when I was young and full of life

And going forth to fight the battlesomeone else had placed before me

And given me great reason to live.or die.

For a God I knew not,

Or a nation which was, to me,An impassioned flow of words

describing some unity

Which I wondered who could see.

Reluctantly I pulled my weary, groggy self

away from dreams of home and lovein some far-off, peaceful realm,

to suddenly feel the clammy cold of dew-soaked blankets,

wet boots, wet clothes, wet hair, and fouled mouth.The bugle call disappeared into the thickened fog

which hid the days battleground.

Thoughts and fears of mangled bodies,and blood, and death gripped my insides

like the jaws of a steel trap.

The first rifle shot of the day echoed,

muffled,through the mist

to punctuate my fearful state

.and.just as suddenly.It faded into the more immediate smell

of coffee in the air;

and bacon frying on a wood fire..smoking over there,

at the cook wagon in the trees.


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I feel the moment melt intoA scene I cannot see

I hear the trumpet speak to me

With words of harmonyOh, tell me; Can you tell me,

If these awful things I see

Can be a part of some great storyI have no choice but to be.

Oh, tell me; Can you tell me,

If all this pain and tragedyBespeak the perfect picture

I can only dimly see.

And now in later years again

I hear the bugle bright.Carrying a different tune

At dusk preceding night

TapsLeading ever upward

Into time unknown

The futureCalling me to go forth into new life

Beyond the life Ive known

To reach compulsivelyAnd incessantly

For some dimly-perceived reality

Not known to human senses.Nations, people, Gods now vanished

Into imagined realms of possibility.

Eagerly I pull my ageing bonesand still-young energies together

to thoughts of a new home in some

far-off peaceful region nether..and the bugle melds into light and sounds

which give me wings that over-ride all fear,

all loneliness,


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and send me out alone (al-one)to seek all unknown things.

I feel beyond my mindThe canvas that I paint.

The story that I write.

Just for me!

~

Jack O DiamondsYou thought it was the hand of fatethat brought you down this way;

that dealt you an unknown hand of cards

and threw you in the fray.The dealer was your master;

the rules changed every day.

It seemed like your little house of cardsWas the only game to play.

Oh, Jack O Diamonds, Ace of Spades,

their faces always change.When the deck is moving with you,

You may find it rather strange;

for every winning hand you play,theres a loser in exchange.

And if gold can buy the Queen Of Hearts,

then Vanitys her name.And if gold can buy the Queen Of Hearts,

The Joker wins the game!


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I have a friend, a gambler,

He lives from dusk till dawn.

He plays with money, Kings, and hearts;Hes here and then hes gone.

It seems that he can never lose;

his winning streak goes on.His mental machinations

Make him master of the pawn.

He always has to push his luck

To ever higher stakes.He fails to see that everything

Has a point at which it breaks.

His balance is a circus ride,A car that has no brakes,

A scene that he just plays and plays

He takes...And takes

..And takes.

Now, wherein does the balance lie?

When does the cycle turn?

For what reason is this man allowedto pillage, rape, and burn?

Is this the image every man

is seeking with his game,personified and borne by all

to balance frailtys name?

Though the Queen Of Hearts can pull the moth

Into her astral flame,She lives in the fear that unearned wealth

Will go just like it came.

Ever watchful in her jealous rageFor the fickle male to flee,

The tighter her grip upon his ship

The more he seeks to be free.


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Fame and fortune have no wings

To keep them flying high.

The astral flame runs out of fuel;Desires always lie.

All the gambler can recall

Are his early days of fame.The winner is a loser

Theres no substance to his game.

Oh, Jack O Diamonds, Ace of Spades

Their faces always change.When the deck is going with you,

You may find it rather strange;

For every winning hand you play,Theres a loser in exchange.

And if gold can buy the Queen of Hearts,

Then Vanitys her name.And if gold can buy the Queen of Hearts,

The Joker..

.wins..the game!

~


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Of

General

Interest


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CHOCOLATE WORLD

Oh, its a choc-o-late world

With a razor-blade filling

Watch out for the guy next door!

And those sweet little things

Who consort with the kings

May be more than a bit of a whore.

Lifes filled with these guys

Whose lives are all lies

And the least that they want is just MORE

So, turn on the newsAnd believe what you choose

Itll soon be for sale at the store!

~

QUESTIONS

What tale does this tellOf the demons from Hell

And the towers which toppled and fell

After reaching too highInto a smog-filled sky

Is it Less..Thats the answer

..to More?

What is this Port Authority that ignores regulations and laws

that protect the many from the few?

Is the price of Pride and Ego justifiedBy thousands of deaths?

Was this Trade Centera masterpiece of engineering?


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..or a Fools Folly in an unstable world.Certainly it was not the middle path.

What fool would live or workA thousand feet above his death?

Is there so little space in such a huge land?Is the ground so hallowed in the hollow minds of self-importance

And senseless traditions of monetary exchange?

Is the synergy of a martini and lunch with the King of Funds

Greater than intelligent analysis, honest presentation,And the new technologies of communication?

Is Wisdom ignored or never found In the hurried, frantic busyness of Greed

And the constant cry for more

..and more..and more

..numbers?

When is enough

..enough?

When have the numbers told their story when already

The wealth of Nations is as worthless

As the paper the numbers are written upon.

Tall things fallBecause they have no substance within.

Even altruism, philanthropy, and worldly generosityCannot by-pass their true pre-requisite:

The knowledge of the inner being!

Audit the Inner;

Give substance to the Outer.

Where is our wisdom, America?


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What is real Power?Where, Who, What, is this God

Written on the face of our money?

At what point does material wealth

Balance Freedom with Imprisonment?

What survives Death?

What takes us out of Here?

How can the Eagle be transformed

Into the PhoenixAnd.though transformed..

