On Pegasus’ Wings
Copyright 2006

All Rights Reserved

Christopher C. Cain

Soulful Stories Publishing Yarmouth, Nova Scotia, Canada

Published By:


ISBN 0-9780005-9-5


THE POET’S PERSPECTIVE The Captain Chance Encounter The View From Soul Released Of Power And Of Might The Blind Musician Transition Jack O’ Diamonds

6. 12. 15. 19. 20. 22. 23. 25. 27.

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

SECTION 2: Of General Interest ..................................................... 30. Choc-o-late World Questions Mind The Chasm Crossed The Plumber’s Approach To The Soul The Seer The Thin Line Dancing Light And Sound The Image Of The Dreamer Yarmouth Harbor The Sea And Me In Time And Space Removed The Redemption Of Cain Eat Dessert First

31. 31. 34. 35. 36. 36. 37. 37. 39. 40. 42. 44. 46. 47.

CONTENTS (cont’d.)
SECTION 3: Short Stories And Prose ............................................. 48. An Old Story With A New Twist Bird Of Paradox The Hero And The Fool Za Zen Master To My Children A Letter To My Youngest Daughter The Last Lesson 49. 52. 56. 57. 58. 60. 64.

SECTION 4: Early Poems ................................................................ 66. Life In The Yukon The Silver Dart Freedom And Duty Clouds 67. 70. 72. 74.

SECTION 5: Song Lyrics .................................................................. 76. Chains Of Freedom There’s Always Another Dream Time Men Learned To Cry An Aussie’s Lament Wings Like A Dove Freedom On My Side The Willow Tree Hello California Think I’ll Go To Frisco Next Of Kin Me Old Scalara Hat Dancin’ In The Street Let’s Fall In Love

77. 78. 80. 81. 84. 85. 88. 90. 91. 92. 94. 97. 98.

CONTENTS (cont’d.)
Without You The Rhyme In Time Song Of The Wind Bell The Midnight Physician Mirror Image Of Me On The Wall A Song For Chima 100. 101. 102. 103. 106. 108.

SECTION 6: Esoteric, Spiritual and Mystical .................................... 110. What Is The Sound Of Freedom The Whole-I So MuchFor God Realization When The Heart The View From The Source Departure From Gate 14 0 The Riddle Of Synergy Credo The Voice In The Wind 111. 112. 113. 112. 113. 114. 115. 116. 116. 117.

SECTION 7: Author’s Commentaries .............................................. 120. Comments About A Commentary Pegasus: Author’s Commentary Wings Like A Dove: Author’s Commentary Questions: Author’s Commentary The Redemption Of Cain: Author’s Commentary The Captain: Author’s Commentary The Blind Musician: Author’s Commentary Alphabetical Index

121. 122. 123. 124. 125. 128. 138. 145.

The Poet’s 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 Captain’s 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

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 Coleridge’s KUBLA KHAN was one of his favorites … as were several of Kipling’s 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 dress—of 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

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 PROJECT them, 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 there’s anything wrong with great entertainment through poetry and song, I just don’t 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 normal—powers not easy to come by, and which require a price few people are willing—or capable—of 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 regions of the soul, while at the same time not negating the essential nature of the mind. Looking down from this high perch—this Eagle’s roost—one 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 of—the 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

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 specialized—and with a narrower and narrower frame of reference—so 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 soul’s 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



The Poet’s 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 journey’s end… ….mine just begun, All words now versified.

See also Author’s Commentary, Page 122.


My Own Personal Favorites


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 It’s honed to the Nth degree. About the time I think that I have everything in stride, I’ll be caught between a strong wind and a quickly moving tide that bears the brand of the Captain’s hand to stay my indolence and check my pride. The Captain of this impeccable ship is a stickler for detail. He’ll 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 I’d drown So I tied myself on with a line


I stood before the wind alone my death perched on the bow. I noticed not that grim ergot who seemed to say, “What now?” I’d assumed the role of the fearless soul Had taken the “Captain’s Vow”. I’d trimmed the sails; I’d tied things down I’d covered every hole. Put every man of the crew below I couldn’t risk a soul. And, cold to the bone, I stood alone The sky as black as coal. I’d 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 Captain from his seat behind my brow His presence there in the calm and still And the storm which faced us now. “Your part’s well done; now I’ll 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 Elmo’s Fire. It bore the brand of the Captain’s hand How else could such transpire?

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 by…for 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 Captain’s hand The knot … … I’ll not … untie.


See Also Author’s Commentary, Page 128.

Chance Encounter
It was late in the fall of ‘62 The weather’d turned bad and I couldn't fly through. Hemmed in by mountains on all sides ‘round The fog and the clouds forced me down to the ground Down 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 squall And 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 down And I sat there alone a hundred miles from a town. I had radioed in while still in the air That 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 emerged His presence so strange my adrenaline surged. He stepped in the firelight bold as could be And impaled me with eyes that could do more than see. I reached for my gun, but could see he had none His 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.

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 on That 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?”

"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 soul The 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?”

“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 afar And 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 about…no sign could I see, But two boot prints in the soft earth….. …..and they were not made by me!


AUTHOR’S 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!


The View From Soul
So you say that it’s all too much You enslave yourself for your freedom And when it’s finally within reach You’re too old or too infirm to enjoy it. Your beautiful body that moved so freely Rising 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-handedly Bring peace to a war-torn earth And you cannot staunch the lightning-started fires of renewal, Or guide the Tornado’s 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 storm’s path Because you have ignored The subtle tap on your shoulder …..or your neighbor’s words. Have you failed to see that the outward Inevitably… … disintegrates

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?

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 vanity Their measure do derive. And yet as long as I remain within this frame of clay, My freedom’s just a point of view From well above the fray. I do hereby release myself From holding on too tight, From good… …or bad… From being sad or choosing wrong from right. I do hereby release myself To ponder greater things And find I do Prefer the view From whence the pendant swings.

I have been released just like a soldier from his battle Or even like the dairyman Who’s freed from all his cattle. I have been released just like an inmate from a prison Who finds, in time, his freedom blocked Where newer walls have risen. “Up” cannot be “Up” without some “Down” firmly attached Wisdom does not come unless… …..from Ignorance it’s snatched!

I have been released from being lost and being found From wandering through the forest In search for higher ground. I have been released from all the sickness and the pain I 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 space I see no atom nor event Not perfect in its place. And though confused and often lost I stumble and I rise Each rock and rift upon the road Expands my soul in size Until at last I stand before A mirror bright and clear Proclaiming to the image there Without an ounce of fear I do hereby release myself…. ……….from further busyness here!


Of Power & Of Might
What Demon made this realm which says That I must kill to live? How quench the guilt that troubles Soul And 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 urgent…nights so dark I fear the Mark Of Cain, And I fear that I may never find My way back Home again.

My weariness bewilders me; I’m bound by where I stand. The fog so dense I cannot see And there seems no place to land. Alone … and yet again I feel The Hand within my hand.

When will the weary night unfold Into a crystal light? When will the grounded bird arise And take to pristine flight As daily I gather more and more Of Power and …..Of Might.


The Blind Musician
There once was a blind musician Whose music cast a spell He 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 I’d never been taught. I “see” said the blind musician…. …..as a kind of an afterthought. “Then, how is it you’ve come to this place,” he asked, “That you’d plumb the depths of this well?” “Oh…t’was not a matter of choice,” I replied, “T’was a force that I could not quell!” I told him about the dreams I’d had And how I’d “tolled” the heights of thought. How I’d come to be the estranged monad Instead of what I’d thought I ought; About the many lonely days I’d spent In the search for what couldn’t be bought. I “see” said the blind musician, Himself having felt the things I’d 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 it Ohhh…. he played it without a flaw! It’s vibrating strings were like magical things, His words a clarion call; A voice that flew through the air on wings That carried his words through the hall. I’ve 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.

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. Who’s blind? ….and who can truly “see”? Who’s lost ?……and who is found? What is it that this man projects? From whence come his words profound? “Gold’s hidden in the silence Between the silver sounds.” Thus spake the blind musician, In whose darkness Light abounds. And, Lo, these many years I’ve tried To reconcile the two. What is this word…..and what the sound, That brings the Tuza through; That cuts the dark, and awakens mind Like the notes of a Bugle’s call; That feeds the heart from a deeper source So it flies above its prison wall? I believe in the imagined state, Though it’s 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”. Author’s commentary: P. 138

I hear the bugle call me through the misty morning light A lifetime ago when I was young and full of life And going forth to fight the battle someone 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 love in 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 day’s 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.

I feel the moment melt into A scene I cannot see I hear the trumpet speak to me With words of harmony Oh, tell me; Can you tell me, If these awful things I see Can be a part of some great story I have no choice but to be. Oh, tell me; Can you tell me, If all this pain and tragedy Bespeak 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 “Taps” Leading ever upward Into time unknown The future Calling me to go forth into new life Beyond the life I’ve known To reach compulsively And 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 bones and 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,

and send me out alone (al-one) to seek all unknown things. I feel beyond my mind The canvas that I paint…. The story that I write…. Just for me!

~ Jack O’ Diamonds
You thought it was the hand of fate that 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 cards Was 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, there’s a loser in exchange. And if gold can buy the Queen Of Hearts, then Vanity’s her name. And if gold can buy the Queen Of Hearts, The Joker wins the game!

I have a friend, a gambler, He lives from dusk ‘till dawn. He plays with money, Kings, and hearts; He‘s here and then he’s 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 allowed to pillage, rape, and burn? Is this the image every man is seeking with his game, personified and borne by all to balance frailty’s 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 rage For the fickle male to flee, The tighter her grip upon his ship The more he seeks to be free.

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 There’s 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, There’s a loser in exchange. And if gold can buy the Queen of Hearts, Then Vanity’s her name. And if gold can buy the Queen of Hearts, The Joker….. ….wins …..the game!



Of General Interest


Oh, it’s 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. Life’s filled with these guys Whose lives are all lies And the least that they want is just MORE So, turn on the news And believe what you choose It’ll soon be for sale at the store!

What tale does this tell Of the demons from Hell And the towers which toppled and fell After reaching too high Into a smog-filled sky Is it “Less”….. That’s 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 justified By thousands of deaths? Was this “Trade Center”a masterpiece of engineering?

…..or a Fool’s Folly in an unstable world. Certainly it was not the middle path. What fool would live or work A 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 fall Because they have no substance within. Even altruism, philanthropy, and worldly generosity Cannot 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?

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 Phoenix And….though transformed….. Be none-the-less the Eagle? The Phoenix always rises From the ashes of its own Self Destruction! Where is our Substance, America? What…. …..Where …..is our Soul?


September 12, 2001 Please see also the Author’s Commentary on Page 124.


I am your Chessmaster You are my Pawn. You’re free of me only From Dark until Dawn Creator of your present And all of your past I am your first God, But not your last! Now you know where All your troubles begin Who forms most events Of the world that you’re in. Good can’t exist unless Measured by sin. So I drive you to drink And you drown me in Gin. I play for my pleasure My own endless tape Over and over ‘till there Seems no escape. I fire your anger I titillate your whim I boil your desires ‘Till 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!


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!


The Plumber’s Approach to the Soul
The Master’s approach To the human Soul Is like the plumber’s approach To the toilet bowl: Never work on the problem From below No matter how plugged The status quo Lest you find to your woe There’s a huge …. ….overflow! Try the view of the whole From the viewpoint of Soul There’s a much smaller toll From well above…. …the hole!

The Seer
All the solemn vows we make dissolve in the warp of Time. The rhythm of the song wears thin and we tire of its rhyme. The man who’s blessed with Seer’s eyes is cursed as though t’were fame. Changed is his life forever; two days are ne’er the same. The road to home is different …than the way by which he came.


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.

Go down to Planet Earth and see What 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 you’re there Do not despair Of Dragons’ hidden lairs Disguised as pleasures fraught with pain And illusions made of cares.

Watch carefully The flame which draws The 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 tries Until transformed …….by flame …….it’s warmed Without its wings, it flies. And now you look With furrowed brow At this moth And his foolish deeds. How could this be ……this dichotomy Where he who fails…succeeds? At giving up His frantic flight In loss, he finds He’s found! His mind is stilled His soul is filled …….With Dancing Light And Sound


The Image Of The Dreamer
Oh, tell me is the image Of the dreamer just a lie? Am I condemned to seek it And forever wonder why It can’t be found that perfect sound The colors bright and clear Oh, tell me is the image Of the dreamer just a lie. Oh, tell me is the image Of the dreamer far…or near The face that’s filled with warmth and light Devoid of every fear The body strong That moves like a song And in my mind is dear Oh, tell me is the image Of the dreamer far or near. Oh, tell me has the image Left the dreamer here to die What draws me on this futile search For the who-am-I ….and why From whence I came And what’s this game That illusions all belie Does the image of the dreamer Still live on when we die? Oh, tell me will the image Of the dreamer lead me on Down the path that leads To Whole-I men Whose tongues can lead the blind And in whose silence words confound What lies beyond the mind

Oh, tell me does the image Of the dreamer ever end Or does it thread through countless worlds Too numerous to comprehend Is this the reach That exceeds the grasp Is it really all we are? Oh, Dance upon the ocean wind And think upon a star The image of the dreamer Compels me yet this far The image of the dreamer May be all we really are!


