A BALL-KICKING WOMAN, A BLESSINGS MAN AND I'M HUNG-OVER RIGHT NEXT TO A LOUD RELIGIOUS LOON

MOONSHINE SKETCHES OF A PICKLED TOWN   (C) 2000-2017 by W.G. Milne
_______________________________________


             HUNTER THOMPSON'S QUOTE that  "Madness is the loss of a sense of humour."  This is one of my favourite
sayings.  And I've got a few of them! 
        I'm hungover again. All this writing about
religion is giving me a rash. At some level I think I have
to do it, or should do it, or must do it...
         But, Jesus! it's nearly impossible for me
to write that stuff without getting sanctimonious.
       And I FFFFffffffing hate that so-called holy (I know
better than you do) tone of voice.

       When I'm hungover, it's impossible to take myself
 seriously.... what a relief!
       Though there's a ringing in my ears and I'm afraid
to look in the mirror to see my own eyes....
My two red, beaming orbs might set me off into another downward spiral of guilt, shame, and self- hate.
       It's not so much my horrific looking eyes, as
the expression in what's left of them. But what am I
worried about. I'm living in the great beyond - the
endless desperation of a desperate land (Bullshit! I had
to say it because it sounded great.)
       Desolation? Well, maybe now when the chilly
wind is howling over the boughs, and you feel like
you're walking in the Land of Nod... Hey!  I'm writing
at the window...I'm on my 4th 
overproof & berry juice & soda... and I'm falling
victim to the melliforous sound of words, rather than
caring about the words' meanings.    (OOOOooooo!
OOOooooooo!)         

         I've got nowhere I have to go; nothing I have to do; no-one I need to kiss,  and no reports I have to file!
 I don't even have to brush my teeth.
         
       (Scratch that last comment. I just smelt my hand) 
               

             Dear Lord, my brain is constipated. My
belly's swollen... and I'm sitting naked 
 by my window on the lane, sitting in the wind
that's been blowing over the winter snow...
       Yep, snow... Grey misty days... then suddenly, snap!
you can see your breath...there's a rich frozen wind coming up over the river which almost tastes like the sea - sea to which 
the waters are returning.
        Where I'm going is Novar.

        I look out through our one (heavy plastic window)
because I hear a thumping sound. It's 10:00 A.M., so it's
still dark, but some fool is kicking something...
I see Artie across the lane and down a bit. He's standing
on a hillock - kicking the motor of his ancient tractor.
       "You COCKSUCKER! I'm going to fuck you up
the whore ass of YOUR MOTHER!  ... ..She should have
sold you, you fuck.... I'm going to drive
you back into  the elements
 under  this  junk...  Here..."
         POUND!  
           
                He kick's it again. He's kicking some kind
of oil drum strapped to the motor
in a curious fashion....Are those suspenders?
Is the oil pan strapped on with some hobo's suspenders? 
Shit!  Maybe they're mine!
         
         BOOM!
           
           What an idiot! But, then, we always 
knew that.... he makes great booze, but he's not
the sharpest knife in the drawer... 
          (I was going to say, 'brightest light on the tree' but none of the lights up here turn on... or shine or glow or say, ' ho! ho! ho! ')

           No electricity!
          Oil lamps are wonderful... romantic &... they
truly are, but...it's hard to see what
 kind of bite you have on your ass
 from the night before... 
this was no mosquito!  
No bo weevil!  Do we have 
carnivorous beetles up here? 
.......and if we do... 
                   how many of them.... 
                                                   are there?

         I just had a huge sip of hooch. My headache has
now moved - it's affecting just the top half
of my head....like a yamouka headache... a 
toque-cut-in-half skull pounder.
         Oh, fuck! Better have another splash! "This stuff
will probably kill us..."

          "let's do another line 
           and then we'll hang out and dance         
            round... Heartattack & Vine"

           I'm standing half-way out of the foxhole.
My head's about two feet above ground. I see this
balding fat guy coming my way... in his hand
I see a Bible... 

         "BUT IF THINE EYE BE EVIL, THY WHOLE
BODY SHALL BE FULL OF DARKNESS! AND I SHALL
CAST YOU OUT!"he shouts.
           
            What the hell was that? The fat guy
in dark clothing is stumbling up the hill from the
river...with someone following.