Be none-the-less the Eagle?

The Phoenix always rises

From the ashes of its own

SelfDestruction!

Where is our Substance, America?What.

..Where

..is our Soul?

~

September 12, 2001

Please see also the Authors Commentary on Page 124.


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MIND

I am your ChessmasterYou are my Pawn.

Youre free of me only

From Dark until DawnCreator of your presentAnd all of your pastI am your first God,But not your last!

Now you know whereAll your troubles begin

Who forms most events

Of the world that youre in.Good cant exist unlessMeasured by sin.

So I drive you to drinkAnd you drown me in Gin.

I play for my pleasureMy own endless tape

Over and over till thereSeems no escape.

I fire your angerI titillate your whim

I boil your desiresTill they overflow the rim.

Now, where is the answer?Where is the switch?Where is the volume,

And how change the pitch?Control from below

Is the curse of mankind.Only from Soul

Can one master..the mind!

~


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The Chasm Crossed

There was a time

when I was lost;

It seemed no pathway

could be found.

No sign

No marking on the tree

No safe or hallowed ground.

The trees obscured my vision;

I had left my world behind;

The old familiar patterns gone

that road so well defined.

The chasm crossed,

The bridge removed,

And on the other side.

.my mind!

~


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The Plumbers Approachto the Soul

The Masters approachTo the human Soul

Is like the plumbers approachTo the toilet bowl:

Never work on the problemFrom below

No matter how pluggedThe status quo

Lest you find to your woeTheres a huge .

.overflow!

Try the view of the wholeFrom the viewpoint of SoulTheres a much smaller toll

From well above.the hole!

~

The Seer

All the solemn vows we makedissolve in the warp of Time.

The rhythm of the song wears thinand we tire of its rhyme.

The man whos blessed with Seers eyesis cursed as though twere fame.

Changed is his life forever;two days are neer the same.The road to home is different

than the way by which he came.

~


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The Definition Of A Fool

There is a thin line

between a Hero and a Fool,

but there is no line at all

between a fool

and a wise man.

~

DANCING LIGHT & SOUND

Go down to Planet Earth and seeWhat wonders you shall find

In trees

.and grass..and rivers wide

In sights of every kind.

Be drawn by Curiosity

That quality of mind

Which leads..to needs

..and thence to want

And all the ties that bind.

And when youre thereDo not despair

Of Dragons hidden lairs

Disguised as pleasuresfraught with pain

And illusions made of cares.


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Watch carefully

The flame which drawsThe moth into its Light

The twist

..the turn

.the pain..the burn

Cast down to darkest night.

And yet with male and female form

It struggles and it triesUntil transformed

.by flame

.its warmedWithout its wings, it flies.

And now you look

With furrowed brow

At this mothAnd his foolish deeds.

How could this be

this dichotomy

Where he who failssucceeds?

At giving upHis frantic flight

In loss, he finds

Hes found!His mind is stilled

His soul is filled

.With Dancing Light And Sound

~


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The Image Of The Dreamer

Oh, tell me is the imageOf the dreamer just a lie?

Am I condemned to seek it

And forever wonder whyIt cant be found

that perfect soundThe colors bright and clear

Oh, tell me is the imageOf the dreamer just a lie.

Oh, tell me is the imageOf the dreamer faror near

The face thats filled with warmth and lightDevoid of every fearThe body strong

That moves like a songAnd in my mind is dearOh, tell me is the image

Of the dreamer far or near.

Oh, tell me has the imageLeft the dreamer here to die

What draws me on this futile searchFor the who-am-I .and why

From whence I cameAnd whats this gameThat illusions all belie

Does the image of the dreamerStill live on when we die?

Oh, tell me will the image

Of the dreamer lead me onDown the path that leads

To Whole-I menWhose tongues can lead the blind

And in whose silence words confoundWhat lies beyond the mind


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Oh, tell me does the imageOf the dreamer ever end

Or does it thread through countless worldsToo numerous to comprehend

Is this the reachThat exceeds the grasp

Is it really all we are?

Oh, Dance upon the ocean windAnd think upon a star

The image of the dreamerCompels me yet this far

The image of the dreamerMay be all we really are!

~

Yarmouth HarborWhat mystical ropesTie the heart of man

To all his distant past?What memories lie lurkingThat affect the futures cast?

From whence comes the knowledgeThat all men have

That one place alone is home?And how many lives

Before Soul seesThat all roads lead to Rome?

I look out on the harborIn the early morning mist

The same as did my distant kinWho wandered the world where they wist.

Never the same again were theyWho left their native shore;Come home to stay in later life

Where theyd lived many lives before.

And though the faceOf the harbor change

The heart returns there still.


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The tide still flows,The seagulls cry,

And the wind blows where it will.

My Father born in the house on the hillMy Mother in the middle of town.

The first thing I saw

From my Mothers armsWas the harbor at sundown.

The flash at night of the lighthouse beamThe foghorns thunderous sound

Rattled the windowsIn the bedroom walls

And was heard for miles around.

Guides to my SoulThrough the hairy and droll

As I strayed far from the norm

How carefully would I watch and feel

My last time in physical form?

~

Photo of Yarmouth, Nova Scotia, harbor in the late 1800s showing two fishing schooners in

the background and a Pinky fishing sloop towing a dory in the foreground.


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The Sea And Me

Theres a land thats dear to meWhere the pine trees meet the sea

And a dusty old dirt road winds into town.

I was born, Momma said, on a foggy April mornWith the harbour sounds of seagulls

And a foghornSinging to my soul..

When I was a little lad,Id ride in town with Dad

And Id wander half the day down on the docks.Boats were tied, side by side

To old piles that groaned and sighed.I could smell the fragrant woodsmoke

From their cookstovesAs they waited for the tide.

