Monday, December 29, 2008

Israel, you want peace in the Middle East?

Israel, you want peace in the Middle East? Here is what you can do...
By: Ken LaRive

1.) Reinstitute the original term Zionism to mean a Jewish Homeland, and not a Jewish State. Make this emphatically public. Stop using religious taboo to hide behind. Listen to your own Orthodox Jews who so overwhelmingly oppose your tactics. Change your flag to a peace sign, pure white on a field of gold... or perhaps this coexist symbol above?

2.) Stop Imperialism, and withdraw into your defined borders. Church and State is not the American way. If you want land, buy it, and with your own money. It should be my idea to help you, and I should not be forced if you do not represent my values, or what is good for America.

3.) Do not use high explosives in densely populated areas. Every time you kill an innocent child or person, you are creating more hate for you, and me, that will last generations.

4.) Become a True Democracy, where all religions and peoples are recognized and respected, with representation for all. America backs you now and has for fifty years, so why do you wipe your boots on what we stand for?

5.) Have a proper judicial system patterned on the justice of US and international law. Hear grievances in an open forum, and make it public. Become accountable for your actions. If you don’t want to be held responsible for crimes against humanity, do not commit them. Make the Israel Motto “What goes around comes around,” and perhaps you will see the problem, and how to fix it.

6.) Stop threats of complete nuclear annihilation of countries, which promote fear and further division. There is nothing to cause more hate and discontent than to make threats against the very existence of a people. You don’t like it, so why do it to others?

7.) Stop spying and stealing American technology. Quit using the money we give you to lobby our politicians to give you more. It shows you care little or nothing for us Americans who are flipping this bill, as you play us for fools. Stop riding on the back of American taxpayers, and stand on your own two feet.

8.) Do what is right from this point on and the world would someday forgive you. Make amends by becoming righteous, not only for your mostly secular regime, but for the good, right and liberty of all men... If you are truly a Jewish Homeland, promote and follow the teachings of your G-d, the Ten Commandments, the very basis of the Jewish-Christian laws of your primary friend and benefactor, America.

9.) Acknowledge that Israel is the birthplace of many religions, and respect that by stopping the wholesale desecration and destruction of meaningful religious sites for the sake of greed, the price of that property. Acknowledge the property that has been stolen, and give it back.

10.) Love your neighbor as yourself, and leave vengeance to G-d, as he who lives by the sword will die by it. Don’t expect the world, or America, to back you if you are in the wrong. Some of them have a free press and know you by the work you do, recorded and posted. It is coming to light now here again in America, as Truth is again becoming important in spite of your efforts at falsehood. What you do is becoming more and more evident with growing resentment that your negative accountability is in our name. If we are going to go to WW3, we should look closely as to why, and many fingers are pointing to you around the world...

Sunday, December 28, 2008

What to do? Faith to ward a cosmic joke...

What to do? Faith to ward a cosmic joke...
By Ken LaRive

A born optimist, (I have been called that); I have given men the benefit of the doubt. They have most often failed me however.

I know, as a situationalist, that there must to be something bigger, something far more sensitive, something more to believe that can transcend the thoughts and actions of men. Though I have tried and found little truth, I can’t loose my faith in God. Seeing myself so small, so vulnerable, I choose to believe. You see, it seems that if I didn’t have that particular kind of faith, I could not go on. I would not do myself in, but I could no longer consider myself a human being, as everything would then be considered some great cosmic joke.

Christmas is a time of reflection, and with the world in such turmoil these days, it seems my thoughts go to some of the more somber times. Though this happened between thirty-five and fifty years ago, I remember them like they had occurred yesterday.

I have seen a child with MS ask his dad to walk. His dad knew he would not live to see twenty five, and I remember his face as he carried him on Boy Scout outings with us. He, his dad, brother and mother are al long gone now, but their faith and goodness stay with me every day.

I once listened to the grandmother of a girl of 17 on her death bed begged her mother not to let her die. She said: “Mom, I want to live. I don’t want to die! Help me mom...” She told me of the anguished cry from the mother as she held her those last hours. Those memories stay with me, as I watched each of them go.

I have watched our country slowly die, and what made us great, what we held up to God as example, disintegrate by evil, self motivated and self centered ideals, and the fear that fills our hearts as change sweeps over us unchecked. Its memory fills me with such loathing, such loss, I seem paralyzed. What we find is out of our control saps the strength from our arms. What men have done for power and control our children and their children we will pay for, no doubt.

I have watched grown men, grandfathers, fist fight at a stop light, and while I could barely shave I watched the flash of bombs falling in pristine jungles with words like “Fuck You” and “eat this” written on them by my friends...

...a live cow put into an augur by a forklift, the skinned cats of PI, the elephants of Equatorial Guinea, and their cries of pain eco in my mind, They remind me of the many many things I have seen us do to animals around the world, so insensitive we are to pain not our own.

I have seen a pile of cubes, black on one side and white on the other, piled on my neighorbor’s lawn, a cut up black lady, and her husband in handcuffs, when I was six.

I watched a government official cry on television as my parents were dying in the heat, without water, and I was blocked from going to them by officers and snipers who both thought what they were doing the right thing, and the officers who took their own life that night.... oh God.

I watched children in my neighorborhood grow up to be suicidal homosexuals, alcoholics, and child abusers. A woman burned to death because of the bars she had put up for protection, a man who killed himself and his wife because of the horrible cancer she had, and the man who lost his daughter because she tried to hold in vomit at Mount Carmel, and no one knowing what to do to save her, and he, just two years later shot dead in front of his wife and their other child by three men in a car wanting his wallet in broad daylight in front of his house freshly painted with a Christmas wreath of twinkling lights, as the man who had poisoned his dog just a year before, for barking at night, came to his rescue trying to stop the blood from poring from his chest, (he cried and cried, they all did, but he died in their bloody arms), and I at twelve, had just set cherry bombs with fuzzy fuses in front the house across the street because I didn’t like one of his red-headed daughters... He died of cancer, his wife long gone of leukemia, his house leveled by Katrina, and forty years of dust and wind... is a run-on sentence that still runs-on in my mind’s eye. Racial riots on my ship coming back from Vietnam with 600 men hurt, three men OD from drugs in a war zone not declared, a black man kicked to death by boys who were dressed and acted just like me, my friend’s girl friend cutting her neck as she went through the wind shield, the old man who died alone and wasn’t found for weeks across the street, the twin who died on a motorcycle at 16, and this is the tip of what is swimming in my head... What is in yours?

No matter where we point there is pain, hardship, anger, fear and longing hunger of the spirit. I see hope dashed by those who feed on diversity, bogus news without truth, without love, and I see children speeding down Camellia in their parents 120k cars that could possibly do 180KM on the Audubon. I see ignorance revealed, jealousy, envy, and greed dominating this world, and money's corrosive yoke dividing us like seeds from hulk. What are we to do? Turn a blind eye? Watch television, jack off, drink your self into a stupor, lock your doors, turn on the alarm, write an article of fact that the newspaper won’t print because it will piss-off someone? Trade truth for money?

How can we look at ourselves in the mirror? We are arguing about what the word marriage means when we had 40 million abortions since Roe VS. Wade? Too harsh to talk about during Christmas time? What better time, when drunks are on our streets, eight more deaths in NO tonight by Mexicans killing blacks to control the drug cartel we require? We vote a man in and in retrospect admit we did it because he seemed the lesser of two evils? That stirring up the pot will somehow make the changes necessary for a better world, hoping he lied and will do the right thing, voting him in, in spit of knowing his record... as I was told at a Christmas party? Can’t we find one man among us who is honest enough, savvy enough, insightful enough to bring us into this world of ears being grown on rats, human cells instilled in vegetables and animals, computers with emotion and insight and self awareness, where clones are being done without moral considerations, and our liberties and freedoms taken from us without a fight! Without so much of a whimper! ...we grovel to a few who tell us what to think do and say by taboo both religious and social! Are we gutless!

Yes, I believe in God. I see his works every day in the smallest of things. I see the small fern on the side of my house trying to take hold, to push roots into the mortar where a few drops of water have fallen to discolor the brick from a leak in the copper gutter. I see the carpenter bee drilling a hole in the overhang, and though I know they are destroying my home a little at a time, I seem now very reluctant to harm them. Over sensitive? What comes to mind when my best friend called me just days before he died to tell me he should have listened to me not to smoke. Does his voice seem clear to me as I see the girl with beautifully painted nails roll down her window so as not to stink up her car from the cigarette between two long perfectly formed fingers made by God? Her lungs fill with 600 chemicals, but her interior smells of new leather! Do I love her? A person I don’t know, but so similar to myself at that age? What have I learned, and what can be said when the same mistakes are being made over and over again, compounded by uncontrolled change for the sake of change, without wisdom, and without the common sense of a damned monkey!

I can’t correct this essay properly. Every time I read it I cry. Strange isn’t it.

I think about the world we are leaving for our grandchildren, and the gravity of it weighs heavy, because I know that God had nothing to do with this. It is men who are responsible and it will be men with vision, optimism, and hope that will have to save us here on earth. What happens after is in God’s hands, but now, for now, we are responsible, and there are precious few who are.

What to do? Do what is right! We know nothing about what we have until it is lost, and that says volumes about our nature. The loss is so great it is unfathomable to those who follow the code of ignorance is bliss, as the world continues to devour itself without a thought for tomorrow.