             The last thing anyone needs with a hangover
is a loud cleric - a preacher who shouts - a fat fool
who is walking my way...howling out biblical phrases
out of a big mouth hanging open... He's gasping.            
he's breathing hard. But still he's shouting.

           One thing you gotta say about the Arctic 
Territories - we get some world class assholes up here.
Guys who anywhere else on the planet would be in jail.
They'd get arrested soon as they step south of 60.

         I turn my head.  Out of my foxhole - too
cold for mosquitos now, I hope...
           
         "BLESS YOU, MY SON, AND YOUR FATHER
AND YOUR FATHER'S FATHER EVEN UNTO THE
SEVENTH GENERATION!"
          "Aw, fuck!"This guy has his palm on my head.  He's BLESSING me! 
          "If you really want to bless me, buy me a drink!"
I call back... 
trying to crawl up to ground level
and extricate myself out of this  difficult
circumstance...                              
         That's all I can think to say, And it's heartfelt.
I snatch his wrist and bend it perhaps a tad too hard...
we're in the Arctic... land, trees and river for thousands of miles. And this fucker is invading my personal space!
          I slip my gun under his chin...and smile up at him as
 I climb up to ground level. Things are better now.

         "You leave him alone, or I'll gut you like a crab!"
          
          "????," I'm thinking, "Do you gut crabs?" My
brain is dead it won't rotate. 
          
            THUNK!
           
            Some fuckhead's trying to kick me in the
ballocks! I fire a shot off over the tall pine tree
Everything's quiet then for a moment. 
             I look across and see a pair of 
tight jeans... flaring up to very womanly thighs...
I reach out and cup her right ass cheek (can't control
the italics) She throws a boot at me again.
            Tries to neuter me.

          It's been so long since I've had a strange woman.
Doing her would feel like I'm watching football
on TV, which would be a lovely experience.  ( haven't seen football in what seems like years) For that matter I haven't seen T.V. in almost a decade.
           "I just wanted to see if you were real!" I  say.
"I'm Frank, by the way." 
           
          "That excuse is pathetic!," she spits the words at me:  "I should have you arrested!"
             I'm thinking, "Ho! Ho ho! If we jailed everybody who
grabbed someone's ass up here, we'd all be locked up."
             Sometimes in the throes of alcoholic dementia.... we hallucinate our neighbours are women... and winter is
summer... and it's time to take off all our clothes.
            "Where are the police!" she screeches unattractively.
             Artie's standing behind her. laughing hard. He's laughing so hard, he's wet himself again...his red apron has a large piss splotch on it... and other stains, too, from other
funny times. 
            Bad bladder.. no help for it up here...
             "He IS THE POLICE!" Artie says to her in a loud voice....The  kick in the balls revived the throbbing in my head. My groin is throbbing, too, and... oh! no! I sense
tumescence.First time a woman's touched me in six months - anything at all feels like affection... 
             (Except for Matilda, of course... but I know her
so well now... and we've shared so many strange
moments ---that 'her hands feel like my hands.")
               
             "DO NOT ENTER THE TENT OF THY
HANDMAIDEN, NOR HER SISTER, NOR HER
VIRGIN AUNT!" he bellows in a voice like
movie Moses . He thunders loud as the voice
of doom... This new maniac standing right in front
of me  in a trench coat...  
              Wait til I'm feeling sanctimonious, I'm
really going to lay into this prick... verbally.
              Now Wait-A-Bit has a population of 18.
               A foxy ball-kicker and a preacher who lays
it on too thick. They'll fit right in!
                
              Where's Artie?  I guess we'd better buy
them a drink. We don't get so many visitors here
that we can afford to turn any away...             
                  
                 Dear God, who is this loon? And
what's the name of his sexy sidekick? 
               Ho! Ho!         

        At least he's got his hand off my head.  
 He'd better learn to deal with sensitive souls
with hangovers up here... no loud noises,
no body contact (unless you have a yen to get on your knees), no sudden moves, no surprises - and no religion at all.
  





                                                                                                                               Chapter _?__


                                 
                                                                    (C) 2013 - WAIT-A-BIT!   TALES OF ISOLATION AND PANIC
                                                                                                  
                                                                                      MOONSHINE SKETCHES OF A PICKLED TOWN
                                                                                                   
                                                                                         (C)   by William G. Milne  All rights reserved.

HILARITY IN THE UNIVERSE!

     



          I HEREBY DECLARE THERE IS HILARITY IN THE UNIVERSE

      This isn't what I wanted to say. I used to be an attorney --- so if my words seem POMPOUS...  BLAME IT ON THE LAW!

