Wednesday, January 31, 2018



         a world of ideas
people thrive among them
        like flies -
        ideas that minute
by minute die their small
        into a new structure
        that still is

people build them
        to live in
in order not to face their
        in order not to find
a taste of grace outside
the village gates

        where the sun rises
with deafening steps
         its pace unrelenting
burning into the eye
of the mind
         with no ideas
         no hierarchy
and no time

and then rise
giving an abundance
         of time and the river,
and the mind.

(C)1980-2018 by W.G. Milne          

       Poetry is more muscular then prose,
or can be.
       How does a poem mean? Not logically,
a poem is not a rational, linear progression
as prose tends to be...
        With certain rare exceptions.
My own work. Henry Miller's prose at times
transcends the linear. There are other 

Tuesday, January 30, 2018


      I was having a nap in my armchair one evening... and the melody I was awakened to:
I jumped up and said: "HEY, THAT'S MY SONG!" to no one in particular.
    If you listen to the chorus of this song, then listen to one of the central melodies of the movie, "LA LA LAND"... you'll understand that they're using my melody.
     The movie got an Academy Award for it's music.
      So what do I do? I'm not sure yet, but I'd better hire a lawyer on a contingency basis.

     Ho! Ho! We'll see!

Saturday, January 27, 2018

FOREVER AND A DAY - blues song

This is a song I wrote in jail - trying to find my woman
through the telephone, which is not the best instrument
with which to search.

As times goes by, I'll add more of the story to this page.

Lead guitar - Peter Rowland
Rhythm guitar - Bill Milne

(C)1986-2018 by W.G. Milne


One purpose of the mystic is to become One
with the Eye of God.

In the universe there is but one Consciousness:
the Consciousness of the One Who Is Creating 

The human mind, when it is unencumbered,
may partake of this Consciousness.

W.G. Milne

Friday, January 26, 2018


I live in an
old house
and as I peer
through the blinds
I see a red car
the blue ass rolling
of a woman in jeans;
hear the roar of
yellow - a Caterpillar

I peer through
Venetian blinds
hoping to see
someone alive

a dance, a sign
echoes of a
poet's line
as the sky turns 
then midnight blue

watching to see
what the day is
whether red,
or yellow 

watching to see
myself perhaps
and passers that pass
and maybe 
catch a glimpse
of you.

(C)2018 by W.G. Milne

Monday, January 15, 2018


      "How do you stand it?" Hank asks.

      "How do I stand what?" says Frank.

"The endless darkness, doesn't it get on your nerves? And the ungodly silence!" asks Hank.

"Go out and howl under the iron grey sky in the dark of the endless night, howl under the sky...
and see how quiet it is."
        "That's what I do when it gets too quiet,"
Frank says...

"Jesus, I'm not sure I'm willing to go that far...
  What will the neighbours think?"says Hank.

"Neighbours!" Frank begins to howl with laughter, then he runs across the packed mud floor of the foxhole, throws open the moongate door barefoot... Now he's howling under the outside leaden sky that hides any moon that
ever could  hope to be...He's wearing nothing but shorts. The snow is up to his knees.
       In no time at all several voices join in.
The wolves can't keep from howling, too,
on endless silent interminable nights such as

      "Artie said you did this..." Hank says, "But I never really believed it to be true. I thought he was drinking and joking, telling weird tales... But now here I am sitting in the actuality..."
      "Now I have to believe it. They're all howling now. It makes me want to do something...It makes me want to run!"
       "But there's nowhere to run,sinner man... oh Jesus, I better not start singing that song."
Something has me in it's grip."

      Frank comes back in... descends into the big foxhole. He's panting, more than a little out of breath.
      Hank is silent for a while. 

     He says: "I didn't think the wolves were that close."
       "They aren't that close. The Big Weasels keep 'em away.


(Wolverines can eat a wolf. And when they're done they piss all over what remains.
Then no one will even think of eating what remains after that).