Monday, December 22, 2008

Gun Control in a polite society

Gun Control in a polite society
By: Ken LaRive

There are some among us who care little or nothing for life. Now that our economy is down, those anti-social misfits will become more evident. New Orleans has horded these malcontents long before my family’s flight in 1976. It looked like the hand of God had washed them away during Katrina, some even shot as snipers, but they are indeed back in greater numbers. Though our Governor has promised to make positive changes long before his election, nothing seems evident in this regard. It is agreed by FBI files that it is more dangerous to travel through New Orleans then our two war zones. Our Crescent City is now considered the most dangerous place to live in America.

Last month New York made it illegal to carry a hand gun in the City Limits with the hope of curtailing crime. Crime has escalated in spite of the attempt at bogus numbers. All around the country it is known and well documented that the worst crimes are committed in gun-free zones, and schools are a primary example. A recent article by Ron Paul made note that shooting sprees are unlikely to take place in a gun and knife show, or a military base, the point being that a truly polite society is an armed society.

We looked again in awe last month as nearly 200 people were gunned down in India. None of them were armed, as guns are illegal, but those terrorist had no trouble securing them, and the innocent were shot in the back as they tried to run. Those who do not respect the law or the rights of men, whether they be organized crime, terrorists, or a dictating government, guns will be utilized...

Some Democrats want our guns. They have said so on many occasions. History shows the dynamic changes that take place when a society is at mercy of power, and no greater example is Hitler’s genocide. If a government is to truly control it’s populous, first they must disarm them. From my life’s observation, no other time can I remember where government was regarded with so much mistrust and disdain. Expanding social and ethnic problems stimulate drug trafficking and violet crime, compounded by the masses of illegal’s coming through unsecured borders has never left us more vulnerable. It seems that only when something is taken away is it truly appreciated... including freedom, liberty, and our safety.

We should be very wary if any legislative attempts to limit ownership of guns. Automatic weapons such as machine guns should be eliminated, but hand guns, high powered rifles with scopes, and shotguns are our constitutional right to bear. Though many of our rights and liberties have recently been curbed, we have a natural right to protect ourselves, and that takes precedence over any man-made law. Every country we have ever warred considered our weapons before an invasion attempt, and this kept us safe and free. A free society is one who can defend itself, and politely put, we had better hope that our government has the good sense not to attempt it. I just can’t see our country giving them up easily.

What government would, for its own well being, pit brother against brother? But then, it seems evident that these polarizations that so divide us, are indeed manufactured by them.

Our polarized country and economic downturn is unquestionably the fault of governmental intervention. It is said we are fighting an illegal war according to UN mandates, mandates we previously help set, and so it seems evident that the ideal of our new order of government would seemingly think little of our rights and liberties if we couldn’t defend them. There is ostensibly little difference between the aisles in this regard. We should have trust and faith, not fear or phobia for our government, or the society they have fashioned. But it seems that in finality, it is only in God we can trust.

Thursday, December 18, 2008

The defining crux of the American Republic

The defining crux of the American Republic
By: Ken LaRive

I dislike and mistrust President Elect Obama because of what he has stood for in the past, not for what he will most likely fail to do in the future. Simple math can tell there is no way he can implement the massive amount of spending and the inordinate taxing it will take to float his radical liberal proposals. It is just as well that he lied, because his attempts would have sunk us deeper into a socialistic-nationalistic state that is so opposed to the Capitalistic Republic that has sustained us.

We have only ourselves to blame if America sinks further, because once we stand back, history will reveal the true reason we are in this fine economic and political mess. We gave America away. As we watched television, played games, made no rational demands, stimulated by immediate gratification, we lost our country.

This economic fiasco is set not only by a selfish, agenda-motivated left, but also by a weak-natured blind right who have lost an understanding of what it means to be a Libertarian Republican in a Liberal Republic. Both factions sacrificed what was good for America to stay in power, but it is we who voted them in.

Obama and his associates, if given the chance, will indeed attempt to suck the life force from hard working Americans by a variety of hidden methods for redistribution of wealth, making collective America more dependant, week-natured, immoral, ignorant, pride less, and anti-social, but that is not carved in stone. These hollow promises can still be resisted. It seems evident that government no longer sees itself as representing us, and so it is up to us to stand between them and the ensuing domination they are attempting.

Our Social Security has been squandered as the largest Ponzi scheme this world has ever seen, and an orchestrated blame game hides facts from the American people by a biased liberal media. It is a method long used by all manipulative authorities in the world, and as disharmony is promoted among the populous, they continue to profit and remain in control.

I no longer see our government standing up for this singular principle, the crux that defines who we are. Government should do nothing but our collective bidding. If they do not, they should be voted or ousted out by the force of our residual constitutional rights. So entrenched, taking back our government will be no easy task. Only a liberated and united America can hope to see truth revered, and our rights restored.

Sunday, November 9, 2008

Exploring Henderson Lake

Henderson Lake, Sunday, November 9, 2008

The landing at 3177 is closed so I drove south to Butte la Rose then west on Par Road 196. I looked at several places to put in but didn't like them so kept going to Coffee Town Levee Road and put in at a landing close to Pat's. It was a beautiful day, cool and clear. I brought my Nikon with a polarizing filter to get rid of glare and was very careful for stumps. Most of the day I traveled at 1 mph and I still bumped a few. What I think was a large gar swam past me in the middle. It must have been very large with a large fast ripple. Great day. The Butterflies followed me for miles...

Friday, October 3, 2008

Silence of the lambs

Silence of the lambs by Ken LaRive

Click on this above and listen to the music while reading, if you can.

We are now, for all intent and purpose a socialistic state, in spite of the warnings. Is there any chance of turning back? Not without the fight of your life! What it would take is to organize, but...

Amazing, but even in this final hour, when both parties supposedly came together to “bale out” America, there was millions between the pages of pork spending. What a cold slap in the face. It indicates just how stupid they think we are. Are we?

Most likely just a few will stand up. You and I are indeed an easy mark. Just a glimmer of hope and we will collectively sit on our fat asses and watch the next ball game while drinking copious amounts of beer and scratch our beer-nuts. Oh yea, we’ll talk about politics during half time and figure we did our part.

Twenty percent of America disappeared in one week and we sit back without a squeak. We worked our fingers to the bone day in and day out our whole lives; our ancestors died and sacrificed to give us this amazing gift, America, and we piss it away to those who know only how to take, while our borders are flooded by millions unchecked with demands of payment by default. We’ll pay, because we are collective cowards, fat lambs just rip for the picking. We talk and talk about the biased press, corruption in government, but we buy the paper anyway, for the clippings to save 25 cents, sports, or to scan the death notices. Truth eludes us where agendas rewrite history, and bogus lies are promoted so cleverly we think it to be an original thought.

Silence of the lambs by Ken LaRive 01022008

Writing and photography for small Louisiana newspapers has been a passion of mine for more than 11 years. With 451 published so far, taking about a half day each to compete, it seems a significant effort. Not only was it time consuming, but it was done on moments borrowed or stolen. You see, I had a real paying job. What is more precious than time? I could have otherwise spent it selfishly, like making more money, or completing another ‘honey-do’ job, but instead I tried to do something good for America, to bring truth to light.
At times I thought the effort was appreciated and that a difference was made, by an email, a letter from a reader or my editor, or a person I met on the street. Those compliments filled me, motivated me to continue, and to try harder.

I found a lot of stumbling blocks in this industry, and I tried to circumvent them as best I could. Not being paid was a real stumbling block, as it became apparent that sometimes this was significant to the person I submitted to. My cause was not theirs, my situation not their own, nor did I have anyone to answer to. I was never invited to any newspaper Christmas party.

The business seemed to be a harsh environment with a lot of layoffs, transfers and deadlines. I watched good people sabotaged, disenchanted, disenfranchised, and burned out, punished at times by people I considered to have mediocre talent calling the shots. But more was going on between the pages, the true motivation of this business, which took me a lot of time to realize.

There is a true mindset in the publishing business, and it goes from the center of the publication to the very heart of the person reading it. I found that a very heavy responsibility to bear, and I took it seriously. You see, I had no agenda but truth. And with no boss under someone’s thumb I was completely independent. I felt no obligation to the publication but to make facts known. It was difficult, with a wide variety of walls, but I pressed onward over and over again, until I was finally blackballed four months ago. McCarthyism, propaganda, agendas, and yellow journalism are alive and well in America? I’m blackballed, and indeed, I’m not the only one.

So how could this happen to a writer who wants only to promote truth? You would think that would be an asset in our American system, where free thought thrives, and truth is sought to be precious. I studied the utopian systems in Professor Tungate’s class at Loyola called ‘Mass Communications’, and though I found it difficult, with only a low B as grade, I took what I learned to heart. It seemed to me that truth would be the primary spirit, an engine fueled by truth, but I assure you these models do not exist in the real world.

