Monday, January 30, 2017


My old man had a rounder soul He'd hear an ol' freight train and he'd have to roll Said he'd been blessed with a gypsy bone And that's the reason I guess that he'd been cursed to roam Came to town back before the war Didn't even know what it was he was lookin' for He carried a tattered bag for his violin Full of lots of songs of the places he had been He talked real easy and he smiled and waved He could pass along to you when his fiddle played Makin' people drop their cares and woes And hum out loud the tunes that his fiddle bowed Til people there began to join that sound And ev'ryone in town was laughin, ' singin, ' dancin' 'round Like the Fiddler's tunes we all there heard that night Like some dream that says all the world is right Instrumental Break The Fiddler's eye caught a beauty there She had that rollin' flowin' golden kind of hair He played for her as if she danced alone He played his favorite songs, the ones he called his own She alone was dancin' in the room The only thing left movin' to that Fiddler's tune Instrumental break He played until she was the last to go He stopped and packed his case, said he'd take her home In all the nights that passed a child was born In all the years that passed, love would keep them warm And all their lives they'd share that dream come true All because she danced so well his fiddler tune Instrumental break The train next mornin' blew a lonesome sound As if she sang the blues of what she took from town And all that I recall that was said when I was young There's no one else could play or sing the songs he sung

Thursday, January 26, 2017


         I write this as  I'm sleeping by the Big Lake up here,Lake Nipissing… sleeping in a shack on the shore with 
   one blanket,  two dogs, and three bottles ofstrong wine (20% alcohol by volume).Have you ever given a dog some of your dinner?
And the dog wouldn`t eat it?                I have.

         In the story I`m  on the sandy shore of that 90 mile lake, and I`m tucked in…more or less with the dogs...and now  only two bottles of wine... Some prick's been drinking my booze...           That bastard!I`m trying to get an article down to the office  ( THE TALK OF THE TOWN PRESS offices) and there`s no way
I can make it that far.
               The wind`s blowing up like banshees… I hope
no Wendigo howls tonight… Although I thoroughly like the howling of most beasts. I like the howls a lot. The inspire me.  Fact is, I often join in.                                                        *
               The sun rises over the hills to the east.Mist rolls over the waters by the shore.It`s morning and no one to talk to out here
on the sandy heath,no one to send on an errand. 
            I walk a mile to call a taxi…. except it`s more than a mile… It`s way more than a mile.  I feel I`ve fallen off the map…. and now I`m into a different time zone... 
I`m in a desert that has never been recorded, on a road
that no one knows… an empty quarter...through a time warp that no one remembers, I find myself here...crawling across the sand.
          I`m exhausted.  I`m hung-over like a motherfucker.          My mouth is so dry my tongue is looking around for company.  The tip of my tongue sticks to the back of a tooth.  It`s like I`ve been stuck in
the desert for 40 days…. I fall to my knees… rest
with my face in the sand... briefly go to sleep.       I hear a car door slam. The driver is standing over me… I see… I see the glint of something
smooth and fine... It`s a woman in a short skirt
and nylons… She has fine legs but I   cannot see properly up the legs. Gasping, I manage to sit up.I  give my head a shake.           I hand her the story and  say: “Don`t worry about me!Get this story in to the Talk of the Town Press. It has to reach the press by 8:45 this morning. ” 
        "Can you get it there for me?" 
       The mystery woman nods silently… She sets off
across the desert with her precious cargo… This time
I do  notice her legs….I scratch my head with incomprehension… As so often happens with a horrid, dry hangover, I  find I'm aroused with my groin in the warm sand.
                                             *       The first words in the paper the next morning I recognize, because I had scratched them down myself the day before.The words are:
                  That was the first line of the story.               
                This whole bit about sleeping on the shores
of Lake Nipissing (as terminal drunks have been known to do ) It's part reality with a little  fantasy slipped in.                                           *
…Sleeping with  a blanket (that how you spell blank et??? surely not)
                Having my wine delivered by boat—- and
attempting to get stories off by return boat.
                It`s not so bad now I got a shack.    I stole
2 gallons of gas — so I can inhale the fumes. Ho! Ho!
            When my spirits fade — AS THEY`RE SURE TO DO
                I'd  better dig a hole and light a fire,
do it in the shack… pretty quick. Steal 
a rack from a used  stove in a dump.
 soon as that fucker comes back with the boat….I`ll borrow his  22… shoot a few birds and muskrats, make a stew. Now I`m thinking!    (Yeah, right!)
              This is the kind of story that used to get those
cards and letters rolling in  to the editors,
demanding police action. 
            Hank staggers out of the shack…
           “I got a friend who boiled a pigeon for about
2 hours – he said, “Stink!  Did it ever stink!`
                 “Ya gotta take the feathers off em first!” I tell him, "You can`t just cook them like they`re some sort
of microwave dish…. there`s stuff you gotta
take out of those birds — the bowels would be a nice
start- take those out & ya got a chance…”
               The dog`s definitely hungry. I can
tell by the way he stares at me… those mournful eyes.
Perhaps tonight he won`t turn up his nose at my dinner.
JESUS, WHERE AM I?**********************************************