Yarmouth Harbor
What mystical ropes Tie the heart of man To all his distant past? What memories lie lurking That affect the future’s cast? From whence comes the knowledge That all men have That one place alone is home? And how many lives Before Soul sees That all roads lead to Rome? I look out on the harbor In the early morning mist The same as did my distant kin Who wandered the world where they wist. Never the same again were they Who left their native shore; Come home to stay in later life Where they’d lived many lives before. And though the face Of the harbor change The heart returns there still.

The tide still flows, The seagulls cry, And the wind blows where it will. My Father born in the house on the hill My Mother in the middle of town. The first thing I saw From my Mother’s arms Was the harbor at sundown. The flash at night of the lighthouse beam The foghorn’s thunderous sound Rattled the windows In the bedroom walls And was heard for miles around. Guides to my Soul Through 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 1800’s showing two fishing schooners in the background and a “Pinky” fishing sloop towing a dory in the foreground.


The Sea And Me
There’s a land that’s dear to me Where the pine trees meet the sea And a dusty old dirt road winds into town. I was born, Momma said, on a foggy April morn With the harbour sounds of seagulls And a foghorn Singing to my soul.. When I was a little lad, I’d ride in town with Dad And I’d 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 cookstoves As they waited for the tide. How I longed to be free To 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 alone With the rolling of the sea-swells And the throbbing of the engine in my mind. Well, I’d know it wasn’t so; Back to Water Street I’d go To the warehouse with its store of coal-tar smells. It was there I could stare At the fishermen’s hardware Hanging from the walls and rafters: Hooks and codlines, Knives and buoys, Ropes and chains.

Just outside at low tide Stood the mudflats broad and wide And a smokehouse for the herring high and dry. Right beside, seagulls cried Men threw fishheads to the tide Making filets for the smokerack And the saltpack Or the barrels Of salt brine. In the sun sat everyone Mending nets and having fun Talking softly, telling stories while they worked. Far away from the sheltered bay they would go on another day And forget the wintry wind storms Frozen fingers Icy feet That earned their pay. Mom would tell, very well How 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 seashores Mists arising Seagulls sleeping on the piles. Now I’m grown, I’m still alone On a sea that’s now my home. There’s 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 me Slowly softens And follows me no more. Slowly softens And follows me no more.


In Time & Space Removed
I know you from another place In time and space removed A vague but yet familiar face The feel of trust well-proved. Is this the same old familiar soul I struggle to recall, Or just two ships which pass at night Who’ve never met at all.

And can it be the same with thee As it has been with me You feel the hint Of an old blueprint That no-one else can see. Are you my “mate” By the hand of Fate Or are we together drawn By a hand unknown Not at all our own Like the chess master moves his pawn?

And don’t you find it just as strange When some unknown surge of hate An instant flare of thought deranged Disturbs your peaceful state? You know not why You hate this guy But every little word he speaks Dissects each nerve with vicious verve This master of the “tweaks”.

And yet to others standing there He grates them not at all Their laughter that you seem to care Adds poison to your gall. Now…could 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 Soul When, though unseen, We know It’s been The part that makes us whole. O’erwhelmed at first By sensual thirst And forces beyond control Grows gradually strong Through Lifetimes long ‘Till It finally gains control.



The Redemption of Cain
Cain……oh, Cain….. What hast thou done? Thy brother’s blood…… ……And by my eldest son! What flaw lies deep In my family’s seed That 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 mine And the debt be paid! To how many seasons Will the trees cast their leaves? How long must the Earth And her children grieve? ‘Till time can reprieve The soul and the name ……of Cain.

Author’s Commentary on Page 125.

What chance bit of fate Put my hand to this plow? That I’d 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 moment’s respite I my body allow It’s Apocalypse yesterday, …..Heaven tomorrow, …….McBurger Queen NOW!



Short Stories & Prose


An Old Story With A New Twist
There was once a young man, who, for reasons unknown to himself, embarked on 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 wandered about 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 began to look for signs along the way. In the villages, things were all very much the same; there was nothing that appeared inviting. In the country, things were even poorer – but at the entrance to one dirt driveway leading off the main thoroughfare there stood a sign different from all the others. Painted on it, like on all the others, was the owner‛s name….. but this particular sign had been lovingly embellished with a few brightly painted flowers. Beneath the owner‛s name, in small print, one word jumped out to catch the Traveler‛s attention: WELCOME, said the word. The Traveler turned down the driveway for a short distance to find a small log cottage perched at the very edge of a calm lake. The smell of woodsmoke drifted occasionally into his nostrils as he walked up the steps leading to the 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 that when one pulled the dangling string, the Woodpecker‛s bill whacked solidly against a split piece of birch branch nailed to the wood-slab door. He had hardly reached for the string when the door opened. An older man stood in the doorway before him, nodded a greeting, and looked enquiringly at him in silence. “I…..uh…..I was just traveling by, and noticed your welcome sign,” said the Traveler. “I haven‛t 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 cabin‛s dark interior. He shortly returned to the door holding a fish in his left hand and a fishing rod in his right hand. “Take the fish and you eat for today. Take the fishing rod and you‛ll never go hungry,” he said.

The Traveler thought for a moment. “I would take the fishing rod, but I don‛t know how to use it,” he said. “It takes some work, and it takes some training. You do the work and I‛ll do the training. What is your choice?” “I‛ll take the rod, and do the work, if you‛ll 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 his storehouse of knowledge, talents, and abilities. Equipped now to continue his journey even farther afield, it was a number of years before the Traveler found himself returning from his journeyings along the same road he had taken years before. Things had changed. He hardly recognized anything as being a familiar sight….. anything, that is, except the welcome sign with the painted flowers. The underbrush around it had become overgrown, but the area around the sign had been kept clear, and the sign itself still carried its freshly-renewed, brightly-painted message…… all obviously by careful design and continued, periodic, attention despite the constant ravages of the realm that return all living things to the mineral state. The Traveler quickly remembered the sign and the way in which it spoke to him 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 himself on the veranda of the familiar log cottage. The door opened; the old man had changed little. He smiled, instantly recognizing the Traveler. “Welcome back”, he said. “Would you like something to eat?” “No…” laughed the Traveler. “ Thanks to you, I‛m well fed. I just wanted to come by to thank you for what you did for me.: “T‛was little enough,” the old man said. “You don‛t know how many fish I‛ve given, and how many fishing rods I‛ve kept!”….and they both laughed with great understanding. “But now…” said the old man, scrutinizing the Traveler with eyes that saw more than sights, “now perhaps there‛s something more than fishing rods that occupies your attention!” “As a matter of fact, there is”, the Traveler said. “Now that I can feed myself with so little effort, and have my freedom so well in hand, I no longer

want to travel through this realm. At the same time, I don‛t want to die of boredom 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 shortly thereafter 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 and more 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 puzzles……Choose 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, he knew the answer. “I‛ll take them both!” he replied with great confidence, and the two of them burst into gales of deep, free, laughter. “You choose wisely” said the old man. “If you take them both, you must also take one more thing.” “Yes?......and what might that be?”, enquired the Traveler. “A mirror. You‛ll find them everywhere: on walls; in your actions; and in other people‛s actions and words. Look carefully into them. The solution to most of life‛s problems is contained in the mirror‛s image. But the deepest secret of all will be found on the other side of the mirror!” “But….but there‛s nothing on the other side,” replied the Traveler. “There is and there isn‛t,” the old man replied, “ but you have to go through the mirror to find out.” He paused, and then added, “Come back when you find what‛s on the other side”. Puzzled, the Traveler continued on his journey.




Bird Of Paradox

Original Art Work By Rick Kelley www.kelleyfineart.com


I see you there old friend of curious nature; so comfortable with aloneness …and togetherness; frequenter of secluded places; at home on water, or in the air, but most at home on a glassy lake drifting 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 whistlings bring you close to shore for a wary look at another being who disappears with the sun and comes again with morning light as a strange new shape emerges from where once there was but bush ….and tree ….and eel-grass. Surely you must know it as my “nest” from the happy, joyful laughter of little beings who splash along the shore and 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 night from away across the still waters. Waiting, I wondered from what point of the compass your lifelong mate ….or children …..or friend would answer.

Answer they always did. Often it drew me out of my bunk to paddle alone on the lake in my canoe feeling the things you must feel on such perfect nights. Such a myriad of stars in the sky amid the ethereal blazing of northern lights cannot help but make a boy wonder who 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 carefully with full vision and a warrior’s 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 feet that make the water foam and spray ….and….for ….sooooo….LONG! Heading into whatever wind there may be! I can imagine your heart pounding and your muscles straining to their limit; your head reaching forward with every ounce of strength you possess to gain ….escape velocity!

Ahhhhh…….yes! Escape Velocity! ….attained ever-so-gradually at such high cost over such a long distance! Each flight a soul’s 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 below as you disappear down the lake. My noisy hammerings and whistlings are silenced in awe and silent memory as I watch you go. For I, too, have flown ….have achieved that elusive “escape velocity” And I, too, can still fly…. Without ever leaving the ground.



The Hero and The Fool
As a young boy, I recall my Father commenting to me that there is a very thin line between a hero and a fool. “What‛s a hero?” I asked him. “A hero is one who‛s major moments are spent in silence contemplating the nature of himself and all things and working on himself until his personal power, wisdom, and sense of freedom transcend the Earth‛s and his own limitations,” 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 what‛s a Fool?” I asked, naively. “A Fool is one who thinks he is wise because of his intelligence; thinks he is powerful 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. “They‛re seen by the ‘seers‛, who are also the heroes: and unseen by the blind, 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 fill their lives with all manner of noise because they can‛t stand being alone. A hero is silent because he‛s embarrassed by the sound of too many words— especially his own. He‛s humbled by the knowledge of his own weakness, and, finally, he‛s brought to naught by the realization of his own imprisonment. He is by himself ... but he knows he is not alone! He‛s also unpredictable ... even to 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 on the ears of a child.


Za Zen Master
The Zen master and his protégé walked a narrow trail through the rugged mountains, the wild winds occasionally almost sweeping them off their feet. The protégé, carrying the heavy backpack with their shelter and provisions, perspired profusely, and though near the point of exhaustion, labored on in silence. At the turn of the trail, the sound of a roaring torrent of water greeted their ears and a river revealed itself to them, tumbling and frothing down the mountainside into a fertile green valley far below. At the point where the trail met the river, they stopped and rested among some rocks out of the wind, the tumbling torrent making its own music with the wind above them. As they finished their snack of dried fruit and nuts and prepared to continue on, the protégé asked: “Master, forgive me, but what lies on the other side of God realization?” The master picked up the heavy load the protégé had been carrying, threw it on his own back, looked at the protégé with a smile, and said: “More God realization!” They both laughed heartily. “Lead the way”, the master said. “But I don‛t know the way”, the protégé replied, puzzled. “The way is always before you”, the master replied. And the protégé led the way from here onward. Only the master, however, realized they were now going downhill!


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 for myself, and which I now set for you just as my own Father did for me. They are, first of all, standards that I myself have to live by in order to earn my own self-respect and the respect of my children. Secondly, and equally as importantly, they are standards which the rest of the world sees as “wise”. On the journey through life there are endless enticing temptations and diversions such as alcohol, mind-altering drugs, and cigarettes which are purposefully designed by an extremely intelligent Creator to teach us about a most important kind of power in life: that power is called SELF-CONTROL. By this, I mean control over our physical actions, emotional reactions, and thoughts. 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, the stick, 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 with that control. The instant you are not 100% in control of your body, mind, and emotions…..you are out of control. You are no longer the master; you are the slave 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-power backed by sound reasoning he has seen that alcohol, drugs and cigarettes are 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 be avoided at all cost. Not only are they unwisely spent money, but those who do indulge usually come from parents of low standards. It would be better by far to be alone than to seek such company. Generally speaking, a man or woman with a cigarette in their hand or drugs in

their body is a walking advertisement of weakness, ignorance, poor training and an unthinking mind. Such a person is not a leader, but a follower. No attractive, intelligent woman or man will accept an unwise person for a partner. 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 an inner quality of the soul. One of the most important things that a young person can learn is how to live by the wise advice of their elders. Then they do not have to pay the heavy price of learning by painful experience and the very real probability of permanent body damage. Big problems always start with just one small innocent temptation. I have not been an easy father, but neither have I expected too much from my children. As a result they have powers that few other children have. Their training began with kind and careful reasoning before they were even old enough to understand the full meaning of my words. There has never been any doubt, however, that if they wished to bear my name, they had to live by my minimum standards: no drugs; no cigarettes; no alcohol until they‛re old enough to handle it wisely, or not at all, and never when operating any 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 proper balance of the two. I give you these words with Love from your Father. Dad



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 in 25 years! Choosing a mate is always a most difficult situation, but particularly so for a woman. If you feel frustration from your own shortcomings so early on in life, your life is very likely to be like my own. There is nothing on this earth, and there never has been anything, that could even come close to my imagined world and the high hopes and expectations which preceded all the new events that were placed before me, or which I placed before myself (for it happens both ways). Sooner or later, time takes its toll on all things … relationships included. 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 need to have a "mate", but I could never find anything close to my own imagined image of appearance and companionship. One came very close, but I was not headed in any direction which was stable enough or rewarding enough for her to risk a committed relationship with me over a long period of time. Another wanted to have nine kids; I wanted none; she wanted a home; I wanted to live on an oil rig; so she married her childhood boyfriend who was studying to be a doctor. A much wiser choice! These women, and others, were attractive enough 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 they came from very "stable" backgrounds which didn't give them many options for freedom in so far as what was "acceptable", and, even more importantly to them, what was "safe". Because, you see, most people are motivated by fear. Their future lurks before them as the "great unknown" and dictates their direction far more than they themselves realize. They aren't looking into

the next tomorrow with an unexplainable belief in the goodness of it all, and their own invincibility, and the resultant enthusiastic, adventurous curiosity which that state of consciousness brings with it. To be able to walk fearlessly into the great unknown with a deep-seated inner belief that, no matter what happens, even death itself, the final result of every single moment of living life 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 state of consciousness of a very old and experienced Soul of thousands of lifetimes in male and female form, a soul whose reflexes and intuitive impulses come from some unknown part of their being and inevitably land them on their feet in 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 arose before me, the advice I had available to me, and the wisdom (or lack of it!) I had accumulated, I would not have chosen to act any differently in any of my life's situations than I did at that time. However, with the perspective of many years, I would probably never settle for many of the things I did, and might well take much better advantage of many of the things I neglected for 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 to ponder and some questions for you to ask yourself. The final decisions, sweet little heart, have to be yours entirely. 1. There's a very important attitude prevalent in your e-mail which you should be 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 and grow in your own unique way? This will be the one who is the most secure in himself; the least threatened by your growth. 3. Who is the most kind and considerate?