... before I did what I REALLY wanted to do, which WUZ play guitar and make a  fool of myself on stage....
NO! NO! NO!
        That's not exactly what I want to say, either!

        THERE IS HILARITY IN THE UNIVERSE!

        And I know.

        Because I have seen vast portions of the universe... right from my perch on the toilet.
Well, not just when I was on the toilet... But ---
there too.

         I tell my buddy, "DON'T SIT ME NEXT TO A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN... I'LL BEHAVE BADLY!"

        I'll set the scene for you for you. 

                       SCENE 1  (exterior)

We're going to a concert. A bunch of my rock and roll pals are putting on a show... they are playing a bunch of songs --- including some of my songs... so I kinda have to be here.

      (EITHER I'LL END UP IN HER LAP OR SHE'LL END UP IN MY LAP)

       I told you!
       Or we'll have to nab her as she's sprinting for the door...

        There's nowhere to go outside this particular bar.... which is on the docks of WAIT-A-BIT... down by the big river where the
evil weasels live... women show up to these dances in old jeans and running shoes. But that's not going to help them.
          To the north (downriver) past where the big weasels rollick and dance under the northern lights of the NORTHWEST TERRITORIES... the weasels are bigger now...
((this is a state secret, but who we fooling?))
....to the north is Nothing.
... and to the south, Nothing, also.
       You can't go south. Certainly not in a canoe... You ever try to paddle 2,700 miles in a canoe? Maybe... Up river. Never. No way at all.
It's 1,700 miles to Great Slave Lake. Up river it's 2,700 miles. And when the flies come, it's 5000 miles. Impossible!
         In a plane, it's possible. But not pleasant.


        The horrible genetic makeup  of the king of the weasel family, in Canada, we call them "DEVIL BEASTS!"

(To be honest and fair --- the native people, the semi-original people of this area --- have called them "DEVIL BEASTS" far longer than we have, the so called 'white...ies"  have called them that.)
        They're also called "wolverines".  But not any more.

        Some geniuses in the Canadian Air Force
mixed WEASEL DNA (those tricky bastards)
with the entirely more devious HUMAN DNA
and consequently we have AN ENTIRELY NEW BEAST to deal with in the distant north (here) --- when we  had far too much craziness to deal with already.

               (The idea was: "It'll stop an invasion."
Ha! Ha! My thinking is this: "I haven't seen a tourist up here for 17 years...If we get invaded, I'll sell them my carvings. Ha! 
            Or sell them  the booze I've been making for decades. And haven't drunk yet. After a decade, if you drink it... you don't go blind.)

Craziness...
From dawn til dusk.... and the dawn never ends and the dusk never comes.

Now we have truly fearsome beasts, who are as smart as we are... and have sharper and bigger teeth and who are far, far faster than we are... 

You have to be a really good shot to save your ass. And you must have a firearm under your arm at all times.

 The fuckers have learned how to open doors.
...........


 Back to the dance... there is nowhere for the ladies to run to safety.

But that's not the point. The point is I'm sitting next to her and I'm trying to be vaguely human. ( Which I can be for about 3 minutes if I hold my breath and stare at the ceiling) What I'm saying is - I'm in an impossible situation -
if I'd known I was going to be in this very situation I would have taken care of my mad lust at least twice before the show and brushed my teeth at least once.
*************

      SO NOW... 
      I wake up this morning alone, and on my stomach and I'm laughing as soon as I sit up.
      This means I'm still drunk.
       I drank too much last night. And now I have to drink a lot more... this morning.

       I woke up clutching a sheath of papers like a bottle in my left hand.
       This is the first bit -just a bit- of what I wrote.
       At the moment, I'm feeling sensitive.
(translation = hung over)
       I'm afraid to read any more.



If I don't publish this now, I know I'll be smart enough not to publish this later.

(C) 2017 by W.G. Milne.

WHAT IS THIS? YOU LIED TO US! WHAT’S REALLY GOING ON? YOU SAY THERE’S A NEW DOCTOR AT THE SCHOOL FOR MYSTICS?