How I longed to be freeTo go with them out to sea,

Past the Lighthouse, past the Islands, to the Banks.I would dream, and it would seem

I was out there all aloneWith the rolling of the sea-swells

And the throbbingof the enginein my mind.

Well, Id know it wasnt so;Back to Water Street Id go

To the warehouse with its store of coal-tar smells.

It was there I could stareAt the fishermens hardware

Hanging from the walls and rafters:Hooks and codlines,Knives and buoys,

Ropes and chains.


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Just outside at low tideStood the mudflats broad and wide

And a smokehouse for the herring high and dry.Right beside, seagulls cried

Men threw fishheads to the tideMaking filets for the smokerack

And the saltpackOr the barrelsOf salt brine.

In the sun sat everyoneMending nets and having fun

Talking softly, telling stories while they worked.Far away from the sheltered bay

they would go on another dayAnd forget the wintry wind storms

Frozen fingersIcy feet

That earned their pay.

Mom would tell, very wellHow the sailing ships cast their spell

On the young men who had never been to sea.Ships are gone, but I dream on

Of the harbour in the dawn

Foggy, silent seashoresMists arising

Seagulls sleeping on the piles.

Now Im grown, Im still aloneOn a sea thats now my home.

Theres a lighthouse and a foghorn on the shore.The sky and sea are more like me

Like what I feel is being free

And the pull from back behind meSlowly softensAnd follows me no more.

Slowly softensAnd follows me no more.

~


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In Time & Space Removed

I know you from another place

In time and space removed

A vague but yet familiar faceThe feel of trust well-proved.

Is this the same old familiar soul

I struggle to recall,Or just two ships which pass at night

Whove never met at all.

And can it be the same with thee

As it has been with meYou feel the hint

Of an old blueprint

That no-one else can see.Are you my mate

By the hand of FateOr are we together drawn

By a hand unknown

Not at all our ownLike the chess master moves his pawn?

And dont you find it just as strange

When some unknown surge of hate

An instant flare of thought derangedDisturbs your peaceful state?

You know not whyYou hate this guyBut every little word he speaks

Dissects each nerve

with vicious verveThis master of the tweaks.


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And yet to others standing thereHe grates them not at all

Their laughter that you seem to care

Adds poison to your gall.Nowcould it be

That you and he

Have been through this before?This one you hate

Not there by fate

But to bring out things you deplore.

I wonder why

We still deny

The presence of the SoulWhen, though unseen,

We know Its been

The part that makes us whole.Oerwhelmed at first

By sensual thirst

And forces beyond controlGrows gradually strong

Through Lifetimes long

Till It finally gains control.

~


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The Redemption of Cain

Cainoh, Cain..

What hast thou done?Thy brothers blood

And by my eldest son!

What flaw lies deep

In my familys seedThat it murders with jealousy,

Anger, and greed.

Disgrace to thy Father, Adam, be!

Shame to thy name for eternity!

The tears I have wept

an ocean made.

Let the burden be mineAnd the debt be paid!

To how many seasonsWill the trees cast their leaves?

How long must the Earth

And her children grieve?

Till time can reprieveThe soul and the name

of Cain.

~

Authors Commentary on Page 125.


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EAT DESSERT FIRST,LIFE IS UNCERTAIN

What chance bit of fate

Put my hand to this plow?

That Id ponder my soul

With such deep, furrowed brow

And risk that what I write

All my friends disavow.

Such meager bits of prose

I my children endow

So this moments respite

I my body allow

Its Apocalypse yesterday,

..Heaven tomorrow,

.McBurger Queen NOW!

~


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Short Stories

&

Prose


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An Old Story With A New Twist

There was once a young man, who, for reasons unknown to himself, embarkedon a journey to some distant land to which he had only vaguely heard reference.In doing so, he left behind himself all that was familiar, and safe, and known,

and comfortable. At one point in the journey, he ran out of food and wanderedabout for several days wondering how he would keep himself alive.

Being in a strange land, he did not know whom to turn to for help, so he beganto look for signs along the way. In the villages, things were all very muchthe same; there was nothing that appeared inviting. In the country, thingswere even poorer but at the entrance to one dirt driveway leading off themain thoroughfare there stood a sign different from all the others. Paintedon it, like on all the others, was the owners name.. but this particular sign

had been lovingly embellished with a few brightly painted flowers. Beneaththe owners name, in small print, one word jumped out to catch the Travelersattention: WELCOME, said the word.

The Traveler turned down the driveway for a short distance to find a smalllog cottage perched at the very edge of a calm lake. The smell of woodsmokedrifted occasionally into his nostrils as he walked up the steps leading tothe veranda and front door. He smiled at the sight of the door-knocker a

hand-carved model of a Red-Headed Woodpecker cleverly mounted so thatwhen one pulled the dangling string, the Woodpeckers bill whacked solidlyagainst a split piece of birch branch nailed to the wood-slab door. He hadhardly reached for the string when the door opened. An older man stood inthe doorway before him, nodded a greeting, and looked enquiringly at him insilence.

I..uh..I was just traveling by, and noticed your welcome sign, said theTraveler. I havent eaten for several days and I wonder if you could spare

me something to eat?Just a moment, the old man said, disappearing into the cabins dark interior.He shortly returned to the door holding a fish in his left hand and a fishingrod in his right hand.Take the fish and you eat for today. Take the fishing rod and youll never gohungry, he said.


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The Traveler thought for a moment.I would take the fishing rod, but I dont know how to use it, he said.It takes some work, and it takes some training. You do the work and Ill dothe training. What is your choice?Ill take the rod, and do the work, if youll do the training replied the Traveler.A wise choice, the older man said. In this realm, what is gained by effort

is never lost. Come with me.And so saying.and doing attentively as well.. the Traveler added to hisstorehouse of knowledge, talents, and abilities.