4. Look carefully at all the events surrounding each relationship. The truth is hidden 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 up on you, and then it's too late to extricate yourself. No doubt it‛s exciting, but it‛s exciting like fly-paper is to a fly. The problem with the whole New York state of consciousness is, in a word, this: MORE. There's never enough of anything; no matter how much you have, you always want more. But it‛s like the carrot hanging in front of the donkey‛s nose. True satisfaction seems always to be ….just …out …of … reach! I've attached my latest poem/prose about the WorId Trade Center situation for you to ponder, as it is quite specific 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 until things 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: for one thing, a person‛s true nature is not really apparent until certain desire mechanisms are satiated and until they find themselves under more than a small amount of stress. Secondly, it takes time to determine if two people are going to grow at the same rate and in the same direction together … and to 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 an ATTACHMENT to another person, and EXPECTATIONS that are too onesided. 8. Don't indulge yourself with the negative feelings of guilt. You acted in good faith; 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-faced person feels rejection VERY strongly as they are lacking in confidence from day one, but then, that is their challenge, and you must see it that way along with 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!

9. Most marriages (probably 90%) stay together because: it‛s too much trouble to start over; it's too fearful to face aloneness; the economics are too fearful; and—most importantly—one or the other has never taken the time or made the effort to create for themselves another self-supporting choice which allows them to choose their freedom. Now I ask you, is this the undaunted 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're also 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 few good 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 LOT in case you don't realize it!!! The last word is: for a long term relationship, choose a man who is a friend first and last. Hot fires burn themselves out ... and burn those who get too close to them. Above all, make yourself the artist (figuratively speaking) and your life the canvas. Choose your colors and your subject matter very carefully. Experiment with them both until you find what you love. Dig deep down inside yourself to find 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



The Last Lesson
The last lesson is ... well ... the last lesson! It goes kind of like this: Voice Inside My Head: “If you‛re ‘through‛, you don‛t have to stick around”. Me: “Yes ... but ... How do I know I‛m ‘through‛?” Voice: “You‛re ‘through‛ when you KNOW you‛re ‘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 don‛t see any choices.” Voice: “You aren‛t finished until you‛ve imagined other choices!” Me: “But nobody really knows where they go from here ... or even if they go anywhere at all!”


Voice: “Which rocks did you check under?” Me: “Awww, come on! You‛re not making sense!” Voice: “Senses get you here. They don‛t get you out!” Me: “Then what gets you out?” Voice, impatiently: “Knowing and Seeing: knowing you‛re finished, imagining what the possibilities are, and seeing yourself there.” Me: Ah!……This is useless! How can you know anything if you can‛t think it?” Voice: “Chuck your mind! You‛ll KNOW……that‛s all! Knowing is the ‘Place Of No Words‛!” Me: “Hmmh!”



Early Poems

( 1962 to 1998)


Life In The Yukon
Above the Arctic Circle Lies the village of Old Crow On a black-earth bank Up out of reach Of the river’s muddy flow. Two hundred Indians dwell there In 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 Nature’s rough abuse. A multitude of children scream And play on paths of dirt. Sled-dog brethern of the Timber Wolf Yowl as though they hurt. In the warming of the Spring sun After Winter’s 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 Huskies On the melting snows they lurch. Two months of slogging traplines Yield a thousand furs or more Carried by flat-bottomed riverboats To the Trader’s warehouse door. The town becomes a beehive By the final day of June

And home-brew flows like water To the fiddler’s squeaky tune. Long and square-nosed river boats To driven posts are tied. The winter’s wood of log booms Swirling lazily alongside. In the sun the gill nets dry Their loose-hung folds bereft Of the Whitefish and the Greyling Sliced by women’s hands so deft. Dried fish is winter’s food for dogs And Caribou’s for men. The bush planes land and Indians ask Where 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 gut Are held in high esteem. At the mouth of the Rat they beach their boats To hide in the brush and wait For 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 gives A snorting bellow clear. The herd scouts toss their heads to hear And cross without a fear.

When the scouts have swum to the farthest bank And headed out on their way The herd swarms down to follow And the hunters have their day. The crack of rifles fills the air The herd rushes blindly on ‘Till hundreds lie dead on the ground And the ammunition’s gone. High are piled the carcasses On rafts and floated down Guided by long sweep oars To the skinning knives of town The meat dries out to reddish black And hangs in each cabin’s cache A shield against starvation From winter’s 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 play For a stomach full of food And since all things from Nature come Why bother with thoughts imbued.

August 22, 1962 Kit’s first poem


Years ago, when I was a boy Daddy 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 fart And 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.


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 surprise Not for years did I know how wise.

He said he’d found us a “Silver Dart”. I listened to his story with a pounding heart, When into our yard, with it’s tailpipe draggin’, Came a wooden ’40 Ford called a Station Wagon. Dad put a trophy on the engine hood Re-painted her silver and varnished the wood. Beside the tire there on the back He screwed on a hand-carved wooden plaque And in letters the same as on my cart He’d carved the name “The Silver Dart”. When we took it to town or on the road Heads would turn and Dad’s face glowed I guess I know now what he was trying to say About 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!”



Freedom was a horse So my story goes And he lived on the Western Plains Racing like the wind With his Liberty Belles Feeding on oats and wild grains. Many a man Had tried to catch him, But he knew what they were up to. He’d climb up high in the mesas And the mountains And lose them in the morning dew. But one snowy day Old Duty had caught him After 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 saddle He couldn’t be thrown Freedom had to learn to obey His Spirit was broken And his memory kept longing For his belles and his liberty days His feet grew heavy From running loose cattle As Duty drove him on and on His mind grew numb And the days slipped by ‘Till a year had come and gone.

Then one still, bright Moonlit night As he listened to the Coyote yells He could smell, he could feel, He could hear in the night The sounds of his liberty belles. No rope could stay No hobble could hold Old Freedom’s fight to be free. He ripped and tore He 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 sky ‘Till he saw the old herd on a hill. He ran to meet them But a Stranger stepped out With 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 He’d be hitched to a plow If Duty ever got him back. They were both so weary When the sunrise dawned

They barely had the strength to bite The Stranger looked away And Freedom struck out To put a final end to the fight. So Freedom went back On his dust-worn track To wander with his Liberty Belles And Duty found another That looked like a brother Who could chase cattle just as well. Freedom had returned To the place he belonged Feeding on the open plains But 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.

Like a Bird, am I With wings of silver, Climbing through the clouds On gusty winds That whistle by in wonder. Swooping down From high above The earth’s green mantle Cares and worries left All scattered there asunder.

Noiseless…… Climbing up white corridors Of billowing, whispy, changing forms Whose 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 clouds And hide in their darkness From the heat of sun. And….. Looking up…. See all at once a brilliant ray Of sunlight streaming through Teasing me And calling me to run. Another day….. In timeless time….. I’ll chase that dancing light and find It shines from the eyes of every soul That’s filled with Love. But now I bid the clouds farewell And gliding gently down upon that ray Take with me joy and freedom Gained from clouds above.


Song Lyrics


Chains Of Freedom
The path leads downward into night Along the river of deep despair Strong feelings all surround me And no-one seems to care. I’m split in two And don’t know who Could’ve put me in such pain. My weariness amazes me There’s no way back home again.

Take these chains of Freedom And wrap them around my soul Send me down the darkened road Until I’ve paid the toll Let each link be A test to me Until I see my role Then raise me up from the darkness When I’ve gained control. I’m lost here in the forest I wander through the trees There is no path before me No lock that fits my keys I struggle with fears But no-one hears I fall down on my knees I’m tossed upon the waters Like a ship on stormy seas


I look out on the waters I 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 band Everything that I can see Is made by the same hand.
2nd version of chorus:

I pick up my chains of freedom And I carry them in my soul. I walk tall down the darkened road I know I’ve paid the toll Each link can be A strength to me Now that I see my role And I can lift myself from the darkness Now I’ve gained control.
This song was originally written for a Negro Choir with a very strong female lead. One of these days I‛ll find someone with enough musical training to write the sheet music for it.

There’s Always Another Dream
There’s always another dream Behind the one that died Always another dream As soon as tears have dried. Why can’t the dream …….just stay …..and play …….and keep me satisfied?


Who said that it must come and go, Like the flowing ocean tide? Why can’t I always love you Like the day I saw you first Why can’t I always want you With a never-ending thirst Why must the freshness of your fruit Become….. ……in time ……accursed. And dreams be merely bubbles They’re born; they fly; they burst. Unless I see with vision clear That tears give way to joy That night must yet give way to day As girl gives way to boy I have not strength to walk away My dreams become a ploy I lose my self in the fear of loss That devours all the joy. There’s always another dream Behind the one that died Always another dream As soon as tears have dried O, may my spirit soar on wings Of visions from inside And may my power pick me up And take the tears… …in stride.


What is this tear that’s falling here This deeply furrowed brow The hole in the whole The rejected soul The easily broken vow. They all must be Reconciled somehow. Yes, I think it’s time Long past the time Time men learned to cry What has she done, this gentle one To warrant such a spate Of burning words such wrath incurs From one who is her mate Can this be Love? Or is it really hate? Yes, I think it’s time Long past the time Time men learned to cry. I think it’s time men learned to cry Took anger from their eye And found instead words better bred That speak the reasons why Dispel the lie That bind the tie Yes, I think it’s time Long past the time Time men learned to cry. It’s time to bring the twain to naught Polarity the lesson taught Let only balls bounce off the walls And from them balance caught By effort wrought Respond with thought Yes, I think it’s time Long past the time Time men learned to cry.

An Aussie’s Lament
A Pub Song For Down Under When the cattle are bawlin’ ‘Till the sun goes down And there’s snakes in your bedroll On the ground If you wanta do somethin’ That’s really new Go to Wooloomooloo With a kangaroo Go to Wooloomooloo ……With a kangaroo! When the bull’s are all loaded For Butchertown And the skin on yer neck’s Been toasted brown. Get some beer and some gin And you know what to do Go to Wooloomooloo With a kangaroo Go to Wooloomooloo ……With a kangaroo! When the wool ‘s been baled And the sheep run out When your back is broke And you’re tuckered out If you’re startin’ to talk To your Cockatoo, Go to Wooloomooloo With a kangaroo Go to Wooloomooloo ……With a kangaroo!

If your mate got drunk And your boat got sunk If your dog went out And got sprayed by a skunk. Don’t bother to stick your old Head in the Loo, Go to Wooloomooloo With a kangaroo Go to Wooloomooloo ……With a kangaroo! When your wife’s gone south And you’re feelin’ blue When the kids ‘r too much And the dog is too, If you get to the point You don’t know what to do: Go to Wooloomooloo With a kangaroo Go to Wooloomooloo ……With a kangaroo! When your money’s gone And the chips ‘r down When your credit’s no good Anywhere in town If you’ve lost your job And you’re last in the queue Go to Wooloomooloo With a kangaroo Go to Wooloomooloo ……With a kangaroo! If your Rolls got smashed By the Adelaide train And your Club dues doubled To the point of pain You Gentlemen and

You Ladies too Go to Wooloomooloo With a kangaroo Go to Wooloomooloo ……With a kangaroo! When the only road left Is suicide And you’re takin’ a run At a second Bride You don’t have to go To a church’s pew. Go to Wooloomooloo With a kangaroo Go to Wooloomooloo ……With a kangaroo! When your kids all have Pink, red, and purple hair And there’s tattoos and Ear-rings everywhere If it feels like you’re lost In the Sydney Zoo Go to Wooloomooloo With a kangaroo Go to Wooloomooloo ……With a kangaroo! When your Lorry is stuck In the monsoon rain And the Brumbies’ve torn up Your fences again If you’re sick of feedin’ On wild Emu Go to Wooloomooloo With a kangaroo Go to Wooloomooloo ……With a kangaroo!