WORDS ARE ONE THING...BUT THEY BLIND US ----
"REALITY, & THE ACTUAL --- THIS  WORLD IS SOMETHING QUITE DIFFERENT                                        

           I’ve spent most of my life trying to 
figure out what the hell is going on
here, in this place where we are…
on this planet…Ever since they flicked
on the spotlights at my sudden birth.
        Do you ever look at a tree and say,
“How’d that get here?” 
        “Yeah, we call it a tree…and we think we
know what that is. But does anyone
know what a tree means here on this
weird planet which spins…
           … on which the sun is bright… 
the air is clear…travelling beings, we are racing
through space on a the crust of a  symmetrical
 rock, molten inside – zipping along
 at thousands of miles per second
on a parabolic  course which repeats itself
through the seasons… year after

year...

WHAT?

             And what the fuck is this?
Running over my hands… clear
like quicksilver…. 
             We don’t know what the water is.
Let’s not kid ourselves. ‘We have convenient names
for things we only half see’.   *
        

         There is a great confusion in names.
Once something has a name, we tend to ignore
its reality. We have this name, “raccoon" or
“crow” and it’s settled then, we know what
an animal  is because we’ve named him.

NAMES MAKE US BLIND TO THE TRUE

NATURE OF THINGS**

        ‘Names make us blind to the true nature
of things’   ** 

          But I can tell you one thing. Very few
people really know a crow… To know a crow
you have to spend time with a crow… I spent
six months with a crow in my living room
and I tell you what – a crow is very different than what
I had assumed a crow to be, until I had one
eating out of my cereal bowl in the morning…
and swooping down to pluck french fries off my three
year old child’s plate…
         Crows are fast, very fast. A crow’s beak
tends to be faster than our hands… and crows
like shiny objects and can use tools.Unfortunately,
crows have a tendency to hide these objects, such as
car keys and essential tools.
      And crows remember things. I’m not sure exactly what kind of things are stored away in those beady-eyed heads… But remember this, a crow can hold a grudge. 
A crow can remember 200 hiding places…
        And a crow can fly down to Carolina
in the winter and fly back the next spring
and land on your lawn right beside you as if
nothing has happened.
         
        What we don’t know about crows is what
we don’t know about every thing , living or not,
animate or inanimate. We don’t know what air
is and how it got here – just right for us to breathe.

THERE IS A BASIC WEIRDNESS ABOUT
THINGS,*** YOU EVER NOTICE? YOU EVER LOOKED
CLOSELY AT A BAT'S WING OR THE OCEANIC PATTERNS IN YOUR THUMBPRINT?

           There is a basic weirdness about things***…
You ever noticed? You ever looked closely
at a bat’s wing, the eyes on a peacock’s tail,
the eyes of a trout?
           Or  an otter . Or an apple,
a mango or an orange. We take these things
for granted.  But we don’t know what they are.
We do not fully digest the amazing fact
of the presence of these thing.
           Some days I step outside on a bright
and sunny day and I say, “Holy shit!  Who turned
on the lights?”
           
            This is why I honour hallucinogenic
plants and their medicines. They increase the
rate information leaps across the synapses
of the brain. We see things we have never
seen before. And we see people and objects
in an entirely different way.
             Such a change of perspective
is essential to the mystical quest.
              There is so much it is necessary to unlearn.

             Mystic have used sacred plants since
the beginning of time. Since I have been awarded a doctorate at the School for Mystics, I feel I can speak  
freely about this subject I have been studying
for years. 

               Of course, you don’t need to use 
hallucinogens to have a mystical experience or an experience of the sacred… 
               You can get the same effect by not eating
food for two weeks, by drinking only water. Then sounds
begin to irritate you… ( like the screech of streetcars)
 and you have stomach cramps, but really and truly you have a different perspective on things.
          You know things are weird, yea, likely sacred, too,
But you can’t experience the vision for long…
well, yes you can experience the vision… …
as you’re sitting on the toilet, doing a purge that
no one thought was needed, and certainly not you.
You didn’t want the purge, or anything that ressembled it. 
          Sometimes treatments just creep up on you. Sometimes the interns just creep up on you, when
you haven’t agreed to or signed on to a particular
procedure.
    
        You had no such intent. You wanted to
focus on the eye of the universe, not the eye
of you ass…
                Though both exercises can engender
 “deep” experiences… you wanted an in depth experience.
Well, I must say, even in the School For Mystics,
nothing is guaranteed.  You pay your quarter, swallow
the elixir and take the ride.

                I must say to you, though: which ever
approach you take on the mystical path, 
you must be comfortable with your bodily functions.
Don’t even take a step on the path to completion,
 if  vomiting or  total anal purges  disturb your sensitivity.