At first, for the young ones, I saw honesty and sincerity as they went out as new journalists. Green behind the ears they set upon a utopin path, one taught by well meaning optimistic teachers. I saw the change. It was quite evident in their faces., as soon it became evident to them that survival depended on something far more base. Their childlike optimism was replaced by something akin to fear and disillusionment. No one wants to admit fear, but the years of school, the unfulfilled dream, worked itself into the muscles of their heart and it was reflected in the lines on their faces. In most cases it was their responsibilities was the true catalyst to stimulate and manages the business at the front line, their desk. Sure, I saw those who tried to retain deep inside a semblance of right and wrong, but it was well guarded and hidden, and with time faded. After all, there is a lot a stake. They have a significant amount of time invested, a family to raise, insurance needs for failing health, and a barrage of other responsibilities that weigh heavy. They have also seen first hand what has happened to others who decided to stand on a principle not viewed by peers, and they now work in distribution or out of the business completely. Nothing wrong with those two options, but a writer who is silenced is such a travesty; it is indeed beyond words, a true and rather pitiable paradox in a country where freedom is so freely described. It isn’t that a person is right all the time, but that he has a right to try.

Ron Paul said: "The most basic principle to being a free American is the notion that we as individuals are responsible for our own lives and decisions. We do not have the right to rob our neighbors to make up for our mistakes, neither does our neighbor have any right to tell us how to live, so long as we aren’t infringing on their rights. Freedom to make bad decisions is inherent in the freedom to make good ones. If we are only free to make good decisions, we are not really free."

There, beyond the lens of people who stand between the drying inks, is the institution. Weather it be mega-conglomerates, or even at times an Independent, most weigh the bottom line heaver than any balance of truth. A paper’s primary focus is to survive, just as the managing editor on the front line. CPA in pin-striped suits press buttons, pushes agendas, promote, motivate, coerce, repress, manipulate, and control all in their domain for the almighty buck. That’s their job. Truth is not promoted if it doesn’t pay.

Right and wrong is blurred by what can be legally accepted, and a thought can be justified, dignified, warranted, easily defended and vindicated by bogus facts. It is more than an agenda for survival, but also to promote. To them, if you put it to words in a way where it is believed and accepted, if it makes money it becomes Truth. Morality makes no play in it. Look to the masses. Who are we? What have we become? It is a widespred and promoted belief in the newspaper industry that the primary people who read the paper have the educated mentality of a sixth grader. That is what they think of us, and I see now how they can believe that! People think on a mass level that if it is printed it is True. No way would it be possible to get away with leaving out or instilling a vital element of information to promote an agenda. No way! That would be wrong! But this is common and accepted practice in this business.

More to be said is the distinct possibility that the masses don’t want to know the truth. Not only would they not know it if they saw it, but they don’t want to be made to feel uncomfortable in any manner. Must admit, Truth does sometime have a way of upsetting people, and God knows they might cancel the paper if they became disconcerted. People are reluctant to change, and that goes double for a brainwashed someone who didn’t do their own homework. They would fight to the death then admit they were duped.

Newspapermen would mostly scoff at the idea that the readership is grossly needed anyway, because they know that readership does not in itself make or break a paper, advertisement does. The price of the paper most probably doesn’t pay the ink and paper, much less the spectacular salaries of their employers. I’m indeed being facetious. It is notable that they are very underpaid for the amount of effort and education they have. No, if you want to change a paper, make an effect, or a permanent mark on them, quit advertising. Yep, it’s that simple. Subscriber numbers are used to sell advertising, so those numbers do have meaning to, however, how would a person who wants to advertise know if those numbers are correct? They don’t. One has to trust that the little sales girl was told the correct number to tell you. Kind of a catch 22, isn’t it?

If I write about our moral obligation to slow down on Camellia, or promote the BSA, I have only a short wait and I’ll see my picture and text. Anything of substance like our Louisiana representatives trying to do business with Fidel Castro, Drugs in our University, black on white crime in relation to Jena, Israel as a catalyst for war, or even a story about the man who did more for Louisiana Education than anyone else, who invented the POPS program, are never published. I lost both parents to Katrina, and watched what transpired, and I know who was at fault. My first hand opinion was thought to be too biased.

Questions go unanswered by phone calls and email, and so it seems that the bulk of ones work is meaningless or disregarded, if even a fraction of it is associated with some form of taboo, taboos designed to discredit anyone and anything that doesn’t fit, or threatens their safe point of view. It should be their job to tell the news, not interpret it. Promoting an agenda is opposed to a free press, and thwarting opposing ideas is the epitome of slavery of the will. It seems to be an easy thing to do, and runs unchecked, because both the populous and our own government haven’t the gumption and intestinal fortitude to stand up to it. Why? Because they have an agenda too! The Truth is left out not only because few care to know, or just too afraid to know, but that they can get away with it!

I tried to make a difference. I attempted to bring to light what I saw in my travels, how other people lived, and how similar we all are. I tried to show the true reason we are about to go to war, how our leaders are outright lying to us, how the world thinks, and how they view us. I offered solutions based on the teachings of Jesus Christ. I tried to show that most answers are easily found based on the premise that righteousness comes from doing what is right, and that right is based on unselfish love. I told this to people who would vote for a man who would promote abortions because of the promise for a menial paycheck, or tax advantage because they are too lazy to compete on a level playing field. They know so little about history and the world they would choose Socialism, if indeed they even knew what that concept ment. They would give up their freedoms, their very souls, they would sacrifice the lives of hard working people as a parasite, without pride, without honor, and without it seems, a simplance of hope. What a concept? So clear, so concise, but so out of vogue... so unpromotable, so unlucrative!

What if someone knew the real reason we are going to war, and wants to explain how to get out of it? What if someone knew the real reason we are paying high gas prices, and how to stop it. Or why Louisiana has so much corruption, why Jindal can’t stop it, and what can be done? What if it was just laid on the table why black men are so weak-natured, irresponsible, and unresponsive to change, when books like ‘Tally’s Corner’, and ‘Black is me’ were studied forty years ago, along with 1984, which is hardly remembered today. Silenced? Why? What if solutions were at hand, but the media silenced it?

Why would you have a taboo about mentioning what percentage of Jews are in the 350 who run this country, and why isn’t there one Muslim? This is America after all, with liberty and justice for all? Why can’t we know out front how secularism is destroying the moral fabric that made us great, even from the founding father Deists who promoted Christ? Why can’t we talk about the true reason we are so divided politically in this country when the average Joe are all middle of the road politically. Why can’t we talk about yellow journalism, subliminal advertising, and agenda promotion without right and wrong considered, or meanings of life based on agape love and not hormones? How twisted are we that we would use sex to sell nearly everything, then have the gall to separate hundreds of children without due process from families who choose to separate and not participate in that disgusting process? Double standards are promoted because it sells! It becomes so twisted, so complicated, that Truth is buried and hidden from view. Something they like, indeed.

Concepts like: A One World Order, the difference between a Secular and religious Jew, the similarities of religion and our basic similar needs, American tax expenditure around the world, the true reason abortions are so promoted and prevalent, the death of Christianity and the rise of both Islam and Secularism taking its place in Europe, the downfall of the EURO and their rapid unchecked inflation, our devalued dollar on the international market, the ACLU’s agenda and who and why is it impacting American hard won values, unchecked illegal aliens in a land where 90 percent of the populous disfavor it. Why did we go into Iraq? Who gave us false Intel about weapon’s of mass destruction? Who bombed the WTC and why? What were Waco and its impact on our civil liberties? Where today children can be taken from their parents without due process, as the media promotes it with words like compound and cult? Why are we about to go to war, a world war? What is Secular Zion, and how do they influence American politics? Who actually runs America, we the people? Who are we today? What have we become? We accept the fact that 80 percent of children are now born out of wedlock, that drugs and immorality is ramped, that we are noted to be the nicest but most ignorant industrialized country on the planet, and that our unbelievable money making machine called ‘the American Middle Class” actually makes the world go round with what is taxed, and that we consume 25 percent or more of all raw materials on the planet.

Just think what we could accomplish if we stuck together, if we had a leader with vision, if we had gumption, as so it was said even in Roman times: “One does not know what he truly possesses until it is lost.” What power does America have unrealized when we are known to be the least educated in the world? I see children in Honk Kong reading Chinese on one page and English on another while their mother cooks pieces of bread in an open fire under high-rise skyscrapers wrapped in bamboo scaffolding!

Well, folks, I’m a bit at a loss as to what to do next. Might seem that I have bitten the dust, and surely I have lost quite enough sleep about it. Surely don’t want to go out thinking I made no difference, that the effort was in vein. Seems evident in retrospect that the effort was just a tiny effort to what needs to be done to wake up a dying land... I remember the time we all stood together to stop the disgusting gansta-rap in Circuit City. All they play now is Disney, and even though even Disney is now perverted, I saw what could be done when we all stood together.

Accountability, responsibility, duty, honor, obligation, are forgotten concepts that only a handful still hold as the rock for Truth. And of those precious few, only a few have the time, energy, or inclination to promote what in their heart is known to have an ultimate meaning. It seems that mostly I talked to walls, and gave some people good practice with their delete button. Even a well thought-of person in my community sends me emails where one out of five turns out to be bogus BS. No matter how many times I send it back to him corrected, he still does not check to make sure of accuracy before forwarding another, and makes no comment on my effort to correct him. He wants to be known to care, his attempts to make a difference, but just like most folks, he wants to trust the system, a system that no longer exists. But then how do you explain that a cause is already lost if it is based on lies, promoted by lies. Even the teachings of Jesus would fail if based on lies!