When your helpers have all Gone on walkabout And the well’s gone dry And the mill worn out If your donkey is startin’ To look good to you Go to Wooloomooloo With a kangaroo Go to Wooloomooloo ……With a kangaroo!

Oh, I ride in the night sky From midnight ‘till dawn From Boston to Gander I wend my way on Out over the ocean With the whitecaps below And we’re headed out for London In the Jetstream we go. It’s so still and quiet In the front end of that bird; The whistle of the wind Is the only sound that’s heard. The panel lights all glow With a dim light of red, And a word or two covers All that needs to be said. Hour after hour, When the time goes by too slow


I find my mind is thinking About matters down below, But when the curving earthline Stands out in the pre-dawn light There’s nothing quite so moving As the beauty of that sight. The sky is crystal clear And the starlight twinkles dim As the deep red ball of sunlight Slowly climbs above the rim. The white clouds of England Below us are spread As the world starts to waken And climb out of bed. Down through the clouds Into Heathrow and rain Back to the real world Of trials and pain. It’s the hours I live for, But the moments I love. I ride my restless soul It has wings,,,, Like a Dove. Author‛s Commentary on Page 123.

Forty years or more ago When I was only ten, A year looked like forever And the world was huge back then. I looked long out my window And daydreamed constantly


Wondering just who I was And what I ought to be. (Chorus: variation 1.) I’ve got this strange new feeling Like Freedom’s on my side. No kids to feed No books to read No words can hurt my pride. So long I’ve been so earthbound It’s time I learned to fly I’ve got this strange new feeling I’ve got freedom on my side. Thirty years or so ago I battled with my pride. I had to be “successful” Just to keep it satisfied. I found a girl and built a house To launch my rainbow quest With kids and cars and mortgages and nothing but the best. (Chorus: variation 2.) I’ve got this strange new feeling Like Freedom’s on my side No rent to pay No Boss to say “Your raise has been denied”. So long I’ve been so earthbound It’s time I learned to fly I’ve got this strange new feeling I’ve got freedom on my side.

Twenty years or so ago I looked for answers to Questions that had plagued mankind And left them with no clue Who’d made the board and who the rules

This subtle game of chess. I had to know who’d left us here In what seemed, at first, a mess! (Chorus: variation 3.) I’ve got this strange new feeling Like Freedom’s on my side No “things” to lose No Gods to choose Which path I have to stride So long I’ve been so earthbound It’s time I learned to fly I’ve got this strange new feeling I’ve got Freedom on my side. Just a few short years ago I said, “To Hell with this”! Too much to seek Too much to think I’m lost in “mind’s” abyss. I dropped it all and there I stood On fallow, hallowed ground. Where once I had been lost, I now Considered myself “found”. (Chorus: variation 4.) I’ve got this strange new feeling Like Freedom’s on my side The game is won The story’s done My little self has died. So long I’ve been so earthbound It’s time I learned to fly I’ve got this strange new feeling I’ve got Freedom on my side.


The Willow Tree
There’s a Willow tree That grows at my back door, Straight and true Like a wood statue Through the hardships that it bore. Its branches hanging to the ground; Its reach up to the sky. It stands for everything I am, And still I wonder why: Through drought and rain and hrrricane, It never seems to die. My Father said he planted it When he first came on the land. Cut a switch from a roadside ditch And planted it by hand. Every trip from the water well, He poured on a dipper or two. When the switch took root And sent out a shoot Dad’s efforts had their due. Little did he know a strong bond would grow And in his heart accrue. I came to know the Willow’s voice The first year I was born. That Willow tree watched over me And soothed me when I’d mourn. Outside my open window, Sighing softly in the breeze, Sang me gently off to sleep And put my heart at ease. Thus began my love affair With the Soul of Willow trees.

All the birds did love the tree For the shelter that it bore; The wildfowl and the HootOwl Looking down at my back door. When the terrible cry of the Of the Hawk swooped by, The little birds all hid Amongst its thousand branches Which became a sheltering lid. And the same for nests built out of reach Like the Ravens always did. Once again the tree Did speak to me The day my Father died. It wept its branches to the ground And in the wind it sighed. As though entranced Its branches danced As I watched from his bedside. It said to me “Your Father’s free He’s crossed the river wide. And when you wonder what Life’s worth Remember evermore The Willow tree That grows at your back door”.



Hello California
I been sittin’ in the back woods Watchin’ Ravens in the rain Talkin’ to myself so much I think I’m gonna go insane I miss them desert winds I miss them pints o’ pink champagne And it’s , Oh, California, baby I’m a’comin’ back again. Got me a job in L. A. city Workin’ for a big food chain Packin’ food in plastic bags An’ wrappin’ ‘em in cellophane Can’t believe where they get the Krak And some’s even got cocaine Seems like I’m in California, Baby Like I’m back here once again. My Buddy’s in Afghanistan On a terrorist campaign If what he has to do is tough I’m not hearin’ him complain I’d sure like to see him back At his home in Burlingame And it’d be, Oh, California, Baby I’m home safe once again.. Now I’m stuck in the freeway traffic Can’t even change my lane So much competition I think I’m gonna burn out my little brain Can’t get outa this hole I’m in My efforts are all in vain And it’s Goodbye, California, Baby I’m goin’ back home again!


Think I’ll Go To Frisco

I tell you it’s not easy Living every day You keep your mind from thinking That there’s never time to play I think the time is coming I think it’s here today I think I’ll go to Frisco And I’ll stay.

Chorus: I think I’ll go to Frisco in the morning I’m feeling still her foggy, windy days Remembering the good times We had beside the Bay I think I’ll go to Frisco Yes, I think I’ll go to Frisco And I’ll stay.

Standing at my window Winter winds are strong Heart is feeling heavy Like I’ve been here much too long I’m running out of things to do And out of things to say I think I’ll go to Frisco And I’ll stay.



Maybe there’s a girl there Who’s restless just like me From Reno on the desert Or L.A. by the sea Looking for a long-time friend Whose spirit needs to play I think I’ll go to Frisco And I’ll stay. (Chorus) Everything I see is on A California quest Cars, and trucks, and airplanes All headed toward the west I want to stop and ask them If they’ll take me on my way ‘Cause I’m headed out for Frisco Where I’ll stay (Chorus)


Next Of Kin
(Light Rock) Listen to me Daddy And you’ll have to agree There isn’t much difference Between you and me We try on things That we’d like to be It’s just a simple matter Of what we see Take a look at us….(chorus)

Chorus: Here we are We’re the next of kin We got hashish You got Gin We got Karma, Baby, You got Sin What’s all the fuss About the state we’re in!

Look at us and at The clothes we wear Look at us and at Our length of hair You think what you see Is that we just don’t care But it’s just different things Of which we’re aware Take a look at us…(chorus)

You had a son I’ll have one too He’ll prob’ly do to me What I’m doin’ to you It may look on the surface Like everything’s new But I can see it from A higher point of view Take a look at us…..(chorus)



Me Old Scalara Hat
Irish Ditty Now, Pat me boy, he brags about The hat his Father wore A hundred years or more ago In the merry days of yore. No doubt it was a fine carbeen Now let me tell you that None ever could hold a candle to Me Old Scalara Hat.

Chorus: Oh, t’was worren by me Father At the patterins and the fairs Where all the boys and the pretty girls Were sure to be all there. Though built a hundred years ago T’was little the worse for wear Still a regular Lady’s dazzler is Me old Scalara Hat

The brim was small, the crown was tall The band was gay and yellow Velour it t’was, and shamrock green, For naught but a stylish fella. Now rain or shine regardeless In any kind of weather The finishin’ touch that made the hat Was the long and jaunty feather.


I wore it up to London town The buildin’s for to see Sure everybody turned around And they stopped to stare at me. Their manners were atrocious But I gave nae thought to that For I knew none of them had ever seen An old Scalara Hat. (Chorus) Now, I met the King of England Just a week ago today He shook me warmly by the hand And he asked me home to tay (tea) “Now, Pat, me boy,” He says to me “You’re lookin’ so fine and fat.” Sure an’ all the while He kept starin’ at Me old Scalara Hat. (Chorus) As I strolled up to Buckin’am The Palace for to see Sure all the toffs from Golden Lane Kept shoutin’ after me “There goes the Duke of Chelsboro, And him an aristocrat!” For none of the boys did know me in Me Old Scalara Hat



The fates decreed, as now I know Me pride must come a cropper I curse the tiny Leprechaun I left to guard me topper. May the ghosts of Eire haunt him, Oh! That mischievous little brat! For lettin’ such an end befall Me Old Scalara Hat. (Chorus) While lollin’ in the creek one day Me hat hung on a bough Some huntin’ son-of-a-Satan spied Me gorgeous green chapeau Both barrels banged, the echo was Me lusty Irish Blat ‘Cause the addle-pated fowler Had massacreed me Hat!


Origin unknown; George H. Cain to Victor R. Cain to C.C.Cain with added verses by Victor Cain



Dancin’ In The Street

I’m a long-gone Momma from the top o’ the hill I been in this place too long. My house’s too big and still too small Gotta sing me a brand new song. Been everywhere; done everything; Still can’t find what’s wrong I’m just a long-gone Momma Stuck in a cage with a monkey named King Kong Chorus: I’m a long-gone Momma; ain’t got no home This freedom can’t be beat. I’m a long-gone Momma, and I’m all alone I feel the music in my feet And I’m a dancin’ fool….. …..Just dancin’ …..dancin’ in the street

I don’t care what street you’re on It’s just a house to me, And I don’t care how much you make Your money ain’t for free. There’s got to be some better place This side of eternity. And I’m a long-gone Momma Lookin’ for a long-gone better place to be. (repeat chorus)


I ain’t got no chain mail plate To cover up my soul. I can’t hide my own contempt At tryin’ to play your role. You may think I’m crazy, But I’m sick o’ bein’ tol’ (told) Now I’m a long-gone Momma Streakin’ outa’ here like a Tomcat on a roll. (instrumental verse and chorus) Everybody stops to stare They wonder what I’m on. They can’t imagine how good it feels To know that you’re just gone. Your palace is just prison walls And you’re still just a pawn. I’m just a long-gone Momma Shuffle-foot dancin’ in the fiery light of dawn. (chorus)

There’s not a lot of beauty to the human race But it stopped my world When I saw your face. Eyes so soft And a smile so sweet You looked like an Angel From your head to your feet I wanted my kids To look like you Everything was perfect When our love was new.


Chorus: You live your dream I’ll live mine We’re riding in a bubble On the winds of time. We’ll look for each other In the other one’s eyes Let’s fall in love Two fools on the run In a new sunrise. Well, the water grew muddy As the seasons changed Things began to happen That we hadn’t arranged. With kids and jobs We had to work all day And there never seemed to be Any time to play. I looked outside for a newer rose Instead of inside Where the real love grows. (Chorus) Now you think I’m not the man That you thought I’d be. It seems the bubble has burst But we still have to see What the roots look like That hold the tree. Is love a little tickle On the ribs of time Or a ladder that the two of us Have to climb. (Chorus)

Without You
I think about the summer grasses Blowing in the breeze And in my mind the waves roll in To the sound of booming seas Somehow the bitter wind of life Has blown you on your way And left me here to sing my song while the wind goes on to play. Chorus: All my daytimes are cloudy and grey I can’t wait for the long night to be through And look for the sunshine to brighten up my day For it’s cold in the morning without you Yes, it’s cold in the morning …..without you. What hand of fate has left me here to face the world alone The days go by and I wish that I could call you on the phone. But your memory is all I have and that’s too far away. I wish that I had loved you more with the fullness of each day. (Chorus) I remember seasons with you standing by my side I recall the reasons why I mention you with pride Even in your winter mind, the clouds were bright and gay And the laughter in your loving eyes Would chase my fears away. (Chorus)


The Rhyme In Time
There’s music from the birds in the trees There’s music in a soft ocean breeze There’s a song at the core Of an engine’s throaty roar And they all have their own melodies. Chorus: Oh, sing a little song and dance along It’s energy well spent Even though it might look wrong And it doesn’t pay the rent. There’s a twinkle in the eye Looks can’t belie That comes of good intent And the very best thing that life can bring May never make a cent! And the music just pours out of me Runs out like a river to the sea Don’t know where it comes from Or where it goes when it’s done But it’s all I could ever want to be. I feel music in my sweat and in my tears I feel music deep beneath all my fears It’s a ways beyond my mind In a spot that’s hard to find But it’s nearer to my heart than to my ears. There’s music in the feel of being free There’s music from the child inside me Put a rhythm to the time Of a song with words that rhyme And it makes me sing and dance on endlessly. (Chorus)

There’s music in the words of poetry There’s rhythm in a meter of just three And the measure done in four ‘s been around since days of yore As a symbol of the Spirit’s inner glee. (Chorus)

Chorus: Oh, what do I say To the wind when she blows Down the Moor To the seashore And on where she goes With a song In the long Braid of hair that she wore “Won’t you reach out and touch me The Wind bell once more?” Oh, child of the morning Oh child of the Light Your spirit is joyful and free. As life is a-borning It’s filled with delight Come help me to be what you see. And take me away on the wings of your mind For my days are all hurried and blind. I’ll tear down the walls and let be what I find. And then… ….Maybe then… I’ll be Me.

