Cool Clear Water

"Life's journey is not to arrive at the gate safely in a well preserved body, but rather to skid sideways totally worn out, shouting, Holy Cow! What a Ride."
Todd Robison, may he RIP.



Each new day I try and remember some little thing that I've learned which will inspire me to live every minute to it's fullest. Yesterday I walked on a mountain top with a good friend and gave a song, a prayer to the spirit who makes life possible.












The water of life is a true blessing.

I Think I Can

I may not know where I'm going, but I'm still on track, and headed for Spring Time in the mountains. Ah! The adventure of life... a true blessing.

A Mother's Prayer

As an early morning blanket mist folds up along the mountain peaks waiting for the first warm kiss of sun, I think of you. A cornucopia of memories flow like clear water on its voyage to the sea.
The silence is gently broken. A yellow-breasted meadowlark atop a fence post sings the only sermon it knows. It's song of hope surpasses the loud ear-splitting sound of man's weapons of war.
Somewhere the edge of night is falling, and a mother holds a wounded child to her breast. Black clouds of burning oil fill the sky. Cries of sorrow fall on the malefic ears of the deaf. Blind eyes see only the gain of more mammon as innocent blood soaks through the cloth of peace.
The droit seeds of truth are planted deep into all crazed hearts of stone. The poets gnomon of hope beats...

The Canyons of Time

"Who kissed me from my dream to know that I am still dreaming in another?"
How many lifetimes have passed in sequence as I track her footprints from the sands of Egypt to the snows of Aksehir? To awake from a night dream and know you are in a daydream of your own making is a reality few comprehend. This is my dream, and yet...I am half asleep.
I am in love with a woman who comes willing to me in the night. She is the scent of wisteria, the jasmine that ribbons through the hot summer air of Izmar. Sugar ripe grapes pile high on palm woven disks, fat figs fill baskets, Smyrna casasbas and curshaw melons lay on mlticoloured carpets from the markets of Algiers...none are as sweet to my taste as her smile. The silk of her touch lingers on my lips. The murmur of her voice like music fans my pulse. My dolor cry is carried on the khamsin breeze through the canyons of time...the memory haunts my waking with questions.
Once again, I am born in a desert land. My childhood friends and teachers; the slow moving tortoise, the ever watchful lizards and najas who bask themselves in the spectral waves of the sun's radiant warmth. Wide spread wings of the high soaring condors cast slow moving shadows at my feet, and the whistling cries of the noble sparrow hawk has always filled my heart with remorse and great joy. A paradox of the remembered past and the life I live now, both alive in this moment as I write. Do you think me mad? Perhaps I am.
From the other side of the galaxy I close my eyes...you're here.
How I yearn to touch you and whisper, come nearer, come here my dear.
Must the fusil gain come through the pain?
Our children a delight for all to see, conceived in our fertile bed.
Night's breeze whispers through the palms, dates fatten like their chubby arms.
In the garden they run and play, and laugh and sing.
Is it enough for you to wear my hidden ring?
Hold them close as I hold you in my memory.
The words of love spoken, let nothing be unsaid.
Our passion fruits...each with a name well chosen.
The peg plunged deep, red drops of life like tears weep from my heart.
Me a lonely gypsy...you a high born Noble Queen.
It is a new day. How many light years have passed? An orange and yellow orb peeks over the snow blanketed mountains. The pink and blue of the morning sky separate gray clouds. It is snowing slow falling flakes, which are mesmerizing, yet my senses are keen. The beauty in watching the snow through the bright morning sky is not lost on me. I see it as a gift and yet...
Reality has a curlicue twist in this my current incarnation. Such things I did not believe possible before a cosmic vortex ground me in a mortar to dust. The pestle was fear, she name Moera. Was my cold-blooded murder our of revenge? Was my crime not remembering in time, not being smart enough to look the other way? She, knowing full well I would never turn away, resolute...always searching.
Different, yes I am different now. Moera can never kill my resilient love. I am a respecter of life in all its forms and so forgive. It is true I have killed many, imbued in a fever of fear and a righteous anger at the injury to the children of innocence, but never do I remember the feeling of pure hate. Seeing the ramifications of hate in the blood lust wars of men causes my tears to flow into an ocean of why. All suffer in the pain, innocent, and not so innocent.
My term as an official of holy judgment has ended for this lifetime, and for that I am truly thankful. The aureus diadem of the divine fades like pressed carnations and fragrant gardenias in the family book of my life. What remains, a garland, pearls of wisdom. I can only hope I was of some assistance then and in what life there is left to me.
The water of life is sweet, the cup fashioned by the hand of the maker, a gift. How others think of such things, I cannot say for sure. To speak brings the possible label of madness, but I do not fear...to ask with a humble heart that my be compassionate and merciful seems logical. Who judges me harsher than I judge myself?
Call me quite mad, but I love. I love a queen who has killed me with her sword of truth...her eyes are the colour of the sky on the clearest of days. In my darkest hours she was with me. Through the maelstrom of the unknown I called her name and she answered. No swan on a lake calling to its mate flying high above, could have been more reassuring as her words to me, her guidance brought me home to her side.
As the warm sun rises like the lucent moon, do we forget the spiritual spice of each days lullaby? Say not so. Perhaps she remembers more than I do, she has always been wiser and swifter with a blade, her quill of truth. Is my head hung on her door, my heart at her hearth floor? So let it be written, so let it be done. Even a headless wonder knows happiness is spelled...WOMAN.

Blue Fire

Throughout my days and into night, I search for this and that. This is my life here on planet Earth. This is where they left me. I was to young to remember much; a port window of sorts, the soft black of the always night, and the pointed tip of a long blue flame framed by that window. Not much of a clue, but enough for me to know, Earth is not my only home. Home ha! I have always been a stranger here. From time to time I have seem others who may be like me. The truth be known, we cover the secret of our alienation well.
Deep poles stand tall. Shadows cross mark time. I parry and fence around them. Rusting broken cables loop back to hold tight my mind. Like a bird on a string I long to be free. This place of hooks that hold, is a prison of things that begin one way and end in another. For years I have tinkered, building my craft from bits and pieces found while wondering.
In the darkest of nights I have seen the thin blue flame of those in the sky overhead. I am not a lone eprist. Now through my days and nights, I plot my unfolding parchment scroll. This chart and my ship, Blue Fire will thrust home my alien soul.