Wednesday, January 25, 2017


I’ve been waiting in love for ages

But you don’t, you just don’t come up

I’ve been waiting in this lonely room

But you just don’t, you just don’t come up


I’ve been waiting in this room for ages

….But you just don’t come up

I’ve been waiting on my very own,

But you just don’t, you just don’t come up


You paid me a little visit, Baby,

So I could show my love

 You held out all ten fingers, Lady,

So I could kiss your glove


And then when I hear you shout

When I hear you — cry out

When I hear you shout



Oh come into my chamber, Lady,

Don’t take your stockings off

Wolves are howling in the night

I’m howling in my cups


I’ll walk the street with flowers for you

I’ll see the dawn rise in

I’ll take you off to Paris, Baby,

Your favorite restaurant by the Seine


We’ll spend the night in  strolling,

 And Drinking the finest wine

And back in my hotel room, baby

We’ll tell  stories, so entwined


And when I hear you shout

When I hear you…. cry out

Yeah, when I hear you shout

Let’s do it all over again!


It has been a long salvation

To bring the harvest in

I watch you across this smokey room

For you to  enter in


I’ve been waiting in love for ages

But you just don’t, you just don’t come up

I’ve been waiting in this lonely room

And now that you’ve come up:


Now  I hear you shout

When I hear you cry out

When I hear you shout…

Let’s do it all over again!


(C) 2016 by W.G. Milne

Tuesday, January 24, 2017


Ah yes, the stars were burning bright
When last I saw the light  in your eyes;                                               
But  you were gone  at summer’s end
Before these snows began to rise...
Wrap rugs around me,
I  sense  Mind in the deep…
Which I  embrace as it embraces me;
I dream in  bed as I’m half awake,                                    
 Songs  sing  faintly in the trees
I walk dream regions  light bright with ice,
 Travel soundlessly cross frozen seas;
I read  this  ancient record
        with tales of you,                                        
 Whispered faintly on the breeze.                                                                     
As I dream across the snows 
Down every road you showed
       to me:
Where you have gone I must learn to go
I will follow this path to thee .                                                   *
The story is a long one:
         in every place, 
 There is a record of your wanderings;                           
You found emeralds in the East,                                
 True wealth in the hidden place,                                                                  
Here where   where you found your unity.                         
There are angels whose names no man knows,
A chorus of saints  watch over you;
 And the fallen ones and the rolling beast,     
Cannot prevent my return to you.
There are demons  whose names                          
      I will not speak,
Ones not bound by mortality;
A ship with red sails  from the East       
Brings remnants of your archaeology.    
 I too am going to that holy place,
Across the river with its shades;
It will be morning before I wake,
As the boatman sings   to me...
I know this dream now will not fade:    
 I pray the  Lord our  soul  to keep.
                       *  *  *
                                                                                                                          ©2014 by  W.G.Milne

This poem follows part one which is: "To The Magnificence of the Lord."

I'm not sure where these poems come from,
but I write them invariably at night.

I get the sense of travelling vast distances in
my sleep, that somehow I visit other houses and
lands to the points of light where Consciousness
resides.  My form of meditation I call, "Dreaming
While Awake." In this deep state of awareness
between waking and dreams, this is where I travel
and this is where these poems come from.

Somehow I visit distant lands, drawn by the Minds
who call to me. All I can say is in this different
state of conscious, travel is possible on the wings
of the Mind, the dark winds of the soul.

(C) 2016 by W.G Milne

Saturday, January 21, 2017


and flies teem on me
in the deep bush
by a swamp
that's wet and deep
and rude 

and climbing a rock
face and gasping
on my back and 
see a crescent

waiting all night
in an old train station
boy toys and hookers
mill beneath the roof
of the greasy spoon
bar there
where all the noise

and this music from 
a lyre that's mute
and silence on
a guitar that's blue
and symphonies
of wind in trees
and a great bath
above the soot

liver-dark urine
in a sunlit kitchen
27 mice in the closet
and a cat that's new

Van Gogh cycles
a paint so yellow
it kisses sunlight
like a nun the truth.

(C)2013 by W.G. Milne

Monday, January 16, 2017


All of these, all of these, my love.

In the air now is sweetness of the greenery
From the shore the bird flies, wings beating               quickly
And the water is calm
And the stillness upon the day

And the heart beating quietly within you
And the blood and the memory
The uncertain glances, friendships
The moment so closely together 
         we forget ourselves.

The silence so soothingly upon us
And there is rest here, finally here
Quietly, soothingly here at last
O come, come my love.

These words a few faint traces
A glimpse, a brief appearance
All things and nothing
Finally here
But come, the shadowy ways
Come away, away
For there is silence here and the waiting
        has ended
And what is said so faintly
And can never be remembered
O come, come my love and enter, all of these.

(C) 1974 by William G. Milne
From "In The Time of Morning".

NOTE: Why is this poetry? It is in the rhythm of the words,
               describing a moment of intimacy and fluid beauty,
a moment making love, not just to each other but to the
earth around us - so much so that the communion of love
also embraces the trees and the waters of the bay, the flight
of birds, the shadows and silence of the day.