(chorus) Oh Rachel, Oh Rachel You’re surely the Angel of Love. Hear the story I tell About feeling some things That you don’t find in Heaven above. Give your heart to the children of Earth And you’ll see That they’ll still let you go and be free. Far better than me You’re not tied to a tree And you don’t need the wind To give Love
Written in 1978 for the screenplay:Song Of The Wind Bell, also by C. Cain

I remember when I was a boy and asleep in the night I awoke with a start. I knew there was something amiss From the pound of my heart. The wind it did whistle and blew through the trees Like to tore that old farmhouse apart. Came the sound back again and I knew It was Grandmother's heart. I crept in to see Grandma kneel by her bed In the lonely night’s anguish and pain Asking God as she had every day For her health back again.

Then the wind it did die; it grew suddenly still; Came a light muffled knock at the door. Not a soul heard a thing except me, And I froze on the floor Not a step did hear, yet he stood at my side In his suit of white linen and light. His lips never moved, yet I heard every word In the night. I tried to ask, "Who. . .?” But the answer came through In the moment before I could talk. "I'm the Midnight Physician just out For a late evening walk" He said, “Up on your feet! Go and comfort your Grandmere, There's nothing to fear my young Pal. Lay your hand on her shoulder and say: “Be Ye Well” …..And she shall! With the faith of a child, I believed what he said As I walked I rehearsed what I'd tell. Put my hand on her shoulder and said. . . very loud. . . Be Ye Well! Good God she leaped up in a fright and she swore That her heart would jump out of. her skin! A far cry was that from the terrible shape She’d been in! I glanced out in the hall at the Midnight Physician And laughter poured out of his soul_. He waved a Good-.bye, and walked silently out In the cold. “ Now, Young Man,” said Grandma “You’ll have to be careful… …My Goodness…

My heart is all well! It’s like something has happened And you’ve just scared me out of that spell!” "But Grandma," I said, "It's the Midnight Physician. I saw him myself in the hall! The wind even died when he knocked on the door For the call.” But the wind it was howling and blew through the night As she leaned down to kiss me and said, "Thank you, Dear, for your help. Now, you run along Back to your bed.” So. . . . confused I went back to my room and I saw In the window pane blowing white hair And he smiled as he spoke with that voice That I'd know anywhere. "Remember, My Son, that I'm always beside you When the sick and the troubled need care. Just ask for my presence, and know, That I'll always be there." Say a kind word or two, then look deep in their eyes. Let your spirit grow quiet and still. Take their hand in your hand and then say, "Be Ye Well” . . . . . and they will!

I wrote this song for daughter Bambi, age 9, in memory of my friend and Herbology teacher, John Ray Christopher, who spent many weekends at our home in Santa Rosa, California, teaching us and twenty of our New Age friends how to use herbs.


I was strong and my Daddy was too, Momma gave me a mind That could think things through. I was sent off to school Where they made me a fool. The things I was taught Weren’t the learning I sought. A troubled mind Was all I caught And no-one seemed to have An answer for me there. Lonely, I would cry in the night. Didn’t do any good I had to give up or fight, So I prayed in the dark By myself in the Park I’ll have to leave it to You To tell me what I should do. You’re the only One Who can lead me through And I know You’ve always Done more than Your share. Mirror image of me on the wall Can you tell me who, Caused the feeble mind of man to fall, Was it really you? Or did the figure standing there so tall Forget just what to do; Was I waiting for a voice to call Not knowing what was true? Now I see in the shadow A dim reflection shining through. It was there for a moment… ….gone again! He took the real me with him, too!

And then I knew I had to be free Wholly unsatisfied with what I knew to be me. Started looking around for a reason to be Got lost in the fight To find out what’s right The answer I sought for Was hidden inside somewhere. I’m a puppet hanging from the strings of love Can’t see all the things That I’m really made of. I am what I am Don’t need a reason to be. I’m a dream being dreamed That just wants to be free A bundle of atoms of pure energy Compelled by the image that seems to come From nowhere. I’m made of the good And I’m made of the bad. Some days are happy And some days are sad. I get what I settle for Don’t get anything more. The house my mind sees Is infested with fleas. Part of every event Is designed to displease. Yet something lovely there is That comes of this crazy affair.



(Pronounced Cheema)

Good-Bye old girl, you’ve been a good friend. I’m saying so-long ‘till I don’t know when. We wandered through those fields of corn And watched you grow from the day you were born Hello up there, Mister Spirit Man Please take her kindly by the hand And bring her around again If that’s the plan. I’ll miss your bark in the evening night And think about your tail-wagging smile so bright. So wriggling happy to see me home And a long, sad face when I left you alone. I feel you right here by my side. Jump in the truck and we’ll take a ride. I know that river can’t be so very wide.

Many times sitting by the fire so bright I’d wish I was you on a cold winter’s night. Not a single worry for the following day No food to buy, no bills to pay. Look up at me looking down at you One eye brown and the other one blue I bet you even know what I’m thinking too. Chasing after horses was your kind of play Running them in for their evening hay. Seeing you lying there warm in the sun Getting old shouldn’t happen to anyone. I’ll call to the bugler up in the sky To bring you around for another try. Maybe some day we’ll all know the reason why. Maybe some day we’ll all know the reason why.


Esoteric, Spiritual and Mystical


What Is The Sound Of Freedom?
Walk the high road, listening. Ride the wind laughing. Feel the river rise up in you And flow from where you know not Into the endless future nows Which you can only imagine And which only you can imagine. Speak not of things too great for mankind’s mind Lest your light be extinguished By overpowering darkness. For only against the backdrop of rejection Can Soul find itself once again found. It is out of this slough of despond, The failures of human endeavor, The pain of poor judgement …..and naivete….. That the Soul emerges After countless lifetimes With its imagination intact and alive, Its naivete and inner peace unperturbable Its joyful expressions unquenchable Its mind, emotions, and body Under full control. Such things are hidden From the sight of ordinary men, But for the radiant countenance, The body in perfect balance, The instinctively chosen stance Of the wise and un-involved observer, And the frequent sound of loud, deep. free, …..laughter.


The Whole-I
The traveler asked me: “Who are you?” And I answered: “There is a part of me I know not; And there is a part of me I know well. The part of me that I know not is a part of you and a part of all things. The part of me that I know well is Christopher Carroll Cain. Christopher for the light that I bear and seek; Cain for the spirit of my brother which weighs heavily in my heart. and Carroll because I sing with a joyful voice.” Then he asked me: “How is it that you can see so far?” And I answered “It is because I am standing on the broad and strong shoulders of my Father; Looking out with the eyes Of my Mother’s gentle heart.”

When The Heart
When the heart laughs At what it has lost And the Soul weeps For what it has found. What Flows Are the Tears Of Power



So Much For God Realization
It only lasts for a little while And the curtain always falls On the moment of the truth revealed To the denizen of prison's walls, So dense the mind… So slow the Soul… To respond to Spirit's calls. How frail the tenuous hold on life As the Life Force is withdrawn. How dark the night as the trembling Soul Awaits elusive dawn and… Pleading… Answers to itself within "Oh, yes… I'm here… Did you think that I had gone?"

The View From The Source
You have powers which I give you As a demonstration of My Power. You have wisdom only in so far As I create it within you. You have Freedom Only as you become more like Me. And you become more like Me Only as I create you to be so. Any realization short of this is separation ….But it is still Me. Do not attempt to understand all the why’s And the wherefors of what I do. Remember……Forever—or even tomorrow— Is too long to be doing the same thing.



Departure From Gate 14
And when that day of final departure from all the worlds of Duality inevitably arrives, I will rise up like the early-morning mist from a perfectly still and mirror-like lake, To vanish into the no-thingness of That which formed my separation from IT In the dim beginnings of what a small part of me measures As Time and Space. All individuality will meld into a synergy of wholeness and completeness From which never again will I feel my “self” to be some “where”….. or some “thing”….. else. And I will rest eternally in the arms of That which gives me form, purpose, ideal, function, and existence Just as a drop of rain disappears into the ocean From which it originally came. I commend this understanding And the search for it To all those who seek the knowledge of themselves And the love which seems always to be Some-“where”…..or in some-“thing”….. else. For all narcissism and vanity Are but the magnification of separation. Both disappear when the awareness of unity arrives In the final stages of life’s journey through Planet Earth And all the countless other Worlds of Duality. There is no greater knowledge And no other knowledge worthy of pursuit save this: That you are It And It is you As is everything that has form, thought, or existence. And it is this final knowledge which is The Father and Mother of all knowledge that Soul seeks through male and female form


This alone is life And the only death is transformation From limited thought To unlimited knowledge. For the SOURCE The Totality of All Awareness Is All That Is All that ever was And all that ever will be.


I see no-thing I hear no-thing I feel no-thing I think no-thing I desire no-thing I seek no-thing I surrender to no-thing I know no-thing I become no-thing I am… Every-thing!


MY first great commandment is that you should come to know yourself…. and Love what you are. MY second great commandment is that you should come to love another, but neither more nor less than you love yourself. MY third great commandment is that you should love all that you think, and see, and do, but learn to love EVERYTHING More than you love yourself. In living these commandments You shall come to know ME….. and what I AM. Then shall you know that I am The TOTALITY OF ALL AWARENESS, and that I am EVERYTHING… and NOTHING. And that …… is all there is to know!

The Riddle Of Synergy
This is the riddle of SYNERGY: I am you, and you are me. Together we are THREE ! Now who can this one extra be? And how many ones do you find….. …..in this THREE?



The Voice In The Wind
There is a voice in the wind….. A song in the cry of the Loon; A rhythm in the roar of the sea… Which speaks to us all…. And says: “I am simply the Totality of all Being feeling Myself sing, feeling Myself cry, feeling Myself run with wings beneath the sun; feeling Myself be the Dance of Life…. That’s Me! Amounting to Nothing, which is all there is, all I can be, all I can want, all I can see.” “I am the song singing Myself into being; the canvas whose picture forms with time: erased, painted over, slaved over, put away in despair for another day. I am the child who cries in the night from fear, reaching up ….. ever up….. for the touch so dear.”

“I am the Mother, and the Father too, who spreads wings over all who cry out in weakness and frailty before this dragon called Life.” “It is I whose fearful eye sees through the darkest night, tearing flesh from bone, ruthlessly revealing the folly, the greed, the vanity, with unleashed, unbridled POWER: that unknown face of love you feel in the chaotic order and power of the mountain or ocean storm.” “I am the wind from the Eagle’s wings which protects the other face of Love: the gentle one of mercy, of passive forgiveness and nurturing. And so…. Who am I? Here today, gone tomorrow, Like wind and storm followed by the calm and warmth of sun.”

“I am all things and yet I am also Nothing. Nothing great, Nothing small. I am everything the mind sees, everything the eye beholds, everything the ear hears.”

“You Breathe me, You smell me You see me, You feel me. Your thoughts are my thoughts. Your dreams are my dreams As I dream you into being. You reach out and touch me every day. And still ... you ... know ... Me ... not!” “You hear Me speak to you in the wind, in the roar of engines, in the cry of your child, in the voices of power and the voices of weakness.” “When you hear laughter and you wonder what it is, you hear Me. I am in the sounds….. and in the silence between the sounds.” “How great can I be unless I am also the weakest …..the ugliest …..the most degraded, downtrodden, filthy, and ignorant.”

“I am the Wind I am the Sea I am You…. ….and You …are ME”


Author’s Commentaries


Comments About A Commentary
I‛ve never owned a book of poetry. In fact I‛ve hardly ever picked one up and read it! Those I have read in an effort to find something poetic that I could like have always left me wondering what the Poet was really thinking. I found myself asking, “What does he or she really mean by that statement?” or “Why use that particular frame of reference?” or “I wonder what the story is behind this poem”. I keep thinking that if I knew I might have a better frame of reference, understanding, or appreciation… be more involved in the poem along with the poet. Well … I‛m sure there‛s going to be more than a few people asking the same questions of my poetry—if anyone reads the book in the first place. Keep in mind that I assembled all my poetic and prosaic writings primarily because I really enjoy reading them and re-reading them myself, and I guess that‛s what other poets have done as well. I can hope that someone else might derive some pleasure out of reading them, but it‛s not really important to me. If it were, they would never be written because there‛s nothing in the world I hate more than rejection! The great thing about poetry is that it says a whole lot in very few words, and really great poetry you can actually feel emotionally. Coming from two generations of educators and teachers, I have this terrible inbred impulse that I have to constantly keep in check and that is the tendency to talk too much, and to instruct rather than tell a story. So .. this section is my acquiescence to what I am. You don‛t have to read it … in fact you‛re probably better off if you don‛t read it too carefully … or at all. The next-to-last one is The Captain. It is very wordy, but I felt there was no other way to describe the hidden meanings in this and my other poems. A poem should have the ability to stand on its own two feet, but a few more words can often bring it closer to home … or even put a few new words on your mirror!