Saturday, January 13, 2018



        I keep returning to this marvelous poem,
which is just as divine in it's own way as
the "Song of Songs."
To my mind it is written by the female aspect of the Lord of Hosts.
         If I am wrong in saying this - I am sure I'll be corrected. For the Lord is behind me as I write and His radiance now fills this room,
and His Grace, also, which is the sole provenance of the Lord.
          Don't take me as a run-of-the-mill Jesus freak. My Mind comes from the new Awakening that has been bestowed upon us by the miracle discovery of the Nag Hammadi.
This new and ancient library will change the direction and Consciousness of the Christian world: it has already changed the Christian world. 
        I've been writing about it for 48 years now, and other people have taken up the baton and are showing wherein the differences lie, and what the new Awakening means - that comes like the dawn before the time of morning.
          I hear my phrases being picked up and carried by other teachers, and I am proud of this. For a while I though the whole Nag Hammadi Library was going to be suppressed, as it already was suppressed 2000 years ago.

         Still I keep returning to this divine poem that is transcendent in it's own way. I like to think it was written by Mary, as so much of her Gospel has been destroyed.

"He is the one who begot me before the time
      on a birthday
And he is my offspring in due time
       and my power is from him.
I am the staff of his power in his youth
        and he is the rod of my old age.
And whatever he wills happens to me.
I am the silence that is incomprehensible
        and the idea whose remembrance is frequent.
I am the voice whose sound is manifold
        and the word whose appearance is multiple.
        I am the utterance of my name."


       In many ways this poem is incomprehensible, so it is a good vehicle
upon which to deepen one's focus.
       I am touched by the tenderness and humanity of the lines:

"Why, you who hate me, do you love me,
        and you hate those who love me?
You who deny me, confess me..."

"The wind bloweth where it listeth, and you hear the
sound thereof, but cannot tell whence it cometh
and wither it goest: so is every one that is born of the 
Spirit." (John 3:8)

(C) 2018 by W.G. Milne

                  At:   author:  William Milne
                          e-books and kindle


Wednesday, January 10, 2018


        Once more it's
        5:00 A.M in my laboratory
         The mirror winks at me

"What are you sexually?"
       she asked yesterday,
"I am a bit of everything,
  if we're talking sex, I'm all
  needs and desires of the psyche."

That shut her up for a while...

a piece  of garnet (ruby)
glimmers beneath the reef
the water's clear
ocean flowers gleam
all colours of the sub-aquatic

infinite colours in this palace
"where is the painter we need?"

"Hush, little one, he is evolving
his palate in the mirror
of infinity... the mind as
deep and complete and irradiates
the palate of sight and sound"
        "It's spiritual and sexual
and cosmic awareness at
the same time - the Big Bang
of blowing your load
at the psyche-center of
your perception."


        Henry Miller,
a very substantial writer,


Sexual jealousy and obsession. Miller
was never quite sure  where the
woman he loved was, whether she
was having an affair with some rich man,
who was supporting Mara and Miller, too...
or whether she was engrossed in a lesbian
encounter with a dominant woman.
         What mattered is she obsessed him.
As an extension of his own cuckoldry, he
was able to write. She fueled his dreams.
Then he shared his dreams with us.
          There is a reason that the last words
in one of his books is: "Woof! Woof! Woof!"

         Hitchcock needed it, too. He imposed
his passion for blonde woman with ample 
hips in pencil skirts on his leading ladies.
          His obsession was for a fantasy woman.This is true of many men.
A particular type turned the crank
of his sexual hunger - and so long as he 
could project his fantasy onto various
women, he was creative.
         And he was perhaps the most creative
filmmaker of all time. He knew how to
ride his obsession and make suspense out
of it.
         He knew how to dive into the murk
of human passion - his own passion. The
key is to be engaged and not be engaged.
To be a voyeur, in fact, and to share his voyeurism with the rest of us.
        The passion creates the suspense.
And the suspense builds up to...A shock! 

(C)2018 by W.G. Milne

Sunday, January 7, 2018


         Sometimes it's the last time you
ever see them. Life is a series of moments.
We don't know when the last moment
         And your father is gone, to the echoes
of the snow geese heading home.
         Or waving goodbye to a lover in Naples
Bay. I was on a ship. She was on the wharf
wearing my tweed jacket. We both were the ship sounded it's horn and withdrew.
        Or Krista now at the bus stop, twenty degrees below zero, pacing back and forth.
        Or dad, looking frail, leaving at the Davisville subway stop. How I wanted to take care of him!
        How I want to take care of all of them... but moments pass, again and again, and they are gone.
         Strong, weak, beautiful, frail - it makes no difference. They go.
         And my mother now 93 years old  in the City of Toronto.
          Who can stop it?  What can we do about
all these leavings?