Since the under-the-cover discussions by several, but not all, local publications, I can no longer get the time day from them. I have been approached by several publications from both England and Indian Newspapers, after my inquiries, of course, and just a touch of negativity toward America would insure this. To me, after reading their publications at 33,000 feet, I see that even though they show the opposite side of our liberal media, it is still biased in its primary design. Possibly only one opinion out of fifty is pro-America. Since our media no longer represents a free press, I am hard pressed to see any difference between them, and these most disconcerting International ones.

And so, though being told to shut up hurts deep, a fighter from the interiors of New Orleans learned to pick his battles. I can see no solution but to withdraw from this mode, and to finally submit to the powers who threaten the very freedoms and rights my ancestors died to promote and defend. To me, the fight seems lost to a medium unwilling to show Truth, but the proof seems evident from a different perspective, and the real reason this country is in danger... To me, of the 82 people this has been sent to by email, possibly one in ten will have finished it, and even fewer will understand its ramifications, consequences, or truly care. Shortly, all that I have aspired to do and my effort to find and promote Truth will be forgotten. It will be covered by metaphorical fertilizer that stimulates the bottom line to bloom. In that garden, there can be no place for a flower that points and indicates the weeds and parasites that choke it, nor could I be content to reflect the clouded sky above by playing their game.

The fight for Truth will continue, of that I am certain, where might for right will attempt to stymie every war, and light every heart. There is hope in that, unfortunately, one seldom knows what he has until it is lost...

Thursday, September 11, 2008

FACETS (Poems and Thoughts by Ken LaRive)


Page one

I wrote this, as with most of my writing, in the dead of night and offshore. There, in front of my computer I can transport myself anywhere, and this pours fourth…

Ode to Spring

Oh, what divine sweetness lay,
When once the sodden chill gives way,
To the fragrant springtime’s full bouquet.
Here, the delicate new buds of softest green,
Speckled by dogwood hues, so rarely seen,
The flashing of the ruby-throats at play…

To walk the winding trail again,
Where bees hang afresh in metallic vim,
A queen’s nectar pours, her vibrant dances send…
By the flowered dewberry, plumped with grand conception,
Wherewith, this seasonal murmur of new dimension,
Unfolds in rich diversity, divinely ordained…

What goes unseen by thy bedazzled eye,
Where flickers to quick for senses lie,
As wind-songs that breeze so blissfully by…
Of a language that perplexes mankind,
As fading April glows in twilight time,
There looms once more the summer’s sunburnt skies…

There is a hunger to feel the forest glade,
Where sun-bleached wood and acorn lay,
Amid tall grasses in the heat of day…
Fresh baked to fill, it can smooth thy furrowed brow,
In dreams, where wing’ed maple seeds will plow,
Imagination grows where spirit’s vision play...

What art the tangled thorns, and bubbled brook,
For soft pastels that strain through thicket nook,
And competition’s dice befalls the shepherd’s crook…
Grow lightward past the zenith’s surging height,
What inspiration of tender vision, a mortal sight,
Found in so loving a created rapture, divinely took…

Page two

What study, from field or mountain’d learned,
Of leaves that twist, in winds delicately discerned,
So beautiful, it sets one’s heart to burn…
Rain washed, and awakened in a diamond light,
A facet, once cleaved, sets free a thought to flight,
And presents delightful measures in its turn…

Feed the glowing embers in thy breast,
As spirits soar, the forest promotes heart’s purest,
Driven in thy vision, is loves quickening quest…
Behold! As God’s most cherished and worn,
We men, can understand the blossom’s thorn,
Transparent, we are illustriously blest…

I once spent a few days in Phoenix Arizona for a sales class. In the early morning a friend and I went for a walk in the desert. It was amazingly beautiful close up, like a planted garden…

Desert Flower

Nurtured on condensation’s dew,
And the sparkled cool of morning,
It appeared…

A delicate pastel-colored bloom,
So soft with hope, and blood-red with promise,
As it slowly fluttered open…

A tiny and delicate blossom,
On a fine thin stem it swayed,
In the heated desert winds…

It followed the yellow glare of sun,
Under deep-blue vaults of sky,
Along it’s natural course…

It called with sweet perfume,
And droplets of a honey-nectar elixir,
For bee and butterfly…

Page three

In turn, they brought it life,
As on their gossamer wings, a golden dust,
Called germination…

And the day wore on to twilight,
AS it’s petals fell dried and curled,
On the cooling sands…

Held deep in a thorny bosom,
A nourishment was found,
In a seed of new life…

And as morrow comes and goes,
In cyclic rhythmic overture,
A nucleus divides…

I have experienced fog in its many ways of showing itself. Only when it means a delay going home do I see its other side…

As Fog

Somewhere between the crystal of blue skies,
and the sparkling of morning gold,
it reigns…

Like molten light, betwixt the strata of pastel rose,
and the muted spray splashes of lilac and lavender,
it condenses…

Pulled by night-cold seas, the ebb of warm day winds,
and the dawn’s own blend of ivory and ebony processes,
it transforms…

As fog.

Page four

Consciousness is the realization of self. What puts it there I can’t say, but with the breath of life, the soul was born, and with it came the realization of the concept of “self”. It was then that men looked at the wold, his own life, and a place in it of his own design…


Born of fear,
In the company of pain,
From blind and primitive longings…
It transcended,
Floating free beyond the mind’s eye…

Self-evident, we grew upright,
Grasping by opposing thumbs,
For that first focus on reality…
Balanced on an electrochemical thought,
A decision was made…

In the cold, a blinding light,
Of conscious affirmation,
So soon laid bear, an immortal soul…
From the dust, a breath of hope,
As a candle in the dark…

Suddenly vistas were seen,
Through the eyes of possibilities,
On a cognizant plain…
Where wings of truth unfold,
As in the pangs of death, our destiny is revealed…

From the duality of guilt and reason,
On the pyre of blame’s despair.
A tear was born…
Washed pure our ignorance’s bliss,
With the bittersweet taste of good and evil…

With the first of nature’s elements,
A comprehension of ourselves,
Through a mirror of realization, it formed…
By the echoes of our laughter,
And the wonder of it all…

Page five

I have come to perceive that everything found in this life is a gift. Even the hardest to understand or deal with is presented to us with the express purpose of learning from the experience. It is the attitude one takes toward life that will relinquish the best or worse of what can be taken…

A Fresh Chapter

Elements have been used for man-made pain,
Born by perverted lusts of power and gold.
History is sold in dogmatic flame,
For wings of blood-lust blackness to unfold.

Suffering is the common way of man,
Cold-fired by his iron will to bend.
Joy falls through his hands like hot desert sand,
For the horror of his ancestor’s sin.

But there are wonders left on earth’s carved face,
Where precious dreams of hope can still be found.
As empty hearts transcend both time and space,
The spirit’s path is balanced safe and sound.

The gift of hope stirs deep in every soul,
Beauty of Truth is there for each to find.
A fresh chapter starts, and the story’s told,
Of new-found hope that shines for all mankind.

There’s still time for a glory song to sing,
Where the sweet voice of innocence will see….
That strength of purpose flies on righteous wing,
As basic Truth is freedom, to just be.

Keep your spirit true to your own heart,
Responsible to self with steady hand.
Volition is the path your conscious starts,
To know full well the measure of a man.

Stand your ground with a warrior’s moral path,
Of purpose found in what you’ve found as right.
Your life will give you joy in what you have,
And light your way throughout the darkest night.

Page six

Remember that your purpose is to learn,
That nothing in this life belongs to man.
As in your heart free spirit wills to burn,
It’s all on loan to help you understand.

Take whatever hand this life can offer,
Though pain of loss seems more then you can bear.
Find that good and bad have equal measure,
And possibilities will multiply there.

I observe God’s inspiration in every person, weather they are aware of it or not. Sometimes in the simplest of tasks can be found a precious element of inspiration…


From God’s own creative spirit…
It flows as…
A glow of color that grows with insight
in a fever of organic fervor
On a plain just within reach
as a washing, a cleansing, a pulling
That rush of adrenaline…
In a surge of energy
where pain and pleasure mix
and joy and horror intertwine
in a helix of spirituality
It is the fulfillment of a destiny
The void filled to overflowing
as is the flow
the brief glimpse
of the eternal
face of God
It is the balance

The tap…
knowing that nothing
is known, and
the bliss that transcends

Page seven

The joy of God’s emulation, as
in opening a present that
will be given away
where the fulfillment is
in the giving and
the realization
that nothing
belongs to you
everything is
on loan, and
that you and
everything is
of one thing…

On the road to God…

Madeline is the love of my life…


What song or poets bard could claim,
of but a glimpse of her sweet smile?
What gifts of nature’s treasured fame,
could light up dreams along the mile?

What delicate breath is her sigh,
my name on her lips a mystery?
That twinkle in her sky blue eyes,
is the dawn of another memory.

A glance from golden locks entwined,
that bars my heart as a flower.
Whispering breezes…, Madeline,
as wind-chimes the passing hours.

Sparks break white through the darkest night,
dazzling sun beams where they lay.
Reminds me in the morning light,
I’ll dream her for another day.

Page eight

A dearest heart that sings so pure,
that reaches me across the sea.
On wings of purpose strong and sure,
a love that’s given just for me.

I’ll never lose the links that bind,
that fertile garden of my soul.
But leap the gulfs within my mind,
for undiscovered lands to hold.

And so my love sustains me still,
tracing patterns of heartfelt past.
From the depths of passion and will,
all colors of my life are cast.