Author‛s Commentary The ancient Greeks had some tremendous insights into Human nature which they epitomized in their mythology, not the least of which was their representation of Pegasus, the horse with wings. The horse symbolizes great power; the wings symbolize lofty perspectives, and indeed that is what Pegasus always represented when it appeared on the scene. Entrusted by Zeus, ruler of all the Olympian Gods, to bring Him his lightning rods and thunderbolts, the implication is that Pegasus represents the lofty perspectives and poetic insights that wings of flight above and beyond the mundane can produce … insights and perspectives which are a major portion of the power of all Gods. To me, Pegasus represents the Soul Of Man and the capacity for Man to use the Powers Of Soul, both male and female, to reach up into the next realm and beyond. The “Powers Of Soul”, of course, are the powers of the highly-experienced soul to “see the end from the beginning”, to have a poetic overview of the process of life on Planet Earth, and, probably, to be almost finished with Earth schooling. Pegasus, then, symbolizes the Poet‛s Wings Of Power. One might easily ask how “light doth banish pride” and I use it here in the following context. From my own personal perspective, light represents more than just the visible light spectrum. I‛ve had to expand my definition to include the entire spectrum of vibrational energy of which the visible portion is only a very small part. Perhaps the only variation to this broad an application of the word “light” might arise were one to attribute portions of the vibrational spectrum to “sound”. It may in fact be that light is actually formed by non-audible sound, but these things are only possibilities to me and require greater knowledge than I have at present. They also require a universally agreed upon definition as to the detailed meaning of the words “light” and “sound”. There is also a sort of intuitive impulse somewhere inside me that suggests the Sun is a sort of “information transformer” or “database processor” whose heat is a by-product of a gargantuan amount of data being processed, just as in a computer processor whose heat-sink will testify to the heat generating capabilities of data being processed.

An “enlightened” being is to me someone who sees creation and everything in it from a very lofty, expanded perspective … a perspective that has little to do with the “perfection” of the self. It is rather the capacity to see the whole of creation as perfect in its expression from moment to moment. It is the Poet‛s prerogative to use his own perspectives as his spirit directs him, thus my statement that light doth banish pride is a statement that Pride, Ego and Vanity, being essentially of the same ilk, begin to crumble in the pure light of discovery of who we are, where we come from, and where we go…and that information may well emanate from the Sun as an intermediary transformer of the imaginings of the Source of all creation Itself.

Wings Like A Dove
Author‛s Commentary I originally wrote this piece as a song, but it‛s one of the few pieces of my own poetry that I like equally as well as spoken verse or sung with musical accompaniment. The original concept formed itself as a result of my first ride in a commercial jet, a Boeing 707, in 1963. I had taken a flight from San Francisco to Dallas to pick up a new Bell Helicopter I had bought and leased through a leasing company that another fellow and I started at Lake Tahoe. It took something like three or four hours of flight time to get to Dallas in the commercial jet, and twenty-nine hours of flight time to fly the helicopter back from Texas following the main highways and re-fueling periodically at local airports. I was so impressed with flight in this entirely new mode of commercial jetpowered transportation (the Boeing 707) that I asked to spend some time with the pilot in the cockpit. Since I was an ex-Marine pilot, he agreed and I sat up front for most of the flight to Dallas. I had taken a late night flight so as to arrive in Dallas very early in the morning, so it was the early morning sunrise in a clear sky seen from 35,000 feet up that made the lasting impression and motivated the poem.

I then had a similar experience three years later on my way to East Africa by way of London, England. The first leg of the flight being a long one from Halifax to Heathrow Airport in England, I spent some time in the cockpit with the pilot and co-pilot and again watched the sunrise over the clouds of Europe, descending from the clear skies above through a thick cloud cover into the overcast and rain of England. The poem is reminiscent of those two flights.

Author‛s Commentary It is not very often I allow myself negative emotional outbursts, but I thought this particular outburst should not be left on the cutting room floor for a number of reasons. First off, I find it interesting that my reaction to 9/11 was not an expression of outrage toward Osama Bin Laden and his crew of fanatics, but rather toward a whole scenario I felt was far too out of balance to continue on unchecked within this ‘Land Of Plenty” of ours. One of the primary game rules in this realm seems to me to be what I call the “Doctrine Of Individual Responsibility”. What it essentially instructs is the value of looking first in the mirror if one has a problem, and making certain that any problem is first solved by personal alteration of habits and reactions before screaming in outrage at anything handy outside the self. Being American as well as Canadian, I have two mirrirs I am required to look into. A problem always has at least two viewpoints, and more often than not, it is difficult enough to change one viewpoint, but impossible to change the other. As one wise sage put it: “If you have a problem, you ARE the problem”. What he was saying is, essentially, that altering your own point of view—or your attachment to the situation or outcome—may be the only option available. It may also be the easiest and the best. It doesn‛t appear to me that 9/11 was as much of a humbling and introspectionprovoking event as was intended by powers well above and beyond the hands


of the perpetrators. Are we really going to rebuild the two towers? Wouldn‛t it be far better to build a park as a memorial to a part of American History best left in rubble anyway. I mean, just exactly what part of America are these towers a monument to? The American Ego…or pride….or wealth? Certainly nothing esthetically pleasing! Certainly nothing that comes from the soul. Certainly nothing “safe” as a working environment. Certainly nothing “secure” as would be the case if records and important people and data were spread out in more secure areas. After all, Nature is as much of a threat as people. Has anyone not thought of that? Take a look at the latest Indian Ocean sub-sea earthquake and realize that most of Manhattan is only a few feet above sea level. Wherein does the balance lie? How high is high enough? Americans as a people are as kind and generous as any people of the earth, but New York is more like a cancerous growth on an otherwise healthy body. It‛s time for some changes and 9/11 was just the initial warning. It would be well to remember the age-old prophecy: “Pride goeth before a fall”. We‛ve seen the pride ... and had the fall. Must we do it to ourselves again?

The Redemption Of Cain
Author‛s Commentary Cain, in the Old Testament (Genesis 4:1-16), was the elder son of Adam and Eve and the brother of Abel. When Abel's sacrificial offering was accepted in preference to his own, Cain slew Abel and became the first murderer. Cain was cursed and condemned to a life of wandering. A divine mark was placed upon him lest anyone meeting him should slay him. Sevenfold vengeance was to be visited upon anyone who disregarded the mark and killed Cain. For his wicked deed he is recalled in the New Testament (see 1 John 3:12; Jude 11). The story is interpreted by historians and biblical scholars as a symbolic account of an ancient nomadic tribe named Cain; of its distinguishing tattoo mark; and of its reputation for ferocious vengeance against other tribes who

slew members of the tribe of Cain. The name Cain has become synonymous with murderer; the mark that was affixed to Cain has become known as the mark or brand of Cain and is used figuratively to denote a murderer. Abel, in the Old Testament Book of Genesis, the second son of Adam and Eve and the brother of Cain. Abel was a shepherd, and his older brother, Cain, cultivated the land. Both brothers made an offering to God: Abel offered the firstborn of his flock, and Cain gave the first fruits of his harvest. When Cain's offering was rejected, he became jealous and killed his brother, Abel (see Genesis 4:2-16). This famous story about fratricide is thought by many theologians to illustrate early nomadic tribal beliefs that filtered down through time into religious thought. Animal herding, the principal occupation of many nomads, was considered more pleasing to their gods than agriculture; hence, Abel's sacrifice was accepted, but Cain's was not (see Hebrews 11:4, 12:24). AN ADDENDUM AND OPINION By C. Cain What I have done in this poem is dramatize a depiction of what I consider to be a very old myth … and this is not to play down the value of mythology at all because myth must have at least a small basis in fact and reality . Were reality not a proper test for mythology, it would easily be confused with a Fairy Tale or figment of the imagination with no correlation to reality except in a most indirect way. The problem with Mythology is the same as the problem with Reality: we tend to be sucked in completely and are unable to see either with a proper perspective … a perspective which is both serious and at the same time not so serious. From far enough above, it even seems to be humorous! Please don‛t take me too seriously here. I‛m just playing with mythology because my own last name seems inextricably intertwined with it. CAIN … a four-letter word with a very bad start! Cain may have chosen to be a farmer because he perhaps did not like killing animals, or he may have not liked the constantly changing face of Nomadic life. For these reasons he was viewed as a rebel in the eyes of the Nomadic tribe. Since his own brother acquiesced to the opinions of the tribe and would not stand behind him, Cain‛s frustrations and disappointment with those he

loved became too great for him, and one day, in a heated argument, his rage overcame him and Abel fell by the powerful arms and hands of the tiller of the soil. Abel died a more rapid death than the slow, psychological death he and the tribe were perpetrating on Cain. One death was acceptable, the other not. Cain was condemned to the life of the wanderer. He had rejected the tribe, so the tribe rejected him and banished him from their midst. Though Cain, being a farmer, did not have to be a wanderer, what probably made him wander were two of the more powerful of all human motivations: rejection and guilt. Without his tribe, which was tantamount to being his family, he had lost his identity. His wandering became a sub-conscious search for a replacement for what he had lost…… or perhaps he had never received love and affirmation enough from his parents, family, and tribe in the first place. The “Mark of Cain” may not have been a tattoo at all. It may well have been a mark of great beauty or great ugliness…… one being as great a burden as the other. If Cain killed his brother out of jealousy, he may well have been jealous of Abel‛s beauty, or disdainful of his own crooked and ugly form, or both. In any case, and whatever the cause, Cain‛s only recourse became the final recourse of all souls in human form: the discovery of the true self and the Source from which all life and Creation flows. The murderer has no recourse but to turn the sword of discovery on the unknown and previously unexamined self within……to first annihilate his own ego through disciplined and persevering behavioral changes in studied response to the myriad experiences which life produces in its own miraculous, un-noticed way. Cain‛s soul then, like the legendary Phoenix, constructs a new and balanced ego from the ashes of the thousand bodily forms in which it has been imprisoned on its wandering journey through space and time. The real truth about the myth ……is the way we choose to see it!


The Captain
AUTHOR‛S COMMENTARY I‛ve added this rather lengthy commentary to the poem for several purposes: 1. It demonstrates the dramatic difference between the words, images, and feelings of poetry versus the many (perhaps too many) words of prose necessary to convey the several levels of consciousness to which poetry speaks by its very nature. 2. If the words of this poem do not speak adequately of where I personally am coming from, a more lengthy dissertation might help. There is such a jump in consciousness between the mundane, every-day level at which we normally function, and that required to fully understand the captains of square-rigged sailing ships and their relationships with the unknown forces of nature, that to attempt to comprehend it all in a single reading is too much…… even for me. The commentary, if it interests you at all, is best taken a little at a time and contemplated carefully. There is something about the sea which symbolizes all the changeable and uncertain things in life …..as opposed to the land which is firm, and, in most cases, consistently immovable to the short span of daily human observation. The quickly and quite often violently-changeable nature of the sea poses quite a challenge to every aspect of human form: the physical, the emotional, the mental, and – if there is the developed capacity – the spiritual. To have been a sea Captain in the era of the square-rigged sailing ships was to have the “response-ability” for, and the command of, not only a ship, but other souls…..and all in the face of what, in those times, were vastly unknown and unpredictable circumstances. The captains of these vessels were a breed of men apart. The best of them were capable of choosing their crews with discrimination and holding them with strong bonds of loyalty and respect. At the same time, they were capable of calculating the force and direction of wind; the speed and effect of tidal forces; remembering the locations of underwater obstructions and shallow areas at low tide; navigation by stars and dead-reckoning upon which many lives depended; and making split-second

judgments in docking that could potentially destroy a wharf or another ship. As though that were not sufficient in itself, the better captains were also keen businessmen, knowing what products were saleable in distant locations, and for what profit. With all the uncertainties of the sea, there were, over the years, many thousands of hours close to the forces of nature which would cause any intelligent being to contemplate why things happen when and where they do. For the rare captain who directed his contemplations within, looking to himself to be the cause or the effect of the events of his life, and studying the rules of disciplined, persevering personal behavior, he could by some considerable stretch of the imagination come to the conclusion that if he himself was controllable, then the elements themselves must be subject to some control which he could, at the very least, influence…..if not only through his own impeccability, then through the capacity for him to know with absolutely fearless certainty that the universe is benevolent, protective, and instructive to those who do not just believe it is so, but actually see it in their “mind‛s eye” as so, and move through every action of their daily lives under the assumption that they have a formative hand in the way every single event in their lives manifests. Having moved with this assumption over the years, he would eventually see predictable patterns emerging. Events became teachers; the intensity of instruction a function of personal receptivity and demand; and out of it all emerged the knowledge of the inseparable presence of an intelligence he could only call “The Event Former”. Events were at times gentle taps. When he did not hear…..or listen…..they became as hammer blows! As long as his actions were eternally vigilant and performed to the best of his ability, he found himself delivered from all manner of serious destruction…..though at first he may not have been quite sure if he was imagining perhaps a little too much. With time, and examples too numerous to construe as imagined, he realized with the conviction that only true knowledge can bring, that he was, in fact, not alone. Not only was he not alone, but he could never possibly be alone. As he became more and more aware of the presence of the Event Former, he grew under Its instructive hand until, in his aloneness and increasing separation from other men, he realized that he and the very meaning of the word had changed from “alone” to “al-one”.