Equipped now to continue his journey even farther afield, it was a numberof years before the Traveler found himself returning from his journeyingsalong the same road he had taken years before. Things had changed. Hehardly recognized anything as being a familiar sight.. anything, that is,except the welcome sign with the painted flowers. The underbrush around ithad become overgrown, but the area around the sign had been kept clear, andthe sign itself still carried its freshly-renewed, brightly-painted messageall obviously by careful design and continued, periodic, attention despite theconstant ravages of the realm that return all living things to the mineralstate.

The Traveler quickly remembered the sign and the way in which it spoke tohim as being an extension of a living thing. For no other reason than intuitive

impulse, he turned once again down the dirt driveway and soon found himselfon the veranda of the familiar log cottage. The door opened; the old man hadchanged little. He smiled, instantly recognizing the Traveler.Welcome back, he said. Would you like something to eat?No laughed the Traveler. Thanks to you, Im well fed. I just wanted tocome by to thank you for what you did for me.:Twas little enough, the old man said. You dont know how many fish Ivegiven, and how many fishing rods Ive kept!.and they both laughed withgreat understanding.

But now said the old man, scrutinizing the Traveler with eyes that sawmore than sights, now perhaps theres something more than fishing rodsthat occupies your attention!As a matter of fact, there is, the Traveler said. Now that I can feedmyself with so little effort, and have my freedom so well in hand, I no longer


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want to travel through this realm. At the same time, I dont want to die ofboredom and inactivity. Any suggestions?Oh! replied the old man. That can indeed be a real problem. Just a moment!And once again he disappeared into the cabin interior, to emerge shortlythereafter bearing an object in each hand.

He held out a box with his left hand.This is a puzzle, he said. As you put it together, it will become more andmore beautiful until all you want to do is sit and admire it.He paused; then held up his right hand.This., he said, is a jig-saw for making your own puzzlesChoose thou!

The Traveler smiled, seeming puzzled. He thought hard for a moment,shifting first to one foot; then to the other; then back again. Suddenly, heknew the answer.Ill take them both! he replied with great confidence, and the two of themburst into gales of deep, free, laughter.

You choose wisely said the old man. If you take them both, you must alsotake one more thing.Yes?......and what might that be?, enquired the Traveler.A mirror. Youll find them everywhere: on walls; in your actions; and in otherpeoples actions and words. Look carefully into them. The solution to most of

lifes problems is contained in the mirrors image. But the deepest secret ofall will be found on the other side of the mirror!But.but theres nothing on the other side, replied the Traveler.There is and there isnt, the old man replied, but you have to go throughthe mirror to find out.He paused, and then added, Come back when you find whats on the otherside.Puzzled, the Traveler continued on his journey.

~


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The

COMMON LOON

or

THE GREAT NORTHERN DIVER

Bird Of Paradox

DAWNS CALL

Original Art Work By Rick Kelley

www.kelleyfineart.com


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I see you thereold friend of curious nature;

so comfortable with alonenessand togetherness;

frequenter of secluded places;at home on water,

or in the air,but most at home on a glassy lakedrifting as though on an idle current,

or moving swiftly beneath the surface,faster than the fish

which flee before your hunger.

So much like me,and yet the both of us

so much like nothing else on earth.

My noisy hammerings and whistlingsbring you close to shore

for a wary look at another beingwho disappears with the sun

and comes again with morning lightas a strange new shape emerges

from where once there was but bush.and tree

.and eel-grass.

Surely you must know it as my nestfrom the happy, joyful laughter

of little beings who splash along the shoreand put small floating things upon the water

to be moved about by the wind.

As a boy I have laid awake in my bunk,unable to sleep,

listening to your plaintive and haunting calls

in the moonlit nightfrom away across the still waters.

Waiting, I wondered from what point of the compassyour lifelong mate

.or children..or friend

would answer.


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Answer they always did.Often it drew me out of my bunk

to paddle alone on the lake in my canoefeeling the things you must feel

on such perfect nights.

Such a myriad of stars in the skyamid the ethereal blazing of northern lights

cannot help but make a boy wonderwho he is

.and what you are.where we come from

.and why.I see in you

my self in another form,but even more so

when it comes time for you to fly.

To you who are built for the water and the air,life on land is fraught with lurking danger;

so you choose your nesting place carefullywith full vision

and a warriors vigilant awareness.Life on water is more to your liking,

but,.comes the time to fly!

Such a burst of explosive power and energy!Such frantic flappings of wings

and kicking of webbed feetthat make the water foam and spray

.and.for .sooooo.LONG!Heading into whatever wind there may be!

I can imagine your heart poundingand your muscles straining to their limit;

your head reaching forwardwith every ounce of strength you possess

to gain.escape velocity!


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Ahhhhh.yes!Escape Velocity!

.attained ever-so-graduallyat such high cost

over such a long distance!Each flight a souls journey

through space and time.

And finally.The freedom of rising up over the shoreline trees,

circling back,wings beating the air frantically to remain airborne,

I hear your triumphant call.your cry of being free for a few moments

from the dangers and drudgery belowas you disappear down the lake.

My noisy hammerings and whistlingsare silenced in awe and silent memory

as I watch you go.For I, too, have flown

.have achieved that elusive escape velocityAnd I, too, can still fly.

Without ever leaving the ground.

~


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The Hero and The Fool

As a young boy, I recall my Father commenting to me that there is a verythin line between a hero and a fool.

Whats a hero? I asked him.A hero is one whos major moments are spent in silence contemplating thenature of himself and all things and working on himself until his personalpower, wisdom, and sense of freedom transcend the Earths and his ownlimitations, he replied.

Oh! I said , unable to absorb the full meaning of his words at that moment,but still interested enough to inquire further:And whats a Fool? I asked, naively.