What images come to mind when in love and so very alone…

Ice Crystals

Blue glitter refraction,
A sliver of gold,
Her sparkled reflection,
On spangles of cold.

Frost of ice crystals,
From shimmering air,
Glittering ice-cycles,
Bejeweling her hair.

Eyes of glass luster,
That sees through my soul,
Dreams are a fluster,
Too brilliant to hold.

Skin shimmers translucent,
Quick-frozen in time,
A halo transparent,
Dazzled, and mine.

Page nine

Soft on her shoulders,
Like snows of new frost,
I reach out to hold her,
But I’m shivered and lost.

Darkened but brilliant,
Where memories flee,
Shadows of luminance,
To dazzling to see.

But melting love surely,
Flows deep in my veins,
Will bring me home truly,
On a chariot of flame.

To me, the true meaning of life is to know your self. One primary stimulant necessary for this process is a pure love of self. Being thankful for your gifts is humbling, but being proud of what you achieve and what you are becoming through your own volition is also part of the process. To stand on your own two feet with strength of purpose, one must start by taking control, and being responsible for your own life…


The only person I know who can really get
under my skin.
Who I avow to understand but
still surprises even me.
The resilient one who always thinks
it will get better, and the man
most responsible for who I am.
To the reflection in the glass,
and to the one who looks back..

Given to my only daughter, Laura. I was grappling with my spirituality back then, and she cleaved a facet on my soul where joy and laughter entered…

Page ten

Angel Prayers

I heard soft murmurs in the night,
And followed a glowing candle light.

Through the door of Laura’s room,
An angel was kneeling in the gloom.
Moon light threads fell on her bed,
A golden halo on her head.
Her little body bent in prayer,
Folding dimpled hands with care.
“Now I lay me down to sleep”,
Her fragile whisper soft and sweet.
“I pray the Lord my soul to keep.”
A glinting curl upon her cheek.
“If I should die before I wake,
I pray to God my soul to take.”
Lost in thought, lost in time,
I searched to understand this rhyme.
I held my breath, and tears would start,
Her words were arrows through my heart.
This key I had so long forgot,
Had turned my soul, a rusted lock.
A gentle heart, so pure and clean,
I saw my tarnished soul once gleamed.
When angels prayed with me at night,
And life was filled with pure delight.
I too had knelt beside my bed,
With a golden halo on my head.
Suddenly I saw this power,
That pierced my rusted breast this hour.
Her love has helped me see this might,
Will keep us safe, by You, this night.
Unlock my heart, our lives are blest,
My rusted soul has strength, to rest.


Page eleven

Truly, the most painful and selfishly traumatic time in my life was when my wife Madeline had a miscarriage. My guilt, for floundering in the initial acceptance of this new change in my life, will haunt me always. What I learned is beyond words, but realized that I was not as strong, empathetic, or understanding as I had thought. Life is not a test, It is an awakening, a quickening...

Li’l Spirit

When little spirit came to me,
I cried in selfish agony.
Dreams I once had held so dear,
Now filled my mind with hopeless fear.

I thought what other people’d say,
Felt trapped and couldn’t run away.
New responsibly to find,
Was panic tearing at my mind.

I thought it just a great mistake,
Disappointment I couldn’t fake.
I tried to plug it in again,
And found my fortunes on the wind.

Li’l spirit turned me inside out,
And tossed my fragile dreams about.
It let me see tomorrow’s dreams,
As shallow and selfish nothings.

It filled me with a burning light,
And left me with no need to fight.
I Dreamed tomorrows with my wife,
And another love to share our life.

Li’l spirit lives inside my heart,
I loved it from the very start.
It took away the fear in me,
And showed us what our life could be.

It gave us hope... then went away,
But the dreams it gave are here to stay.
God took its loving spirit light,
To bless its little heart tonight.

Page twelve

Trying to stand on my own two feet…


Fantasy got the best of me,
Thought they laughed when I couldn’t see.
Snickering ringing in my brain,
Persuading me I’d gone insane.
Reasons fought in depressive ache,
Was lost in pain I couldn’t fake.

Ominous feelings in my heart,
Threatened to tear my life apart.
Ran the gambit of life’s demands,
Balancing life with clumsy hands.
I thought what was… was what was told,
By hateful children’s breaths… turned cold.

But lo, I’ve found I’m filled with light,
And joy has come into my sight.
The veil of man-made longings fell,
Perverted by an earth-made hell.
I’m free to see, to feel, to taste,
As Love of God falls on my face.

I hear the pipes upon the glade,
And on the field I throw my blade.
Wild flowers growing at my feet,
Calms my mind with His gifts so sweet.
Standing strong in the ways of hope,
With power of purpose I can cope.

On God’s green fields my path is clear,
On sturdy legs that’s conquered fear.
Death’s claws can never grip my soul,
Institutions have lost their hold.
Apart, I can find my own way,
A path of might for right, I stay.

Page thirteen

A righteous man, with Truths so dear,
On faith’s reward, I dry my tears.
Drawn on strength from in myself,
Balanced by, “The Voice,” I delve.
Bold… to begin is but to start,
My own path, I follow my heart.

Finding that the best things in life a free. Free gifts from God…

That’s Life

How good was it?
When all is said and done.
The choices made were little,
I floated just for fun.

I put my time in nicely,
But never good enough.
Stood the test politely,
But mostly I was lost.

I ran the maze at leisure,
Not looking for the cheese.
Stopped to smell the flowers,
Collected pretty leaves.

Daytime was for dreaming,
An illusive time to kill.
Gusto is life’s meaning,
Cared little for the frill.

Found everything is paid for,
With time or sweat or blood.
And when you finally have it,
You forget what it was for.

So found the chance in living,
With the pleasures that were free.
Took full what life was giving,

Page fourteen

The seasons change so rapidly, and each brings it’s own wonder…

Summer Seasons

Suddenly, there is…

Flowers of colors on warm summer’s day,
Vacationing children are hard at play.
Sailboats are bobbing on blueberry lakes,
Rocking from a speedboat’s silvery wake.


Mockingbirds drink from the dog’s old dish,
Children remind you it’s time to go fish.
Gardening chores just have to be done,
Before we can think of having fun.

And where…

Rows of sweet corn are growing waist high,
Baby birds peep as they learn how to fly.
Behind tall fences come swimming pool sounds,
Down by the creek wild strawberries are found.


Brave boys build club-houses in great oak trees,
Hiding from girls in the canopy of leaves.
Mothers push strollers in late afternoon,
Lemonade stands run out all too soon.


The cool summer breeze of an afternoon shade,
Milk and fresh cookies that grandma has made.
Hummingbirds drink from flowers of glass,
Cloud watching for hours in soft meadow grass.

And then…

Page fifteen

Fire fly jars are a children’s delight,
Laughter and giggles resound in the night.
Posies of dandelions wilt in their hands,
Summer seasons joy across our fair land.

Fall Seasons

Suddenly, there is that…

Crisp morning breeze under solid blue sky.
And formations of snow geese gliding on high.
Lavender nightfall by a heart-warming blaze,
With cold nose kisses in evening’s blue shade.


Children play football in thick-glitter leaves,
And bright colors dance free-falling from trees.
Frisky dogs run to the call of dry fields,
Bountiful harvests of summer’s long yield.

There is…

The cheerful greeting of a clear rose dawn,
Glittering frost on a clover leaf lawn.
Cherry tobacco from grampa’s old pipe,
Smell of hot toddy is Mama’s delight.


Echo of shotguns from wonder-lust woods,
That fill iron pots with squirrel and dove stew.
Quilts of rich patterns are found on each bed,
Warm flannel snuggles round each sleepy head.


Page sixteen

Barrows of pumpkins for sugar sweet pies,
Persimmon baskets for Sunday’s surprise.
Nuts to be gathered, and sweet yams to store,
Indian corn, melons, and gourds galore.

And then…

Our women’s holly decorates the den,
And hard wood is chopped by our hearty men.
All cheeks are rosy and good cheers abound,
For joys of fall seasons our little town.


The sparkle of ornaments bought long past,
Pine sapling smells with an aspirin to last,
Warm cider and nutmeg, and good cheer to toast,
The laughter of family with chestnuts to roast.
The tree’s decorated by our women’s lib,
And Jesus is tenderly put in His crib.
The caroler’s songs echo long in the night,
With hope of Saint Nick before morning light.
Covers pulled up to a sweet loving smile,
With a butterfly kiss on each shining eye.
Then quietly we wait, my Maddy and me,
Watching the lights on our new tree.
Soon little Laura will drift off to sleep,
And Santa will have his appointment to keep.
Christmas and New Year is a magical time,
Merry Christmas to all, and “Auld Lang Syne!”

This poem was about a photo shoot where Maddy was not paying attention to the person, but the shot. The embarrasses realization that the lady was aware, in spite of so great an age, and a helpless body. Sometimes lessons come in the most remarkable ways…

Page seventeen

The Lady

My heart holds a lady in a chromed wheel chair,
Bleached white with age under sun-glowing hair.
Thought she inanimate, a sculpture in stone,
Sitting alone in a retirement home.

Fluoresced with force that transcended her age,
Within the twisted bent body of her cage.
Grand memories burned in her wrinkled old breast,
A strength that remained when dreams lay to rest.

What sunlit days of joy have come, and now gone?
Of what lost love finds her sitting, now alone?
Silvery stories behind sunken closed eyes,
Of sweet tender youth under clear blue skies.