The poem, THE CAPTAIN, is written as though by the captain or master of a sailing ship of the square-rigged era. He is a “Captain Among Captains”, to be sure, but sees himself only as a “link in the anchor chain” of command. His captain is the “Captain Of Captains”, the Event Former, or the formative force behind all phenomenae in this realm. It sometimes takes a bit of a stretch in the poem to ascertain the proper reference to the “Captain”; whether reference is being made to the “Captain Of Captains” by the captain of the ship….. or the Captain Among other Captains. The essential frame of reference of the poem is the knowledge beyond intelligence this man has gained of the “Captain Of Captains” through contemplation and observation, but mostly through personal experience. It is about the nature of their interactivity; and how inseparable their bond has become. 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 It’s honed to the Nth degree. The first four lines refer to the ruthless way life‛s events instruct us and how unforgiving life can be when we don‛t listen. In the last three lines lies a statement of highly focused intent to be the master, not the victim….. to be ceaselessly vigilant and prepared for the unexpected. He has learned through experience, training, and contemplation to consider not only the probabilities inherent in any given situation, but all the possibilities in keeping with natural law. The intensity of his focus of attention -- his vigilance -- is not to be compromised by daydreams or diversions of attention. It has been honed to this point by not only his peers and teachers, but by the endless series of events in daily life. About the time I think that I have everything in stride, I’ll be caught between a strong wind and a quickly moving tide that bears the brand of the Captain’s hand to stay my indolence and check my pride.

In a sailing ship which has no engine, the combination of a strong wind and a quickly-moving tide can be a highly dangerous and destructive situation guaranteed to produce, at the very least, a high level of anxiety. Confidence must over-ride fear every step of the way; hesitation can produce disaster. This is the kind of “test” which makes him wonder what or who formed the event, and why. Though events such as this are not frequent, they are trying for every part of his being: the physical, the emotional, and the mental. They have the potential to become spiritual events if one has the capacity to see them as such, which, of course, this captain does. The spiritual part comes, perhaps later, when he contemplates it in “slow motion”. The spiritual part is the developed perspective in being able to detect the unseen hand and the unspoken message inherent in the event. Any challenging event is a message to him that will build his confidence in his own judgment; and if mistakes are made, or misjudgments, he can decide what area needs work or help. As mentioned in the first verse, the Captain Of Captain‛s hand is merciless……but it‛s not unfair. Never does it exceed the capabilities of the instructee…..unless it has been a message repeated several times to the instructee that he has exceeded his limitations and had better find some other thing to do lest it bring about his death. This is true ruthlessness, but not conduct unbecoming for a trainee on the “master‛s” path. “Indolence” is an interesting word. It actually has two meanings: 1. “A tranquility of mind marked by neither pain nor pleasure.” 2. “Laziness or inactivity arising from a love of ease or aversion to work.
(Webster‛s Third Dictionary)

Similarly, to “stay” has also a double meaning: 1. To stem, or stop. 2. To stand firm or hold steadfast; as a stay on a ship holds the mast in place. “To stay my indolence” means to stem one‛s inattentiveness and laziness, while at the same time holding steadfast to a tranquil state of consciousness which is above (not controlled by) pain or pleasure. Life would, of course, be very dull without pleasure; and by the very dual nature of the realm, pleasure must sooner or later be balanced by some form of dis-pleasure

or pain. But it is an aspect of mastery that both pleasure and pain can be experienced without overdue indulgence. The spiritual perspective is that of “seeing” from a high enough perspective as to be accepting of both pain and pleasure as integral parts of a process which when seen from below—out of control—can be a private and personal version of Hell; when observed from above, with minimal participation, is profound and beautiful beyond words. To “check” one‛s pride is to not destroy it completely, but to temper it to the point that other words describe a better state of consciousness. Feelings of accomplishment are absolutely essential to the psyche‛s innermost feelings of self-worth, confidence, and personal power over the obstructed universe. Pride is a lesser form of Vanity, and Confidence a still lesser, and more balanced, form of both. However, it must carry with it a disciplined effort to hold in check the basic human urge toward Narcissism—the desire to be on center stage; to hold one‛s-self as more important than another. Pride is always a sign of power that lacks perspective. The Captain of this impeccable ship is a stickler for detail. He’ll not abide a rope untied, or a worn or tattered sail. His constant exhortations make strong men from the frail. The Captain referred to here is, of course, the ever-present though unobvious “Captain of Captains”, in conjunction with the Captain Among Captains, neither of whom will abide a rope untied (lest someone trip over it and fall overboard). To lesser men, such behavior may well go unpunished; but not to the “Captain Among Captains”. The higher one goes, the more is expected. Attention to detail is an essential quality of the character of anyone who seeks to control energy…..be it a ship, a company of individuals, a sport, or life itself. The lesson taught by the sudden occurrence of high winds that blow out a worn or tattered sail causing no end of mayhem, let alone the possible loss of life of a man overboard, could be seen as “the hand of fate”…..but not by this Captain Among Captains. In his case the “hand of fate” has become the hand of the “Captain Of Captains”—and His exhortations, by way of His events, are constant until perfection arrives.

It is no accident of fate that those who seek to learn to control energy —even at a very young age—will always find themselves within easy reach of competent teachers. But it is the student who makes himself strong, not the teacher. Once the habit of disciplined, persevering effort has been well established over the constant flow of obstructions peculiar to the earth plane, the “outward perspective” has performed its task and the focus of attention inevitably shifts inward toward the discovery of the inner self. Still later one discovers the inner teacher who is, in one of many forms, the “Captain Of Captains” and His blackboard: the events of life. 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 I’d drown So I tied myself on with a line. The “Roaring Forties” refers to that area of the Southern Hemisphere around latitude 40° South where the wind rips around the globe at constant high speeds virtually unimpeded by any land masses. It causes the rigging of sailing ships to vibrate with an incessant roaring sound that gives the area its name. The winds are always bitterly cold; the seas always high; and equipment failure common due to the constant, stressful combinations of wind and sea. In esoteric circles, the ninth test is something of a major exam for the school of human endeavor. Long since passed have been the tests centering about lust, anger, greed, vanity/pride, and attachment to worldly things and people. The Captain Among Captain‛s heightened perspective requires a large measure of silence about spiritual things and what he “sees”. There is no-one with whom he can communicate about what he knows. The candidate for the ninth test will have already realized himself as Soul in human form and bondage, taken his chains of freedom firmly in hand, and trudged tirelessly down the darkened road until he‛s paid the toll…..until he‛s gained his own individual level of control in his own unique way. Having attained the perspective of himself as a physical, emotional, and mental being subject to outside forces sometimes at the very edge of his capacity

to control, and found himself gradually more and more “disenchanted” with the challenges and endless toil of life, he will have begun to depend more and more on the only thing left to depend upon. As he becomes aware that there is no place left turn; that he has exhausted all desire to participate in the machinations of human form, he will at the same time have become aware of the fact that he is not alone; that everything he can see, feel, hear, or think is alive about him; and that he is actually being breathed, as it were, into existence billions of times each second by an intelligence greater than his mind can even begin to imagine. That he is an inseparable part of It, and that he would not even exist without It, has passed beyond any shadow of doubt into a knowledge that supersedes the rational, reasonable, and logical machinations and doubts of mind. He has no name for such a vast concept, but he knows that It hears him, and that It knows him far better than he could ever know himself. The events of his very active life have proven this to him time and again. And so he comes to another of those endless final tests. His life is on the line. There is no-one he can talk to about it. If there is even a trace of fear left in him, that great master of illusion, the Prince Of Darkness himself, will stretch every bond of natural law to its limits, breaking down his physical being with fatigue and cold and hunger, pressing relentlessly down on his mind and emotions with deafening sounds of roaring rigging, flapping canvas, and doubt as to whether the ship will hold together or spring her seams and sink. What does he do? He ties himself on with a line! I stood before the wind alone my death perched on the bow. I noticed not that grim ergot who seemed to say, “What now?” I’d assumed the role of the fearless soul Had taken the “Captain’s Vow”. Now the element of doubt is gaining a firmer grip. He feels the loneliness and his own helplessness before the seemingly unbridled and chaotic power of the wind and sea together. He considers that his time may finally have come.

“Ergot” is a fungus which occurs in Rye. In ancient days, it was used by sorcerers as a hallucinogen. Used here, it implies the destructive growth of doubt and negative thought; dis-ease being the beginning of disease. In this Captain Among Captain‛s mind, the specter of the Grim Reaper is perched on his bow, chuckling in contempt of his human weakness and saying: “Fool!….What now?” Catching himself, the captain pulls his mind and emotions back under vigilant control, raising his consciousness once again to the level of the fearless soul. “Had taken the Captain‛s vow” means that he had made a “promise of dedication” —a type of limited surrender wherein the one who is facing overwhelming odds will maintain his control and expression of power until the very last second of the very end. However … if death is inevitable, then it is obviously the will of the Great Forming Force, and time to proceed onward and upward without resistance, but rather with laughter and resignation, into the next realm. I’d trimmed the sails; I’d tied things down I’d covered every hole. Put every man of the crew below I couldn’t risk a soul. And, cold to the bone, I stood alone The sky as black as coal. Once again the captain runs through his check list to make sure he‛s taken care of every detail. I’d 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. The seventh wave is sometimes referred to as a “Rogue” wave, which can occur when waves moving from slightly different directions, merge and synergize to form a cycle of waves of increasing size. The peak of the seventh wave is so great that it breaks by curling over on top of itself, smashing down with

incredibly destructive force on anything that happens to be beneath it. Large Rogue waves are killers, and strike fear into the heart of any mariner. And then up spoke the Captain from his seat behind my brow His presence there in the calm and still And the storm which faced us now. “Your part’s well done; now I’ll do mine; You do not question how!” It‛s at this point that the captain realizes his attention has again been everso-skillfully sucked into the outer sounds and physical misery. His mind has been bombarded by all manner of negative possibilities to the point that he has forgotten who he is! The moment of that realization flashes into his mind from some unknown level of his being—the seat of the Soul behind the brow—and he places himself in the peaceful calm of knowing that all is well no matter what happens. His own inner voice speaks to him words that he has read or heard at some other point in time and space. He knows he‛s done all he can. He knows the Captain of Captains will take it from there. He knows to turn off his eternally questioning mind and become the observer. 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 Elmo’s Fire. It bore the brand of the Captain’s hand How else could such transpire? Coming now more permanently from this higher level of consciousness, his body no longer tires. The fire burning in his heart brings tears of gratitude to his eyes ….. and then…..there comes almost immediately the “sign”, the acknowledgement; the affirmation: Saint Elmo‛s Fire! Not an uncommon phenomenon among sailors and airmen, Saint Elmo‛s Fire is a corona or static electricity discharge which occasionally occurs during a storm when conditions are right. It appears as a crackling, fizzling ball of blue or red light at the tip of a mast, on propellors, and on wingtips..

One could explain it away with such words, but not this captain! It‛s rare occurrence; it‛s timing at the precise moment of his gathering his power beneath his being; it‛s nature of casting light into darkness, all appear to his expanded perspective as manifestations of the Captain‛s hand. It would be impossible for him to think otherwise. The ninth test is imperceptibly passed. 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 by…for now. What efforts fail from human travail The Captain can redeem. Being ever vigilant, he has seen the Rogue wave forming behind him on the horizon, and has swung the wheel hard over to bring the ship‛s bow up into it to prepare for the crushing blow. Though he doesn‛t quite make it, he comes close enough so that the maneuver may well have saved the ship from capsizing. As if to help empower the ship to overcome the elements, he roars aloud at the top of his lungs as the Rogue wave strikes. It ends in a matter of seconds, and, just as quickly, he can see the masts and shrouds still in place, the dories still lashed to their stanchions on deck, nothing broken, and only a line or two awash. As he swings the wheel to fall away before the wind again and ease the strain on the ship, he realizes his efforts have not been wasted. They have, in fact, been adequate enough to merit, once again, the Captain‛s redeeming hand. 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 Captain’s hand The knot … I’ll not … untie. Almost immediately the storm begins to abate. To lesser men, there would simply be great relief that the worst is now over. The miracle of sudden abatement and nil damage would be hardly noticed. To this captain, however,

there are “nots”…..and then there are knots! This Captain Among Captains could “not” fail to recognize the benevolent and protective hand, and be deeply, emotionally grateful for his deliverance. And so the test is over…..but was it really a test after all? Was it not perhaps a demonstration?…..and solely for his benefit! Who is this “Captain”, anyway: Soul?….. God?…..which God? Does it matter? Is it not what works —what delivers him and pulls him upward—that matters? Tests given by the Captain Of Captains are only given when one has been properly prepared for them; and this can only happen when one is aware of the Captain‛s hand, learning from it, growing from it, and relying on it. Then the test becomes nothing more than the announcement of a new beginning. All else is “accident”, “misfortune”, “hard luck”, disease, and the unpredictable hand of fate.

The Blind Musician
Author‛s commentary Undoubtedly one of my favorite poems, The Blind Musician is an attempt to put into words concepts that don't lend themselves to speech and for which there are no universally understood or accepted terms that transcend the barriers of the programmed mind steeped in tradition and limited dualistic thought. I will try here to put words to transcendent concepts and there may well result a mental comprehension of the concepts, but there is absolutely no substitute for the actual experiencing of the concepts in "Reality" -- reality being only illusion at its best, and whose purpose is to expand knowledge experientially as it pertains to the development and capacities of the soul. My ego would dearly love to say that the poem is "Mine", but I can only say that the words of the poem rolled off the end of my pen only after my having experienced the concepts. Where the experiences, concepts, and words originated is from a point well beyond my mind, ego and personality. Though I put my name to the words, I must say that they are beyond being "Mine".