A Fool is one who thinks he is wise because of his intelligence; thinks he ispowerful because of his position; or thinks he is free because of his money,he replied.But how ... how can you see these things?, I asked.

Theyre seen by the seers, who are also the heroes: and unseen by theblind, who are also the fools, he replied, smiling.Can you explain more than that?, I asked.

Very well. he replied. Fools talk endlessly about trivial matters or filltheir lives with all manner of noise because they cant stand being alone. Ahero is silent because hes embarrassed by the sound of too many wordsespecially his own. Hes humbled by the knowledge of his own weakness, and,finally, hes brought to naught by the realization of his own imprisonment. Heis by himself ... but he knows he is not alone! Hes also unpredictable ... evento himself. A Fool is as predictable as death!Oh! I replied. But it was more than my little brain could handle.

What I learned from long ago, though, is that wise words are never lost onthe ears of a child.

~


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Za Zen Master

The Zen master and his protg walked a narrow trail through the ruggedmountains, the wild winds occasionally almost sweeping them off their feet.The protg, carrying the heavy backpack with their shelter and provisions,perspired profusely, and though near the point of exhaustion, labored on insilence.

At the turn of the trail, the sound of a roaring torrent of water greetedtheir ears and a river revealed itself to them, tumbling and frothing downthe mountainside into a fertile green valley far below. At the point wherethe trail met the river, they stopped and rested among some rocks out ofthe wind, the tumbling torrent making its own music with the wind abovethem.

As they finished their snack of dried fruit and nuts and prepared to continueon, the protg asked:Master, forgive me, but what lies on the other side of God realization?

The master picked up the heavy load the protg had been carrying, threwit on his own back, looked at the protg with a smile, and said:More God realization!

They both laughed heartily.Lead the way, the master said.But I dont know the way, the protg replied, puzzled.The way is always before you, the master replied.And the protg led the way from here onward.

Only the master, however, realized they were now going downhill!

~


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To My Children:a bit of wise advice

and a warning.

I have always been guided by a set of minimum standards which I set formyself, and which I now set for you just as my own Father did for me. Theyare, first of all, standards that I myself have to live by in order to earn myown self-respect and the respect of my children. Secondly, and equally asimportantly, they are standards which the rest of the world sees as wise.

On the journey through life there are endless enticing temptations anddiversions such as alcohol, mind-altering drugs, and cigarettes which arepurposefully designed by an extremely intelligent Creator to teach us abouta most important kind of power in life: that power is called SELF-CONTROL.By this, I mean control over our physical actions, emotional reactions, andthoughts.

No athlete is worth his salt unless he has, through hard work and effort,learned to control his body and the implements of his game: the puck, thestick, his skates; the soccer ball; the football; or the many other tools in

the games we learn. Alcohol, drugs of any kind, and cigarettes interfere withthat control. The instant you are not 100% in control of your body, mind, andemotions..you are out of control. You are no longer the master; you are theslave and the victim of circumstance.

The same rules apply to the game of life. No person is worthy of respect,either from himself or from another, unless by a personal effort of will-powerbacked by sound reasoning he has seen that alcohol, drugs and cigarettesare a substitute for a lack of personal power and a lack of self-control.They have no positive value, are harmful to your health, and they should beavoided at all cost. Not only are they unwisely spent money, but those whodo indulge usually come from parents of low standards. It would be betterby far to be alone than to seek such company.

Generally speaking, a man or woman with a cigarette in their hand or drugs in


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their body is a walking advertisement of weakness, ignorance, poor trainingand an unthinking mind. Such a person is not a leader, but a follower. Noattractive, intelligent woman or man will accept an unwise person for apartner. To a future employer, it can mean the difference between a job or no job at all.

The true sign of control over life is not always easily seen because it is aninner quality of the soul. One of the most important things that a youngperson can learn is how to live by the wise advice of their elders. Then theydo not have to pay the heavy price of learning by painful experience and thevery real probability of permanent body damage. Big problems always startwith just one small innocent temptation.

I have not been an easy father, but neither have I expected too much frommy children. As a result they have powers that few other children have.Their training began with kind and careful reasoning before they were evenold enough to understand the full meaning of my words. There has neverbeen any doubt, however, that if they wished to bear my name, they hadto live by my minimum standards: no drugs; no cigarettes; no alcohol untiltheyre old enough to handle it wisely, or not at all, and never when operatingany machinery.

There are two faces to love in this realm: the face of kindness and compassion,

and the instructional face of power. Respect is only engendered by the properbalance of the two.

I give you these words with Love from your Father.

Dad

~


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A Letter To My Youngest Daughter

Hi, Sweetheart,

The tears roll down my own cheeks as I read the words of your letter ....so well put and so real. Little did I ever realize that you could grow so far in25 years! Choosing a mate is always a most difficult situation, but particularlyso for a woman.

If you feel frustration from your own shortcomings so early on in life, yourlife is very likely to be like my own. There is nothing on this earth, and therenever has been anything, that could even come close to my imagined worldand the high hopes and expectations which preceded all the new events that

were placed before me, or which I placed before myself (for it happensboth ways). Sooner or later, time takes its toll on all things relationshipsincluded. This is part of the enigmatic nature of life. No matter what you do,

you are, in a sense, "damned if you do, and damned if you don't".

Until I was about 60 years old, I always felt that I was not a complete being.That feeling, masked by feelings of physical desire, drove me to the needto have a "mate", but I could never find anything close to my own imaginedimage of appearance and companionship. One came very close, but I was notheaded in any direction which was stable enough or rewarding enough for herto risk a committed relationship with me over a long period of time. Anotherwanted to have nine kids; I wanted none; she wanted a home; I wanted to liveon an oil rig; so she married her childhood boyfriend who was studying to bea doctor. A much wiser choice! These women, and others, were attractiveenough to have what they wanted and they knew what they wanted. But...they didn't have as many choices as you have in this day and age. And theycame from very "stable" backgrounds which didn't give them many options

for freedom in so far as what was "acceptable", and, even more importantlyto them, what was "safe". Because, you see, most people are motivated byfear.