I remember the moment hung suspended in place,
And learned she was more then the lines on a face.
Her shaking hands touched with a soft loving care,
Giving honor to the life that lingered there.

Death of the body is time’s own reward,
Pulling and pushing us into the void.
But an essence remains beyond that dark grave,
Of a soul that transcends the flesh we gave.


The Teacher
By: Ken La Rive

In the doorway with sparkling eyes,
Hand on hip for a compromise.
Questions she asked I searched to find,
Swirled like dry leaves in my mind.

Wanted to show her I was wise,
That childish thoughts could not surmise.
Instead my rules showed little doubt,
That I had not yet thought them out.

Page eighteen

I held her to me with a laugh,
For what I had so failed to grasp.
Inside my rules I found a key,
That I could learn as she from me.

I wrote this while having the flu offshore…


It came, multiplying in like kind,
From a strangers hand it found,
A pitiless path on primitive mind,
And a body of fertile ground.

It crossed the vacuums of the air,
A simplistic entity of genetic lie,
And found safe haven through my despair,
In the harbor of my eye.

Gates flew open with its master keys,
As antibodies rushed to defend,
On fields of blood a fever seethes,
Where the aches and chills begin.

Riots of cosmos, poisoned and cursed,
Battle germs of invadering bands,
Night air makes it far the worst,
As I sneeze into my hands.

Exhausted in a fitful sleep,
In dreams of twistering bits,
The invaders child drifts from its keep,
And on my hand it sits.

To rid the virus may seem coarse,
But to win one has to pay,
It’s fact invaders leave their host,
Only when given away.

Page nineteen

This was inspired by a man I met at the gates of Palenque. He was dressed in a long white cotton gown and was selling his wares of hand made bows and arrows. Much taller then the Mayans I have known, with long jet black hair, he looked me in the eyes with what I perceived to be a mixture of proud sadness. He spoke to me in pure Maya and refused to communicate in Spanish, as weak as it was. His smile was genuine, but guarded. I wanted to know more…

Published in “Will Work for Peace, New Political Poems”, edited by Brett Axel, 1999.

What keeps you so?

You draw my heart to you with hooks, oh
Lancondon of selva. The last percent of humanity that
resists the Spanish fly of Chiapas under a thatched roof and
a barking dog. Where first there was laid that maggot
parasite of twisted Catholic processes, who still feed
on the wounds of their own creation. You were scourged and
mangled into oppression, but still remained resistant. That island
of pure Mayan blood, the last five hundred, that is
the soul of Chiapus, still sing to the jaguar song.
What keeps you so?

They thought your back was broken. By the heat of
white fever virus, by the heat of countless deaths in
the name of gold, by the heat of your burned books,
codexes, and hopes, all for the exchange of dogmatic truths…
and what of the drug lord? Still you cling to what you find
was never lost inside.
What keeps you so?

Deep in la selva you drag your chains to be heard. Your
diamond patched frocks over eagle motifs still cling to the
great wheel of you ancestors. That long count calendar mark
the days by cycles of concentric spirals, repeating. You were connected
with the past, a long past, and a future they say ends in 2006…
Do you ring in the new age by example?
What keeps you so?

Page twenty

The rain forest echoes of La Ruta: of DDT and Aids,
of PEMEX trucks on mud rut roads, of coffee, banana, sorghum,
cocoa and chicloros, tobacco, and filtered jewels of marijuana, and coke
plantations; of alcoholism and tuberculosis,
malnutrition and cattle carrying parasites. Hachakyum,
help you! “Tengo mi pistola, me mota, y mis
huevos. Entiendes mendez?
What keeps you so?

Trucha! Yo estoy hecha de otro arbol! Your hooks are deep in my
swelling heart… Hide, oh Lancondon. Hide in la silva! Survive
Zapatistas, and the Mexican Army. Hide from absorption, hide from

From the morning offshore when the moon was especially breathtaking…


…the muted colors of gun metal blue and tarnished antique silver swirls spike on polished chrome
…they mix and melt in layers by wind and cloud of sky with wave and current of
swelling mercury
…sliding on slick surfaces they find peaks of foam on gliding liquid wakes of
galvanized energy
…they blend in my mind’s eye as moon dust flickers in the morning’s
pastel sheen
…and without so much of a warning gone

For the young and beautiful woman in my rear view mirror who could hold her cigarette so delicately with one diamond hand, putting on her makeup with the other, while tailgating me in her Jag…

Solace for the Tattle Tail

You little tattle tail…, where
Misery loves,
No, seeks good company...

Page twenty-one

Compare your chattels, that
Tenuous ass that shakes,
` Along with your wagging finger…

Old money yellow diamonds, and
The cluster fuck of
New, bedazzled,
Jaded, and rare…

That clear color
Wears like a shield
Of justifiable homicide,
From where you stand...

More bang for the buck,
You black-eyed Susan,
For one quick stop-light lip-gloss,
And adjustment...

There’s fingerprints on the glass,
Where the rear view driver you
See, lusts after
Those luscious red lips…

A flicker, and its gone,
Behind a velvet curtain
Left in the dryer,
Too long…

You’ll paint a while longer,
While futility hits upon your
Fading wish and vanity:
To live forever beautiful...

There is a solace in that
Misery loves,
No, seeks good company,
You little tattle tail you…

Page twenty-two

For all of the little birds who cross the gulf…

Upon the Wind

She sat exhausted on the rim,
Ruffled wet from icy wind.
Scores of others ceased to try,
Laid down on the deck to die.
Startled by the fog horn’s ring,
Exhaustion heavy on her wing.
Dropped and plowed into the waves,
Covered so tiny in the sprays.
Fluttered then, for what had been,
A thousand miles upon the wind.
Flecks of blue upon the morn,
Survived the fury of the storm.
Day grew warm with morning’s light,
Over the waves they streak in flight.
Fresh new start on salty breeze,
Only the strong can cross these seas.

A pure thought is so hard to find, and harder to keep…


Thoughts are like flashcards
Multiplication and division
Adding and subtracting
In chaotic imagery…

Measuring and promoting
An action or a flight,
Maneuvering the scheme and
Stratagem angles…

They do battle with the
Gross and splendid,
Biting their tails, and

Page twenty-three

Flying like colored banners…
Little is saved, or restored, but
Spin in a tangled mass,
Seeking their own level in
A world of absurdity…

Sometimes I’m thankful that
There is such a great void to
Fling them…ha ha ha!

Observing the rain from the board road…

Puddle Ballerinas

Out of the blackness it slants, where
cold lines explode on slickers and
precariously dangle out of focus on the
rim of my hard-hat.

That gentile tapping splatter, like
tinkling glass music for
the little dancing puddle
ballerinas around me.

Seemingly unnoticed by most, the
silver and gold figurines bubble and
spout on reflective currents and
eddies of spatter and plash.

They join for flickers of time, and in
concentric spirals they radiate outward as
waves of energy that will last
forever and one day.

My grandmother La Rive once told me that the little indentation above my lip was put there before I was born by the finger of my guardian angel to make me forget. She never told me what…

Page twenty-four

The Sword of Flame

My mind’s eye closed on morrow’s morn,
the day I drew my breath.
The fall from sky had made me cry,
remembering my on death.

Love lingered long upon my brow,
as and angel touched my mouth.
A hovering stead, upon my bed,
and his smile removed all doubt.

Cried no more into the night,
as he spoke of love’s demands.
He removed all shame, with a sword of flame,
and I became a man.

My Mind…

Rich in diversity, but
Shackled by self imposed designs…
It swells, like a river well stocked with
Bits and pieces of colored thoughts
Caught on the hooks of wonder
And the aspiration to balance…

On the edge of a razor I crawl like
A snail with neurosis…
Playing electrical neurons like music, as
Self taught, I drag my baggage for
A expedition that never comes…

Through the befuddled fog I creep,
Not touching the semi-permeable walls but
For loneliness and confusion,
As there is solace only that I could slip through...

Page twenty-five

But for the yoke of paradigm, I could
Follow the string to
The gate I left open, just in case…


…on heaving waves of reflecting solar heat my golden light eyes blind
in mesmerism…
…3-D squinting focuses doors that open to cold blackened depths
beyond the sparkled range…
…domino illuminated by it’s wondrous molten orb so soon dips below the horizon plain’s quenching slake…
…chill finally descends in soft breezes that wash the sky in brilliant
pastel afterglow…
…I solidify, like a melting wax candle on a cooling catwalk
…and hunger for morrow’s morn…
…and it’s quickening...

Observed this parrot-like bird in the Cayman Islands…

A Quick Flicker

He perched…
a quick flicker of black
on a tropic branch
of yellow flowers…

An Island bird of glinting fire
in the heat of summer sun…

A quick flicker of black fluff
that danced of life…
exploding like a meteor
through the green…

Page twenty-six

Without fear of man it posed…
and I couldn’t focus
from the beauty of it…

A quick flicker of black
that reflected every color
that burned in jungle heat…
exploding like a meteor…
it was gone...

A man could not have a finer child…


She booms like the flurry and fury of flame,
Faithful to self with a wild card untamed.

Weaves tapestries of goodness with unconquered trust,
Leaving worry and malice in scattering dust.

Her undying hunger for dreams to unfold,
Brightens with the sweetness of an untarnished soul.

A heart that beats true of loves flowering song,
With the strength of a realist all along.