                Nobody said this would be easy…
                
              Even if you take the more
expeditious path, body purges will still
be necessary. No point in taking a rare
medicine, if you have a clogged up system. 
  
                 
                 Travel to foreign countries will give
you a different perspective also. I have traveled 
all over the globe meditating in places of power. 
                (And I missed a lot of good parties
 because I did this.  And one or two women have
left me, through sheer exasperation).
                 
                There are many mystical techniques,
but not all of them are legal.
                It has to do with what you  wear,
what you eat and don’t eat, when you ingest
sacred entities, and when you don’t.
                But first of all what you need is the
inquiring mind of the mystic. If the first thing
you think of when you step out your door is,
“What the hell is going on on this planet?  What’s
that, who’s this?”  etc.
                Then we can start talking about
techniques of cleansing, psychological preparations,
meditating techniques:    (First) How to focus.
                                     (Second)  How to see.

* I better put this into Walker Ballantine’s book of aphorisms

WHEN I SAW YOU - a song, with lyrics

I find this song mysterious, because when I first wrote it I didn't know who I was writing the song to...
         Over the years I've understood the song better.
              The best way I can put it is the song is written exactly for the person who is listening to it now.



"When I saw you,
Tears running down your face,
You were lost in time
And you'd lost your place,
Then I knew
Wherever you'd been
However you'd sinned
I'd see you through"

"When I saw you
And the world was wrong
You'd forgotten your dream
And you'd lost your song
Under the moon
When the streetlights were on
And your lover was gone
But the year was new"


"When I saw you,
Your sorrow in your hand,
Afraid to turn your head
And afraid to stand
When I saw you
By an ocean of sand
In a huge hourglass
And the sand had passed through"

"When I saw you
By the side of  the Seine
And the streetlights talked
By the river again
As the wind blew
Through your long flowing hair
The river whispered its truth
I was so glad to be there."

When I saw you.


(C) 1990-2017 by W.G. Milne and
       John Rock Corporation,
        All rights reserved.

MESSAGES OF MIND

A radiant day on the granite, yes
The sky displayed the white light of Eden
No one planted a seed, no one mended
We were sailing into the sea of dawn

The ruby fingers of the dawn lit up
Crimson colours on the great ship's side,
The Cosmic vessel's ties to Earth are cut
Sailing beyond the seven seas and tides.

We drift now into high weightless realms
Where messages of Mind travel right fast;
Words become unnecessary on this helm
Released the bonds of gravity at last

And now we speak in silence, each to each
Thoughts already heard before a voice can                  speak.







(C)2017 by W.G. Milne

SIX FOOT BLUE - lyrics

I usually sing the song in the key of C.
I use 9th chords.

lyrics



Went down to the delta
Try to find me a job
Spent so much time at the smelta
Got to be feeling odd
Someone said, 
"Fella, you know you got no God."

HOOK
I say, Billy, what you gonna do?
Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa whoa John
What you gonna  do? (this line in falsetto)
You got rings around your eyes,
And you're looking six foot blue!

Went down to delta
Try to shovel me some coal
Went down to the smelta
Got to be feeling old
Someone said: "Fella,
You know you got no soul"

HOOK

Threw down my shovel
Threw down my pick
Picked up my guitar
Learned to lay down some licks
Well, maybe I'm in trouble
But least I'm not feeling sick

HOOK





(C)2000-2017 by W.G. Milne,
     John Rock Corporation


With any luck I'll find an acceptable recording of this
song... and eventually I'll post it here.

MOONSHINE SKETCHES OF A PICKLED TOWN

There are a bunch of stories called, 'LIGHTHEARTED TALES OF ISOLATION AND PANIC.' Some pretty wild stuff about a town (which I made up) on the East side of The Mackenzie River, a couple of hundred miles south of Inuvik....just west of Great Bear Lake.... It's a village of foxholes because a fly-boy bombed the place out of jealousy...
The town is like Orillia in Steven Leacock's day, but it is far, far, far more savage

Have you ever been left abandoned in a strange remote place... and the plane that comes 4 times a year has left without you... and you're from New York City, and after 4 hours of utter silence you start teetering on the edge of totally unrefined madness... and you start crawling and weeping in a most undignified way... And you realize you are the only entertainment the village of weirdos living in foxholes have....
And they try not to laugh in your face, but it's difficult for them. You're the first tourist they've seen in 3 years...
and pretty soon they're on their knees laughing. Especially when you panic and run down towards the river, but you run smack into a tree instead.
See it from their point of view. There's no T.V. up there. The postman's been shot. Once every couple of weeks they might get a hint of radio.
link at: www.wait-a-bit.blogspot.com.
You'll find the whole story there.
(C) 2013-2017 by W.G. Milne . Hope you enjoy. Some of these stories are over 18 only.