Their future lurks before them as the "great unknown" and dictates theirdirection far more than they themselves realize. They aren't looking into


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the next tomorrow with an unexplainable belief in the goodness of it all, andtheir own invincibility, and the resultant enthusiastic, adventurous curiositywhich that state of consciousness brings with it. To be able to walk fearlesslyinto the great unknown with a deep-seated inner belief that, no matter whathappens, even death itself, the final result of every single moment of livinglife fully is that the future will always be cannot help but be THERE in

this dimension or another. That knowledge is a rare quality among humans.

This is, however, the state of consciousness which you have. It is the stateof consciousness of a very old and experienced Soul of thousands of lifetimesin male and female form, a soul whose reflexes and intuitive impulses comefrom some unknown part of their being and inevitably land them on their feetin lieu of a great fall. So don't be afraid of whatever decision you make.

The only other thing I will say is this: given the opportunities which arosebefore me, the advice I had available to me, and the wisdom (or lack of it!) Ihad accumulated, I would not have chosen to act any differently in any of mylife's situations than I did at that time. However, with the perspective ofmany years, I would probably never settle for many of the things I did, andmight well take much better advantage of many of the things I neglectedfor lack of patience. So what does this say? It's the journey that matters,not the destination or the stations along the way.

Having been long-winded enough to this point, here are some ideas for you toponder and some questions for you to ask yourself. The final decisions, sweetlittle heart, have to be yours entirely.

1. There's a very important attitude prevalent in your e-mail which you shouldbe keenly aware of. You are considering what each of these men can do for

you. What can you do for them?

2. Most important of all: Who gives you the most freedom to develop andgrow in your own unique way? This will be the one who is the most secure inhimself; the least threatened by your growth.

3. Who is the most kind and considerate?


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4. Look carefully at all the events surrounding each relationship. The truth ishidden in the details, in the not-immediately-apparent circumstances, such,for example, as your sickness and the response it produced.

5. New York, and the aura which surrounds it, is like a disease. It creeps upon you, and then it's too late to extricate yourself. No doubt its exciting,

but its exciting like fly-paper is to a fly. The problem with the whole NewYork state of consciousness is, in a word, this: MORE. There's never enoughof anything; no matter how much you have, you always want more. But its likethe carrot hanging in front of the donkeys nose. True satisfaction seemsalways to be .just out of reach! I've attached my latest poem/proseabout the WorId Trade Center situation for you to ponder, as it is quitespecific about the nature of New York.

6. You are not being pressured to move in any particular direction right now,so don't make a move. If you are being pressured, don't do anything untilthings become clearer in your mind. Don't move decisively in ANY direction,in other words. Relationships have to stand the test of time in two ways: forone thing, a persons true nature is not really apparent until certain desiremechanisms are satiated and until they find themselves under more than asmall amount of stress. Secondly, it takes time to determine if two peopleare going to grow at the same rate and in the same direction together andto see whether or not that makes any difference.

7. Any heart that is high in hopes is covered with a lot of scar tissue.These are the battle scars of life. They are also the signs of too great anATTACHMENT to another person, and EXPECTATIONS that are too one-sided.

8. Don't indulge yourself with the negative feelings of guilt. You acted in goodfaith; you're allowed to change your mind for any of a number of reasons.Those, of course, you'll have to sit down and figure out. The narrow-facedperson feels rejection VERY strongly as they are lacking in confidence fromday one, but then, that is their challenge, and you must see it that way alongwith your own expressions of compassion. You don't "crush" another person.They are the ones who crush themselves. Where do you think the term"falling in love" comes from? You fall; you get hurt!


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9. Most marriages (probably 90%) stay together because: its too muchtrouble to start over; it's too fearful to face aloneness; the economics aretoo fearful; andmost importantlyone or the other has never taken thetime or made the effort to create for themselves another self-supportingchoice which allows them to choose their freedom. Now I ask you, is this theundaunted hero's approach? What do these people believe in? Themselves?

Anything at all?

Life is a symphony. You're the conductor of your own performance. You'realso the piano player, and becoming a concert pianist doesn't happen in 21

years, or 65 years. Maybe over a hundred lifetimes you can bang out a fewgood chords. So don't be at all daunted by what you are and what you aren't.Just do the best you can with what you have to work with and that's a LOTin case you don't realize it!!!

The last word is: for a long term relationship, choose a man who is a friendfirst and last. Hot fires burn themselves out ... and burn those who get tooclose to them.

Above all, make yourself the artist (figuratively speaking) and your life thecanvas. Choose your colors and your subject matter very carefully. Experimentwith them both until you find what you love. Dig deep down inside yourself tofind out what you really are and what you really love to do. You, and what you

put OUT, are as important as those whom you allow in your world.

Love you, Sweetheart

Dad

~


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The Last Lesson

The last lesson is ... well ... the last lesson! It goes kind of like this:

Voice Inside My Head:If youre through, you dont have to stick around.

Me:Yes ... but ... How do I know Im through?

Voice:Youre through when you KNOW youre through!

Me:Who tells you that?

Laughter from somewhere ... no answer.

Me:Where do I go from here?

Voice:Wherever you want to go!

Me:But I dont see any choices.

Voice:

You arent finished until youve imagined other choices!

Me:But nobody really knows where they go from here

... or even if they go anywhere at all!


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Voice:Which rocks did you check under?

Me:Awww, come on! Youre not making sense!

Voice:Senses get you here. They dont get you out!

Me:Then what gets you out?