Gifted with beauty and gracefully shrined,
Self-balanced and poised, yet humble and kind.

Heart is as open as an angel is drawn,
Fresh and unspoiled as a rainstorm at dawn.

Wings on the winds of strength’s loving wake,
But tenderly born to dare life for life’s sake.

A spirit unconquered, trusting, and pure,
Consciously joyous, and will long endure.

Page twenty-seven

Inspired by a night of watching old westers in the TV room…

The Marshall’s Tin Star

A dry yellow wind, blew the gray sand in,
And it settled from the door to the floor.
The dark bar’s old sin, was three old men,
Drinking whiskey and asking for more.

The tender poured the round, without a sound,
As they discussed with a roar and a rage.
The marshall wire’d down, that es’ comon’ to town,
Cuss’ a gunslinger’d be on the stage.

They’d know’ed his stay, from that reckless day,
When the law was a gun and a knife.
Where the test to pay, was a sharp-eyed way,
For the cheapest of all was your life.

One had on his hip, a notched pistol grip,
And another cursed hoarsely with rage,
The other tossed another through grizzled old lips,
As they waited for the noon-day stage.

The bar clock gave round, that clanging sound,
Twelve chimes brought recollections of black.
Old memories they’d found, when he’d road out of town.
With three bullets they’d lodged in his back.

They thought he would die, on the desert he’d lie,
Hundred miles from the next water hole.
Three bullets they’d side, his damnable hide,
For some vittels and a few coins of gold.

Fumbled and found, their chambers spun round,
A shotgun and two rifles was able.
The three turned round, to that rigging sound,
As the coach stopped in front o’ the stable.

Page twenty-eight

The silence was broke, by one lighting a smoke,
Back door slammed by the tenders retreat.
They spread out to stoke, for some tactile poke,
As the dust settled down in the street.

Then slow measured cords, on solid wood boards,
And pistols were cocked for a fight.
His shadow moved for, on the sandy old floor,
A silhouette in the afternoon light.

Three shots rang out, then three more about,
Splintering the door swinging off’a it’s keep.
He let out a shout, and his spurs rang out,
As he flew back into the street.

Fear held fast, with guns in their grasp,
Each smoked in their withered old hands.
Then each at last, let out a long gasp,
None had ever laid eyes on this man.

The town’s folk came down, and crowded around,
Then circled in front of the bar.
Astounded they found, in their mumbling sounds,
That his chest had’a marshal’s tin star.

So now those three swing, on an o’l tree limb,
For the past was at last returned.
The justice o’ men ring, and the buzzards will sing,
For the black deeds that they’ve earned.

Dedicated to the many men I’ve known who live by the size of their balls…

The Warrior

He sold his heart that bore his dead,
And took the hard road where it led.
Riddles of truth beneath his curse,
Soon became his universe.

Page twenty-nine

Glory carved him sick with fear,
Found him turn with caustic tears.
Naked, his scars are all he’d known,
As on the field he bled alone.

Bent and sure he wielded pain,
Wove his will with gilded chain.
Presumed the advantage in a brawl,
A roan that abandoned one and all.

Stood for nothing but his own,
Lord in his kingdom of barren throne.
Melodious the cries, in a mind turned cold,
Paid with blood, dark gems and gold.

All life was a weapon for his own game,
Found pleasure in hurting wherever it came.
Made mockery of law on wasted breath,
And held in his hand the workings of death.

But alas there came forth a measure of fate,
Cyclic it rose and gathered in shape.
An action of righteousness greater then he,
That struck him in spite to his very knees.

His head is pushed back from the bars of his cage,
A monster at bay with a smoldering rage.
Balanced, subdued, and caught on a wire,
A black angel that burns in his own fire.

My lack of religion has freed me to explore myself, unfettered by the shackles of another’s path, and the oppression that it brings. I explain myself in the tome “A Path to Truth”…

By: Ken La Rive 110297

There’ll be no prayer rugs for me
No evangelical bells
No mass hypnotic keys
No tar baby hell’s

Page thirty

There isn’t any six o’clock chants
Or Friday’s fish sandwich
Or priestly rants
Or forty days of Lent

There won’t be crosses I can’t bear
No death guaranties
No requiem mass to share
No annulment fees

There’ll be no pearly gates
Or virgin births
Or annihilation dates
Or grace determined worth

There’ll be no Sunday schools
No communion with the saints
No man made golden rules
No fickle wrath of hate

There will be no infallibility
Or Popes in miter suits
Or ancient realities
Or man made absolutes

But there will be for me
A Truth of love to find
A path for all of see
A hope for all in time

And a God who never damns
Or tests us with physical pain
Who’s spirit is in every man
And doesn’t need us lame

I work in the field by choice. My observation of the complexities and workings of the “inner sanctum” of the office have kept me at bay…

Page thirty-one
The Suit

He wears the uniform
Nods his head in unison
Plays lip service and tongue in cheek
And responsibility is his armor coat.

He keeps his face well hidden
Justifies existence by breach
Buys the ambiguity of nature
With the practiced manner of ass kissing.

Drinks his toddy ritual
With the after hour machine
Promoting worth and directing change,
Comparing rule and reg with the size of his balls.

His cup overflows with necessity
A golden boy with eyes of green
The 2.5 children knows his signature
Through the hiss of his cellular phone.

He marches on marble with clones
Voiding limitations of heart
Pulled by the sweet shackles of power
And the blood and sweat of worker bees.

The suit weights his limitations
By late night lamp and alimony
Self-proclaimed, he blows his horn
By the intellect of his god.

But time promotes the morning ritual
Of a shit, shower, and shave
A triggered reflection in a gold-framed mirror
And the remorse of a stranger’s recognition.

That startled look through character lines
Silver-gray dreams on clover rills
A glossy “tin-type” of impossible goals
And Chameleon replication of justification.

Page thirty-two

Love is stronger then anything…

The Rose

A rose growing high on the side of a cliff,
With roots anchored deep on a great rocky rift,
Blood red and sweet but with sharp thorny stems,
Nourished and tortured from high mountain winds.

Lashed by cold rain, quick frozen in snows,
Clutching a face where nothing else grows,
Yet after the furry new buds would grow fair,
Fresh blossoms of promise for a life so rare.

Has never been seen from the valleys beyond,
And olden are rumors where it could be found.
Yet on clear starry nights on cooling spring air,
It’s perfume still betrays that it lingers there.

Some times it’s enough just to know it exists,
Trying to posses is a lot to resist.
But late in the night I’ve grown to believe.
That the rose is already a part of me.

Childhood can be a bewildering and sometimes very painful experience that can linger in thoughts, and subconsciously manifest itself later in life. Dropping “excess baggage” takes what I call “self reflective meditation”, but surely can be conquered …

The Memory
By: Ken La Rive and Kenny Boy 030997

In the silence of a cold dark night,
Past the golden glow of tungsten light.
Engrossed in thought and metered time,
Contemplating forgotten verse and rhyme.
A sudden memory, so long forgot,
Rang true with the chime of the mantle clock.

Page thirty-three

Blushing embarrassment came like a dream,
My snotty nose pressed to a wall unseen.
Liquid eyes of disappointment she took,
The edge of a dagger was in her look.
Tears flooded pure on my open young face,
Of blood-red despair in a blue-bile taste.

The mother’s love came twisting in my head,
A lump in my throat, and a heart ‘s long dread.
My frayed memory was a mist I’d dreamt,
Old enough now to behold what it meant.
That panicky anguish was unreal fear,
Salting sweet young breaths with souring tears.

Fists of guilt clutched tightly round my heart,
Smothering a life that I couldn’t start.
The moment’s revelation proved too much,
Cried for a past I could no longer touch.
Thought I had dropped it so long long ago,
Was but a memory lingering low.

No more hate, or blame, nor pointlessly vain,
Finally learned to heal this childish pain.
This man, who no longer cowers in fear,
Who looks to the sky with eyes calm and clear.
Slapping it back, and it’s essence is gone,
To the abyss where it always belonged.

I marked my course with a warrior’s strength,
Purpose that unfolds it’s entire length.
Nothing remains standing to bar my way,
With never an imagined war to play.
And now, on the night wings of my neglect,
Shadows of memories without regret.

Page thirty-four

After visiting Chichen Itza…


Melting rock ruins in hot tropical rain,
Send damp pillars to fall on blocks of black stain.
The great roots dig deep beneath columns and wall,
Pulling and prying and timing their fall.

So long forgotten are the dreams of these men,
That time has obscured every goodness and sin.
Man’s solid ideas are now hidden by grass,
To crumble in courtyards like shattering glass.

The bones of a city long dead in its fear,
Are all that remains of their blood, dreams and tears.
The vine choked alters of a long-ago god,
Is now setting idol under mounds of green sod.

Wet paths through these rubbles of hope, are now lost,
Made slick by brown monkeys on green jungle moss.
Poor traveling pilgrims still come here to pray,
As lingering whispers of mystery may.

My old heart beats fast as I look out and about,
Above reverberations of male Howler shouts.
Understanding little of what these men made,
We desperately search before memory fades.

As termites, we dig with meticulous care,
For the precious few clues that are buried there.
Shards of pyramid puzzles are all around,
To fit fast when the corner-stone is found.

Page thirty-five

Written on one of those lonely nights on the rig where hours slowly tick by…


Never was there ever a maiden fair,
Compared beyond man's mortal kind,
Whose blue eyes shone through golden hair,
Into this open heart of mine.