THE RAVEN/RAVIN TIMES — NEWSPAPER IN WAIT-A-BIT

“THE RAVIN/RAVEN TIMES” OF WAIT-A-BIT! Wait-A-Bit has a new newspaper. It is called, “THE RAVIN’ TIMES” and as yet no one can predict whether the paper w

THEY SAY WE'RE NOT THE GOOD GUYS

          I ALWAYS thought we were.

        But if you look at the history of the North American peoples in the last 30 years, it hasn't been great.
        And we followed the lead of the leaders
of our county.

        We were either complicit, or we were
stupid.


        And that's all I have to say about that. I supported Trump during the last election
because of his sane policy of having some kind of detente with Russia.
          Hilary scared the hell out of me regarding
her bellicose attitude towards Russia.

          I don't know anything about the specific workings of the Intelligence  community. I am totally ignorant about the fine tuning that goes on there.
          But I have studied the situation in the middle east for thirty years. Syria has been Russia's client state for longer than that.
          We have a client state in the region, also.

         It's time for sanity, not idiocy. Look at the facts, that' all I ask.
         I am a Canadian patriot. No one can question that fact. I am not happy at Russia drilling for oil in Canadian waters. However, all this can be negotiated.

        But the press have a duty to report the facts. That's why the press have freedoms
granted by our founding documents.

        Both the United States and Russia have the ability to destroy the human world many times over.

       Get the facts people. Observe what has been happening through many sources. Read
history and don't trust all you read.
       We know the press slants things. But this shit is important. Derive a fair-minded position through you own studies,
don't trust me, either.

                                                     
       I'm  hung-over. 

       Nevertheless, how about we tell the truth for a change.

      

A SENSE OF POSSIBILITIES

"That'd be wild!"
I heard a girl
call out across
the street
and I remembered
amid the chime
of downtown bells
what it is like
to feel
a sense of
possibilities

how could I forget?
I wondered
how good I used to
feel, when I was
younger

and each day
offered some
new
alternative

or at least
the possibility
of something new
and exciting
a hope, an idea
an escapade
to build a dream om

"That'd be wild!"
she said, agreeing
to some night's
assignation...

and when you
have lost it
that sense that
anything
can happen
that something
new and entirely
different
will walk in
through the door
of your streetside
cafe...

some glimpse of
skirt
or scheme
to smash
the tedium
of the day
like yesterday's 
glass
we toasted
our hopes
in
and then threw
against the wall

still I dream of
my motorcycle
moving through
that forest path
the trees arching over
high, like cathedrals

the spears
of sunlight
through the
leaves

and you beside me
to raise that dream
again

of adventure
on the high seas...





(C) 1990 by W.G. Milne

HARD OLD ROAD (CRASHING THE BLUES)

                This song is about growing up in Jamaica.
My parents were throwing rather luxurious parties, and they were gone a lot.
        So I was under the care of Miss Gwendolyn Dickens of St. Ann's Bay. She took care of me and told me stories of how the police disciplined people and other tales of Jamaican lore.
        Most of all, Miss Gwen could laugh. And she knew when I was lying, which I did quite a bit in those days. Even then I was telling stories... Ha! Ha!
       About shooting snakes in California... I was six at the time.
       "When was this?" the portrait painter asked me.
        "Oh, a year or two back," I said confidently.
        The guy must have been a pretty good artist. When my mother saw the painting
and saw the expression on my face Antoine Verpilleux  had captured. She said:

       "You were lying to the man, weren't you!"

        There was no way out of that one. I was caught.
        Miss Gwen was the person who told me every week, "A man's strength is in his hair, Bill."
       Logical or not, I now believe it. I've had long hair ever since. And I do feel stronger with it.



(C)2017  by W.G. Milne

AS THE DAWN COMES AND MAITREYA COMES, TOO

May, it just drifted away on the wind;
April disappears like a poet's dream.
Philosophers think of what is and what's                        becoming,
Mystics hear the blood in stone five miles
           deep.