Most interesting to note is the symbolism of the Blind Musician—blind to the extent of the purposefully designed human limitations of the mind and its capacity to see no further than the walls of reality as the human "mechanisms" experience it. As I have said many times before, there are two kinds of humans: the fools … and those who have not yet discovered the fact. The Musician is one who blends harmony with dissonance to generate feelings through the use of sound. The Musician instinctively—or by training—knows what sounds produce what feelings in the broad spectrum of human experience. The pounding, resounding vibrations of the drum seem to automatically set the physical body of mankind into motion. Stringed and wind instruments pull tears of all kinds from some unknown/unseen part of the Emotional Body when used in one way; when used in another—in virtuoso, for example—the mind marvels at the dexterity and capacity of the sub-conscious and the hands and fingers so nimbly yet invisibly attached to it. The musician, then, in this particular poem, represents that portion of human form which feels and expresses harmony … sees the whole from a higher perspective as almost a separate part. There once was a blind musician Whose music cast a spell He 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. The figurative sense of the "Blind" musician implies that, because of the limited number of distractions caused by the loss of sight, he is forced to be introspective—to look inside himself for explanations and answers to questions that would otherwise never be asked in the hurried and distracting pace of normal, mostly-visual life. The above portion of the poem implies that intuition really begins to be active when the busy, self-important, narcissistic, ego and desire mechanisms have been satiated or satisfied—perhaps over the course of countless lifetimes—

when they have figuratively "died" and the imaginative/intuitive portions of the mind and soul have become the primary focus of attention. He asked me the source of my perception. I replied that I’d never been taught. I “see” said the blind musician…. …..as a kind of an afterthought. To be asked what is the source of human perception is certainly to be asked one of the most profound of questions. It is at this point in the poem that one begins to be aware that there are apparently two different entities in conversation. The fact that they are simply two different levels of consciousness or awareness in the same person does not become apparent until the end of the poem. Constantly repeated throughout the poem is the reference to the Blind Musician "seeing". The implication, of course, is that he "sees" in the sense that he "comprehends"—has his own internal visual image of—or understands exactly what the of lesser portion of the self is experiencing, thinking, or doing. Do you "see" what I mean? The word "see" has a double meaning. “Then, how is it you’ve come to this place,” he asked, “That you’d plumb the depths of this well?” “Oh…t’was not a matter of choice,” I replied, “T’was a force that I could not quell!” The Blind Musician is curious as to why I would ask such profound questions that others thought useless to ask. To "plumb" is to "measure the depth by sounding" as with a lead line—a device used by Mariners for measuring depths of water that can not be seen visually. The response implies that the conscious mind is not always the determining source as to what it focuses attention on, compulsion being what it is with its unknown, and unseen origin. I told him about the dreams I’d had And how I’d “tolled” the heights of thought. How I’d come to be the estranged monad Instead of what I’d thought I ought; About the many lonely days I’d spent

In the search for what couldn’t be bought. I “see” said the blind musician, Himself having felt the things I’d sought. The dreams I refer to here are not dreams that I would categorize at all as "revelation", but rather dreams of intuitive realization and the occasional new idea which prompts a whole new spectrum of contemplation and thinking. To "toll" the heights of thought is to reach upward like a bell ringer into intuitive and imagined possibilities, deducing from them probabilities from which to build one‛s own present and future world within the world at large. "Estranged monad" is a term describing one who is off by himself alone in his thinking or understanding, either by dint of his being outcast or selfestranged. This is the "Fringe-Dweller" who lives at the "edge of everything" and whose primary function is to bring in new ideas and perspectives which force thought to expand into greater horizons. It is not unlike the long distance racer who finds himself so far out in front as to have no other standard by which to measure his relative speed or location. Not an easy position to occupy, it epitomizes the double meaning of the word "alone"— a state whose peaceful enjoyment is only possible after realizing that regardless of position or speed, aloneness means "al-one-ness”. 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 it Ohhh…. he played it without a flaw! It’s vibrating strings were like magical things, His words a clarion call; A voice that flew through the air on wings That carried his words through the hall. I’ve 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. The capacity for music to produce emotional response makes it one of the great companions of the soul in its journeys through the Earth. This verse

is mostly self explanatory. The only remark I might make is that "sounds and words that enthrall" seem to emanate from the highest levels of human expression: the upper levels of the mind, the soul itself, or the source of the soul. What is it that this man projects? From whence come his words profound? “Gold’s hidden in the silence Between the silver sounds.” It has been apparent to me for many years that the most profound of thoughts seem to require long periods of inactivity, stillness, silence or uninterrupted contemplation before they manifest themselves in the mind. The multitudinous distractions of daily life seem purposefully designed to keep us from this state, but I think it is more appropriate to assume that the tendencies to seek out these states is a natural progression of the soul from its initial stages of entry into the earth game arena wherein it is almost completely victimized, through its gradual accumulation of power and perspective until finally, having played the game in ways and manners too numerous to count, it begins to wonder what the game really is and what it's all about. And, Lo, these many years I’ve tried To reconcile the two. What is this word…..and what the sound, That brings the Tuza through; Tuza is another word for soul, and the question here seems to be what sounds and words are more particularly applicable to the soul than to the mind, emotions, or physical body. An inescapable part of this reconciliation is the fact that until the soul has gained adequate experiential knowledge in its many journeys through the Earth, the soul will be incapable of exercising a great deal of control—regardless of the of the use of sound or word—because of the irresistible pull (read that as "Desire") of all physical sensations, emotional sensations, and mental distractions and preoccupations. This is to also say that Kindergarten is of no greater or lesser value than graduate school. One is essential to the other.

I believe in the imagined state, Though it’s oft been my downfall, I had quite a struggle with these words when I first wrote the poem. I would delete them … and then put them back … and delete them once again. In discussing the basic idea of the imagination, I found that different people had different ideas as to what is actually meant by the term "Imagination". To clarify that point, when I refer to the imagination I am referring to the capacity for the mind and soul to image, conceptualize, or conceive an idea. Imagination, then, includes fantasy, but is not limited to it. Fantasy is simply a way of imaging an event or phenomenon that either has not yet—or cannot—manifest itself as a portion of "Reality". The reason I believe in this state or capacity of consciousness is because it seems to be the major differentiating factor between man and animal. There is absolutely no doubt in my mind that animals have imagination. Anyone who has lived close to animals for any period of time will testify to that fact. The difference is one of degree—of capacity and capability. Not until I reached what I would call my final stages of enlightenment did I realize that everything in creation is imagination. The only difference between an imagined image in the mind and a manifested event or piece of matter is the amount of energy available to solidify the imagined image. The reason the imagined state of consciousness causes so many problems to us as humans is that we have not learned how to apply it or recognize its proper role. My own personal biggest “downfall” always seems to have fallen under the heading of "imagined expectations". The business of bringing two or more imaginations into agreement so that their frames of reference and expectations are similar is certainly one of the greatest of human issues. It applies to male and female relationships, business interaction, political manipulation, religious interaction, and personal life contentment to name just a few areas. . ……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! It is from this lofty perspective of the Blind Musician, having an everincreasing knowledge and respect for the organizing and forming force behind all of creation, that I realize what a Fool I really am. The full realization is so overwhelming as to leave one almost incapacitated because we are not aware how much we are moved and motivated by our own ego, self importance, self-esteem, confidence and all the words that go to describe the seemingly independent human being which sees itself as the center of the universe. Once one perceives the reality of the ultimate Source, the next most important step is to reconcile one's own position within that perspective and redefine a new source of motivation … not an easy thing to do since each of us are different, and something which takes a great deal of time. For me to say that I see "Nothing in all" means simply that I see "No-thing" as being the origin of all things. For me to say that I know "Nothing and all" simply means that I have knowledge that all ideas, thoughts, matter, energy, space, and time originate from a source which is "No-thing” … and that is all there is to know. Just exactly "How" things are manifested is an entirely different matter … something of which all of us have very little knowledge, and something of which there is a never-ending trail of discovery and total human involvement.




0 A Letter To My Youngest Daughter A Song For Chima An Aussie’s Lament An Old Story With A New Twist Bird Of Paradox Chains Of Freedom Chance Encounter Choc-o-late World Clouds Comments About A Commentary Credo Dancin’ In The Street Dancing Light And Sound Departure From Gate 14 Eat Dessert First Freedom And Duty Freedom On My Side Hello California In Time And Space Removed Jack O’ Diamonds Let’s Fall In Love Life In The Yukon Me Old Scalara Hat Mind

115. 60. 108. 81. 49. 52. 77. 15. 31. 74. 121. 116. 97. 37. 114. 47. 72. 85. 90. 44. 27. 98. 67. 94. 34.



Mirror Image Of Me On The Wall Next Of Kin Of Power and of Might Pegasus Pegasus: Commentary Questions: Commentary Questions Released So Much For God Realization Song Of The Wind Bell The Blind Musician The Blind Musician: Commentary The Captain: Commentary The Captain The Chasm Crossed The Hero And The Fool The Image Of The Dreamer The Last Lesson The Midnight Physician The Plumber’s Approach To The Soul The Redemption Of Cain: Commentary The Redemption Of Cain The Rhyme In Time The Riddle Of Synergy

106. 92. 22. 10. 122. 124 31. 20. 113. 102. 23. 138. 128. 12. 35. 56. 39. 64. 103. 36. 125 46. 101. 116.



The Sea And Me The See-er The Silver Dart The Thin Line The View From Soul The View From The Source The Voice In The Wind The Whole-I The Willow Tree There’s Always Another Dream Think I’ll Go To Frisco Time Men Learned To Cry To My Children Transition What Is The Sound Of Freedom When The Heart Wings Like A Dove: Commentary Wings Like A Dove Without You Yarmouth Harbor Za Zen Master

42. 36. 70. 37. 19. 113. 117. 112. 88. 78. 91. 80. 58. 25. 111. 112. 123. 84. 100. 40. 57.


If you enjoyed this story…. There are others by Kit Cain at your local bookstore Or at www.kitcain.com The first three chapters of each book can be read for free on the above website and they are available as Paperback Books or E-Books in Adobe .pdf format. Leaves In The Wind: a story of diffident origin about a biker who formed his own major motorcycle club in L.A. and Vegas … and lived to tell me his story. Master Of The Welded Bead: a fictitious short story comparing the lifestyles and attitudes of two men: one who chooses to live a whimsical and humorous life on the “road less traveled”; the other who chooses to live a life of selfish interest on the road too-often traveled. It is an entirely personal idea of how I imagine a disinterested Master Of The Universe might lead an unusual yet entertaining life in a predominantly negative and otherwise boring world. An Arrow To The Heart: a fictitious short story placing the hero of Master Of The Welded Bead in a close-encounter family situation with the “Mother from Heaven” and the beautiful, desirable, precocious “Daughter from Hell”. The Chasm Crossed: an autobiographical story about the unusual experiences and events of my 70 years of spiritual journey from youth to present. Ride the Wind Laughing: An Illustrated autobiographical story describing the mystical events and experiences which contributed in major ways to my building a 51-foot sailboat in my mother’s back yard in rural Nova Scotia— an event which began with no money in an effort to test the Laws of Manifestation and prove to myself the efficacy and practical value of my years of spiritual training. Soul And Man: is a major work attempting to define and describe the parameters of the word “Soul”— particularly as it applies to the human soul. The very nature of its perspective brings together the various schools of Religious, Scientific, Philosophical, Spiritual, and Mystical thought suggestive of a unified frame of reference and vocabulary for all. This book is not easy reading. It can be discomforting and thought-provoking for those new to the Spiritual Journey. I wrote it primarily to further define and synergize my own thinking … and for the benefit of those compelled—as am I—to journey into areas of the unknown, uncertain, and impossible to define.

The Tears Of Power: is a fable for all ages from ten to eternity about a mouse named Victor who lives in Edgeville—which is at the edge of everything: the river, the fields, the forest, the mountains, and the sky. Edgeville quickly becomes too small for his adventurous soul so he ventures out into the world of the great unknown, learning to pilot tugboats, fly helicopters, and meet some unusual friends like Oddie the Otter, Mo the musical Mole, and Minkie, his flight instructor. It is Eagle, though, who finally tells him what the tears of power really are. 24 great illustrations by illustrator, Scott Peck. Flying The Yukon’s Bush: is the recounting of my adventures as a helicopter bush pilot in the Yukon Territory in 1962. Part 1 is the story in writing, and Part 2 is a slightly different story in pictures. Both parts can be downloaded from my website for free. Perfect Health For Dogs And Cats: First wife Ann loved animals and so we always lived on a farm surrounded by dogs, cats, chickens, goats, and horses. Her dedication leaned toward the health and healing of animals by natural means, while mine leaned in a similar direction with humans. Contained in this small booklet are the simplest principles of health and healing for dogs and cats supported by our own experience and that of a major research foundation.



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