          "The smallest leaf of grass proves there is really no death."*
          Is this enough?
          It helps, but it is not enough.

            Is the Bible enough? Not the old version... but the newly discovered most ancient
Gospels... perhaps...
             Perhaps they will do.

*Walt Whitman

(C)2017 by William G. Milne


Don't throw your song away
Keep it safe, don't let it stray
It gives you what you need,
A reason to believe

They'll tell you you are wrong
You don't have a song
You don't have a dream

But the world of everyday
Has lost it anyway
What can they say?

chorus:  OOoo Don't throw your song away
               Oooo Don't you let it stray

You know that you might be
Here today
Some new discovery
Don't throw your song away
It will be gone


Don't throw your soul away
Keep it safe
Don't let it stray

Only you can sing your way
No one else can sing your song.

(C) 1984-2018 words and lyrics by W.G. Milne

I'll add the music soon as I remember how to get through the tech.

Saturday, January 6, 2018



     This song follows the blues tradition of celebrating the little schoolgirl with the great ass walk, walk, walking down the street...
in front of the eyes of various dirty old & youngish men draped over balconies, sitting on front steps with liquor in paper bags, or even throwing horseshoes as she passes.

        This is my addition to that blues tradition.


                         Hope you enjoy!

If you want other songs by Johnny Rock and the Angels, there are about 60 of them posted on the WiLLIAM MILNE CHANNEL on You Tube.

(C)1980-2017 by W.G. Milne

Friday, January 5, 2018


Just in case you think I've (flipped my lid) lost my mind here, I'm dicking around with ideas for a screenplay
here...  The following is not meant to be a coherent piece... 
Just notes on a future plan of a script...

Louise attempts to baptize sister

Roman forces novelist pal to pray to the LORD among dafadils.(SP?)

As it happens, both manic fools are locked the same nuthouse up the hill... big frustration, each locked in own padded cell... ( these 2 were never supposed to meet --- due to sound psychiatric thinking on part of mutual shrink 
( even the good ones up north, up the hill --- they  tend to think they're God...lawyers do, too... not sure about dentists)

They meet native/Chinese psycho cook... he explains things to them ( he's labelled
a schitzophrenic (sp?) but few doctors know what that is  ((most don't WANT TO KNOW)))

Chino/native madmen shows them freedom in the shape of the food truck... they are let out of cells for fifteen minutes each day... different fenced mini-yards, different interactions are allowed between the really crazies, especially the smart ones --- left together they can convince a whole word of 30 patients/inmates - they can convince a whole ward that a different reality exists... and the new different one is the correct one!

Psycho-native schitzo plans their escape ( he might live in 6th dimension but his organizational skills are sound right here in this one))

He doesn't NEED to know whether brick walls in the massive kitchen are permeable or not...
If U got a plan --- minor details are left aside (like the nature of reality -- who needs that shit ---when you're planning an escape from improper incarceration))

PSYCHO-COOK SAYS:   Diamonds are waiting for potential escapees just 160 miles north... ("Why U telling us...?" we ask) Because you batty by-force-religio-healers, you and...and diamonds have THE SAME ENERGY... so you deserve to be together! You're so clear and bright ---
I know it's the RIGHT job for U 2  goons!
...And only you."

(so need to do quest type ROAD MOVIE with road kill, doc quacks etc)

Buddy sax player has stash of diamonds

FLIES --- like in GOLDHUNT movie(get name)
madness with flies, scrambling up muddy hill---FLIES BITING NECKS.... sweat, bell ringing... convertible smashed.... now two in search in rangy motorbike and sidecar   (GET the mad feel of that movie... "goldhunt/flies")
flies madness

LOCKED IN PSYCHO WARD, both of them...
but not any longer

Have escape plan due to cook, cook is buzzed, needs $$ and waitress Nancy going north...
really needs to climb on her back

(Eddie and Franzine?????)

our duo sneak into food truck... NORTHWARD HO!!

Need further sipping sessions---
to get at the WILD HAIRY BUG GREED
DAY ISSUE  of this script