Shakespeare both thought and dreamed and                  knew what is;
Ministers need lessons from the artist's eye,
The seasons roll by inexorably -
Not one day can be slowed or hurried by.

The same is true of youth and age and sight;
Rational understandings disappear;
Visions of dawn are best learned in endless                     night,
And what you know, it's best to keep it near:

As the dawn comes and Maitreya comes too,
My deepest heart-mind turns to 
          dreams of you.





(C)2017 by W.G. Milne

COUNTRY VIDEOS ...

I love this tune! Wrote in on returning from Toronto, having played the clubs there for five (six? seven?) years, needing to relax in the Bay. Spitting up things in pails and needing a few good friends and a hideout. Well, I found both, and it was a magnificent, purifying period of time. Was I ever lucky!

Took a while for me to find this out out of my notebooks & music files, not so well organized, after all. There's something magical about this song. Maybe the magic comes from the friends who saved my ass & soul, way back when..

I remember sitting by a river with her, relaxing on the flat smooth granite rocks.

With the sound of the waterflow in our ears,we smoked a joint, breathed the free air, kissed a bit and drank rye whisky.

Free from the dirt and the power lines and the smog - free from the stage for a while and the pressure to perform.

Free to laugh and watch the firelight,

see the sparks disappearing up into the night.

((C) 2016 by W.G. Milne and John Rock Corporation.

SONGS FROM THE MORNING.... MAN'S QUEST FOR HOME...... with an ADDED EDIT

      The town raises its spires to the
heavens in the evening light;
he enters the harbour at last,
released from the sea
       to find a sailor's home,
sheltered on the beach
       a voyager resting, he speaks:

       "O wind, soothed, soft-spoken
silent wind, won't you blow my love
to me
        O night, dark-forgotten lonely
night, give your breath to be
         through the trees and ships' lights,
harbour, speaking wave-crests on the sea
         through the streets, lost-lighted
orchard keeping her leaves"

          speak, speak the circle opening
of grief and joy to be
          hold, hold within the water's bowl
a trace the wind will leave
          when the houses are gone here
and speak her love to me...

          for the moment we did not seize
and let breathe
          has passed and is gone


          so speak O you silent one,
soothed forgotten quiet one
           and give your breath of peace
to me this short while

         For home is the sea, bell-ringing,
sounding sea, curling waved
          low rising the tossing surf falls
the day
          O sea, soft watered shining sea,
be to me as a wife is, warm
to her lover
           and lull me, pull to me, cleanse
me with soft words
          
          I have seen your long-haired
women of the rocks, call, watery bowers
          and I have known your peoples,
never still, been with me
          O sea singing shining sea be
with me still in the evening.


********************************
       





(C)2017 by W.G. Milne

taken from a much longer poem
of several books,  this writing uses
a long line, more internal rhythms
and rhyme - and really, I think
should be read aloud. So I'll be
looking for a microphone to do this.


I did an edit at 4:00 A.M. this
morning. I took out a few wasted
words... and phrases that messed up
the rhythm of the lines...

Check out the following - after a week
of two we'll see if the edit is an improvement.

 "O wind, soothed, soft-spoken
silent wind, won't you blow my love
to me
        O night, dark-forgotten lonely
night, give your breath to be
         through the trees and ships' lights,
 the harbor,

         breathing wave-crests on the sea
 through these streets,

the lost-lighted orchard keeping her leaves"
speaks  the circle's opening

       speak O you silent one,
soothed forgotten quiet one,
            give your breath of peace
to me this short while

         For home is the sea, bell-ringing,
sounding sea, curling waved
          low rising, the tossing surf falls
on the day
          O sea, soft watered shining sea,
be to me as a wife is, warm
to her lover
           and lull me, pull to me, cleanse
me with soft words
          
          I have seen your long-haired
women of the rocks call, bowers watery,
          and I have known your peoples,
restless still, they have been with me
          O sea singing shining sea dance
with me still in the evening.

                                 *******

THE RAVENS NEAR ME

the ravens near me
feed their babe,
then it grows and
does not stay

where has my youth
      gone?
flown away
50 years pass
like the month of May

the wild geese fly...
Where do they go
      so far away?

the ice is closing
and winter comes
      upon its way...
where did summer go?

trees are bare and
gone to grey.






(C)2017 by W.G. Milne