Voice, impatiently:Knowing and Seeing: knowing youre finished, imagining what the

possibilities are, and seeing yourself there.Me:

Ah!This is useless! How can you know anything if you cant think it?

Voice:Chuck your mind! Youll KNOWthats all!

Knowing is the Place Of No Words!

Me:Hmmh!

~


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Early

Poems

( 1962 to 1998)


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Life In The Yukon

Above the Arctic Circle

Lies the village of Old Crow

On a black-earth bankUp out of reach

Of the rivers muddy flow.

Two hundred Indians dwell thereIn sod-roofed huts of logs

Not far from stunted fir trees

And endless muskeg bogs.

Khaki shirts and baggy work pants;

Beaded moccasins made of Moose;Narrow eyes and dark skin

Lined by Natures rough abuse.A multitude of children scream

And play on paths of dirt.

Sled-dog brethern of the Timber WolfYowl as though they hurt.

In the warming of the Spring sunAfter Winters grueling cold

Comes the time for trapping muskrat,

Their only source of gold.With tent and traps and family

Stowed in homemade sleds of birch

They slide behind their HuskiesOn the melting snows they lurch.

Two months of slogging traplinesYield a thousand furs or more

Carried by flat-bottomed riverboatsTo the Traders warehouse door.

The town becomes a beehive

By the final day of June


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And home-brew flows like waterTo the fiddlers squeaky tune.

Long and square-nosed river boatsTo driven posts are tied.

The winters wood of log booms

Swirling lazily alongside.In the sun the gill nets dry

Their loose-hung folds bereft

Of the Whitefish and the GreylingSliced by womens hands so deft.

Dried fish is winters food for dogs

And Caribous for men.

The bush planes land and Indians askWhere the Caribou are then.

The KOMAKUK herd! three thousand strong!

Is crossing Old Crow flat;Headed south on muskeg marsh

Near the mouth of the River Rat.

Twenty hunters jump with rifles

In their boats and motor upstream,

For Caribou meat, and hide, and gutAre held in high esteem.

At the mouth of the Rat they beach their boats

To hide in the brush and waitFor the Caribou scouts to pass them by

And leave the herd to its fate.

Skittish and sniffing the breeze for scent

The herd scouts fail to cross.The hunters tense with bated breath

At the thought of tragic loss.

One hunter cups his hands and givesA snorting bellow clear.

The herd scouts toss their heads to hear

And cross without a fear.


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When the scouts have swum to the farthest bank

And headed out on their way

The herd swarms down to followAnd the hunters have their day.

The crack of rifles fills the air

The herd rushes blindly onTill hundreds lie dead on the ground

And the ammunitions gone.

High are piled the carcasses

On rafts and floated downGuided by long sweep oars

To the skinning knives of town

The meat dries out to reddish blackAnd hangs in each cabins cache

A shield against starvation

From winters long and furious lash.

Open doors of the Old Crow church

Beckon the people in,Yet the legend and lore of their Bushman stays

And little they care about sin.

Happy are they whose work is playFor a stomach full of food

And since all things from Nature come

Why bother with thoughts imbued.

August 22, 1962

Kits first poem

~


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THE SILVER DART

Years ago, when I was a boyDaddy used to talk about his favorite toy.

He said his dream, if he had the choice,Was to be the owner of an old Rolls Royce.

It just so happened there was one in town.Our game was to spot it when it drove around.

Silver, it was, with a shiny grille

And a statue on the hood I remember still.

It was driven very slowly by some old fartAnd the name on the trunk said SILVER DART.

It made a strong impression on the likes of me

A Rolls was a very special thing to see.So I took my wagon, which was painted red,

And wrapped each part with foil instead.There on the front, with the handle beneath,

I nailed up a stick with a tin-foil wreath.

Then, when Dad came home that night

I took him out back to see my sight.I told him this was my Rolls Royce wagon

And the letters on the side said SILVER DRAGON.

It stayed that way for a long, long while

And it never once went out of style.I know for sure it made Dad think

As he watched out the window near the kitchen sink.


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A Rolls is a toy for a man with money

For anyone else it looks a little funny.

So, what Dad did was a real surpriseNot for years did I know how wise.

He said hed found us a Silver Dart.

I listened to his story with a pounding heart,

When into our yard, with its tailpipe draggin,Came a wooden 40 Ford called a Station Wagon.

Dad put a trophy on the engine hoodRe-painted her silver and varnished the wood.

Beside the tire there on the back

He screwed on a hand-carved wooden plaqueAnd in letters the same as on my cart

Hed carved the name The Silver Dart.

When we took it to town or on the road

Heads would turn and Dads face glowed

I guess I know now what he was trying to sayAbout handling dreams in your own quiet way.

If a wagon could be a Rolls Royce to me

Then a Rolls could be anything he imagined it to be!I saw Mom laugh the day he told her,

I need a Rolls like you need a Fur!

~


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FREEDOM and DUTY

Freedom was a horse

So my story goesAnd he lived on the Western Plains

Racing like the windWith his Liberty Belles

Feeding on oats and wild grains.

Many a manHad tried to catch him,

But he knew what they were up to.Hed climb up high in the mesas

And the mountains

And lose them in the morning dew.

But one snowy day

Old Duty had caught himAfter tracking him for days and days.

Put a rope around his feet

At the water hole.Put an end to his freedom ways.

Duty sat in his saddleHe couldnt be thrown

Freedom had to learn to obey

His Spirit was brokenAnd his memory kept longing

For his belles and his liberty days

His feet grew heavy

From running loose cattleAs Duty drove him on and on

His mind grew numb

And the days slipped byTill a year had come and gone.


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Then one still, brightMoonlit night

As he listened to the

Coyote yellsHe could smell, he could feel,

He could hear in the night

The sounds of his liberty belles.

No rope could stay

No hobble could holdOld Freedoms fight to be free.

He ripped and toreHe flew out in the night

To see where the sounds could be.

Duty heard the hoofs

Disappear in the night

Heard the whinnying calls far away.He knew by the sounds

It was Freedom for sure

Gone back to his wandering ways.

Freedom climbed high

In the nighttime skyTill he saw the old herd on a hill.

He ran to meet them

But a Stranger stepped outWith a challenge that made him stop still.

Freedom and the Stranger

Fought into the night.

The Stranger was strong and black,But Freedom knew now

Hed be hitched to a plow

If Duty ever got him back.

They were both so weary

When the sunrise dawned


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They barely had the strength to biteThe Stranger looked away

And Freedom struck out

To put a final end to the fight.

So Freedom went back

On his dust-worn trackTo wander with his Liberty Belles

And Duty found another

That looked like a brotherWho could chase cattle just as well.

Freedom had returned

To the place he belonged

Feeding on the open plainsBut the farm down below

He would always know

As the place of Duty and chains.

Written as a song for daughter Bambi who, at age 5, was just beginning to learn to ride her pony,

Sassy, at our farm, called Wild Oak Farm, at Snowmass-At-Aspen in the mountains of Colorado.

~CLOUDS

Like a Bird, am I

With wings of silver,

Climbing through the cloudsOn gusty winds

That whistle by in wonder.

Swooping down

From high above

The earths green mantleCares and worries left

All scattered there asunder.


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NoiselessClimbing up white corridors

Of billowing, whispy, changing formsWhose shape and novel newness

Never last..

Dodging deftly.At high speed.

Over hill and dale of rolling white,I flee from Time

And all the hurried past.

Banking steeper..Even upside down..

I plummet earthward under rain cloudsAnd hide in their darknessFrom the heat of sun.

And..Looking up.

See all at once a brilliant rayOf sunlight streaming through

Teasing me

And calling me to run.

Another day..In timeless time..

Ill chase that dancing light and findIt shines from the eyes of every soul

Thats filled with Love.

But now I bid the clouds farewell

And gliding gently down upon that rayTake with me joy and freedomGained from clouds above.

~


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Song

Lyrics


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Chains Of FreedomThe path leads downward into night

Along the river of deep despairStrong feelings all surround me

And no-one seems to care.

Im split in twoAnd dont know who

Couldve put me in such pain.

My weariness amazes meTheres no way back home again.

chorus:Take these chains of Freedom

And wrap them around my soulSend me down the darkened road

Until Ive paid the toll

Let each link beA test to me

Until I see my role

Then raise me up from the darknessWhen Ive gained control.

Im lost here in the forestI wander through the trees

There is no path before me

No lock that fits my keysI struggle with fears

But no-one hears

I fall down on my kneesIm tossed upon the waters

Like a ship on stormy seas

(chorus)


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I look out on the watersI look out on the land.

I hear the sound of the rushing wind

As it sweeps the desert sand.I sing a song

and dance along

To the music of the bandEverything that I can see

Is made by the same hand.

2nd version of chorus:

I pick up my chains of freedomAnd I carry them in my soul.

I walk tall down the darkened road

I know Ive paid the tollEach link can be

A strength to me

Now that I see my roleAnd I can lift myself from the darkness

Now Ive gained control.

This song was originally written for a Negro Choir with a very strong female lead. One of

these days Ill find someone with enough musical training to write the sheet music for it.

~Theres Always Another Dream

Theres always another dream

Behind the one that died

Always another dreamAs soon as tears have dried.Why cant the dream

.just stay

..and play.and keep me satisfied?


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Who said that it must come and go,Like the flowing ocean tide?

Why cant I always love youLike the day I saw you first

Why cant I always want you

With a never-ending thirstWhy must the freshness of your fruit

Become..

in timeaccursed.

And dreams be merely bubblesTheyre born; they fly; they burst.

Unless I see with vision clearThat tears give way to joy

That night must yet give way to day

As girl gives way to boyI have not strength to walk away

My dreams become a ploy

I lose my self in the fear of lossThat devours all the joy.

Theres always another dreamBehind the one that died

Always another dream

As soon as tears have driedO, may my spirit soar on wings

Of visions from insideAnd may my power pick me up

And take the tears

in stride.

~


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TIME MEN LEARNED TO CRY

What is this tear thats falling hereThis deeply furrowed brow

The hole in the wholeThe rejected soul

The easily broken vow.They all must be

Reconciled somehow.Yes, I think its time

Long past the timeTime men learned to cry

What has she done, this gentle oneTo warrant such a spate

Of burning words such wrath incurs

From one who is her mateCan this be Love?

Or is it really hate?Yes, I think its time

Long past the timeTime men learned to cry.

I think its time men learned to cry Took anger from their eye

And found instead words better bred

That speak the reasons whyDispel the lie

That bind the tieYes, I think its time


Its time to bring the twain to naughtPolarity the lesson taught

Let only balls bounce off the walls

And from them balance caughtBy effort wroughtRespond with thoughtYes, I think its time



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An Aussies LamentA Pub Song For Down Under

When the cattle are bawlin

Till the sun goes downAnd theres snakes in your bedroll

On the groundIf you wanta do somethin

Thats really newGo to Wooloomooloo

With a kangaroo

Go to WooloomoolooWith a kangaroo!

When the bulls are all loadedFor Butchertown

And the skin on yer necks

Been toasted brown.Get some beer and some gin

And you know what to do

Go to Wooloomooloo

With a kangarooGo to Wooloomooloo

With a kangaroo!

When the wool s been baledAnd the sheep run out

When your back is broke

And youre tuckered outIf youre startin to talk

To your Cockatoo,

Go to WooloomoolooWith a kangaroo

Go to Wooloomooloo

With a kangaroo!


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If your mate got drunk

Documents

On Pegasus' Wings