Beyond the veils of tender years,
Through gate and tempest storm,
Our dreams fulfilled through joy and tears,
Made hope of morrow's morn.

Never was there ever a love so pure,
Or hearts of springtime's delight.
Never was there ever a love so sure,
To guide us through the night.

Tenderly I hold her to my chest,
Side by side through the paths of life.
First love, till death, without regret,
Never was there ever a better wife.

My lady still holds my wrinkled old hand,
Sweetly kissing my furrowed brow.
Never was there ever a luckier man,
As ever that God allowed.

Love is rare… Medium rare

Her eyes are the windows of imagination. She is timeless, built to last, and her beauty will remain at ninety-five. She blushes when I touch her, and glows in a radiant warmth. She was created just for me. Coy she is, and undresses behind a screen…but I know the feel of her, and turning her on is only a matter of touching the right button. I play the
Page thirty-six

cat, and she is the mouse. She loves me unselfishly, remembers every touch, every whisper. She never tires of my advances, and her heart is filled with a vibrant electricity.

Her type is rare, medium rare, and in the dark of night I whisper her name, “PRESARIO!”

Our dreams set us free…

Island Bunk

On a lonely woolen blanket bunk,
Black as coal, like its cigarette hole,
A washed plaid soiled by stains of oil…
Wrapped tight from the boom of motors and pump,
Fantasy I hold, of exhaustion and cold,
And closing eyes from a day of toil…

Tired temples leap past space and time,
Closed lids sway, of dreams along the way,
On silvered wings of lace, a phosphor place…
That final yawn soothes like tapping rain,
And eyes turn in for a fresh sunny day,
Warming and soothing that inside face…

Music of laughter is all around,
Lanterns of hearts where happiness abounds,
Splashes of wine from clear leaded glass…
Colored lights dance to energies found,
Strong and sound, pound for pound,
A stallion’s sheen, the blush of a lass…

Our spirits are one, of battles won,
Banners held high, on a clear blue sky,
Cries of the pipe, with friends at my side…
Gold is the sun, a day never done,
Far above the sea, on great wings of silver I fly,
O’r spumes of salt billowing wide with the tide…

Page thirty-seven

We never die, chrysalis am I,
A butterfly knight, on gossamer wing,
Where warriors and saints call me lord…
On my island, tears of joy are lies,
Conquered fears leave reason to hide,
With a gentle spirit as our sword…

Reality is a dream to see,
Past gates of love I’m never alone,
And God’s Truths are not that hard to find…
Never to die with me above the sea,
Until all eternity is gone,
Forever, this island bunk is mine…

From watching the hurricane news with the boat skippers…

Fer’ Higher Ground

It’s an easterly wind that blows tonight,
And it moves through the waves with a song.
The sun left the day as a beautiful sight,
That I’ll remember the whole night long.

But the signs say a storm is heading ma’ way,
From icy clouds and a salmoned sky,
For with a moon that glowed orange all the day,
Shows ma old sailor’s wounds never lie.

The swells are laying higher upon the beach,
And the seabirds are none to be found.
And I’ve pulled me stern above it’s reach,
And made way for higher ground.

Horizon seems tame with a rum in me hand,
And from Jon’s pub comes a musical tune.
But the heart of this seaman yearns on dry land,
For the swell of the new tide’s spume.

Page thirty-eight

I can smell the clouds there, past me sight,
As a tempest is bound for the coast.
An’ me Grace sure looks invit’en ta’night,
And in ’er berth I’d be warm as toast.

Choose yer battles, me pappa would say,
An me pappa, he raised him no lout.
For there’s tide enough coming for another day,
Hell! Its shore leave I’m talk’en about!

There’s rain there a’pound’in on the sill,
But that warm fire’s sure keep’en me.
Lil Grace here, she can’t get her fill,
Though she knows that me love is the sea.

You see, me pappa, he raised him no fool,
As me freedom is me only pay.
For if that sea breeze there just feels cool,
I’ll soon be follow’en the seabird’s way.

On finding out one of our friends had breast cancer…

The Claw
061598 one past midnight

Born on bitterness and anguish,
Where pain and fear is it’s suckle,
It creeps into sweet flesh to defile and extract.
To a breast made for nurture and beauty it retracts,
Lake a black claw, cancer grips soft tissue like a vice.

It’s lessons are for the living,
Death grips us all in the end.
What reason to end the pleasure of a sweet soft voice?
The loving strings from a heart so alive with life,
And but that brave smile remains for those it leaves behind.

Page thirty-nine

What great strength to face that unknown,
Beyond the black curtain that all to soon takes as all.
What council is there in death’s cold hand,
But that there is something that it can never touch?
So pure, it transcends even eternity.

Yes, there are tears for what can never again be heard.
That cry of pain from a sweet soft voice,
A precious life taken for reasons beyond mortal ken,
Taken like a murdering thief in the cold of night.
…but oh, that sweet brave smile…

…that sweet brave smile will last forever!

The Engineers

Darkness grows, and storm wind blows,
Time’s cold blast, goes fiercely past,
The engineer on the rail-
His bright eyes glows, intelligence knows,
That violent storm, of mindless form,
Could crush us in the gale-

What hands have made, by will we’ve saved,
With steadfast dreams, the future gleams,
The building our reward-
To men he gave, a road to pave,
A bridge to build, an iron will,
Between the acts of war-

He stood between, the death machine,
Our future’s stead, was in his head,
Rebuilt upon the dust-
With directed toil, we drilled for oil,
Showed we could, together would,
Reclaim our holy trust-

Page forty

Impetus to stand, on blackened land,
With reasons to sing, bells will ring,
As proclamation of our joys-
Air soon cleared, with nothing feared,
Children grew tall, by our loving call,
With flowers as their toys-

But engineers know, that morrows grow,
On life today, death has it’s way,
And soon our memory is lost-
For all our tasks, will surely pass,
Dark shadows climb, long past our time,
No matter what the cost-

Winds still blow, our freedom low,
A moment still, can take our will,
Imbued regrets least we forget-
Those peace-full days, and gentle ways,
Will blinds our sight, insidious delight,
When once our minds are set.

Engineers know, that cold winds blow,
Time erodes, and dreams explode,
The strongest of thoughts will bend-
Roofs will fall, on every hall,
Paid with sweat, and blood, and mud,
For the mortar to build again-

Flags will burn, and reason spurn,
Dreams will die, glories will lie,
Through cracked and bleeding ken-
But there’s a price, that rolls the dice,
For spring’s return, with what is learned,
Engineers will build again-

It’s in the plan, the ways of man,
Each time is spent, generations rent,
For what each has to learn-
But time will call, when each time falls,
A new day draws, universal laws,
For something new to burn.

Page forty-one

A Thread of Hope

Hope hangs the soul on a thread
Of it’s own design…
Fashioned by that perpetual need
And God’s great sense of humor…
It’s laughter brings on tears
For what little we control…
And in the finite space of life
An infinite search for light…

Salvation is in the dreams
Of the bitterness we drink…
Ice arrows pierce our hearts,
And blood boils inside the womb…
But the burdens we hold seem lighter
Taking flight when the yoke is laid…
Where in the falling we grasp
A thread of strength called hope…

It is the quality of the questions we ask that will determine the quality of the life we have. Answers are a gift, poised as a question...

I Am A Question

I am the questions I’ve asked this life,
And the directions I’ve chosen to draw.
What I’ve held so dear, beyond the strife,
I now weld as established law.

It matters little the parents I had,
And what they viewed or gave.
Or the broken dreams of a star-blind lad,
Who thought he’d take it to the grave.

But between the pages is the man,
Who has weathered every storm.
And played his best with every hand,
By the promise of tomorrow’s morn.

Page forty-two

I’ve become questions I’ve chanced to touch,
And the directions I’ve chosen to take.
As my failings don’t amount to much,
When there’s so much more at stake.

I’ve learned to ask questions dear to my heart,
And it’s given me freedom to fly.
A dream without question is a faltered start,
As some answers will never die.

The quality of questions then, my brother,
Will determine what appears.
When a positive answer questions the other,
It will sustain us through the years.

I’ve become the questions I ask,
As they define the direction I go.
And life becomes a much easier task,
When another question makes it so.

Art’s Inspiration…

Art comes from a deliberate stroke…
Becoming easier when the hand is directed…
As by the flow of a realized regret, in the
Wake of a new opportunity….

Art doesn’t transform reality,
It is reality, but
Is viewed from a perspective where
There is balance in imbalance and
Symmetry in asymmetry…

Art has the power to transmute
Not only reality, but
The very direction a
Life may take, by
A process of divine power
Called inspiration…

Page forty-three

Inspiration is the process of
Gathering the ability to
Focus on reality by
The use of insight…

Insight is the intuitive internal
Flow of perception focused by
An extended range of vision and
The balance of cognitive awareness…

Dutch, the forth dog I have known in this life, is a valued companion…

Bird Dog

His spotted head lifts for the scent of the woods,
Ears twitch to the least of all sound.
His coat blends invisibly in fields of dry grass,
Where he moves with a leap and a bound.

He takes his direction from my point of view,
Fine tunes them with senses so sharp,
That I take directions from a wag of his tail,
As he helps me to see in the dark.

A pat on his head, and a lick on my hand,
Makes a bond as we walk through the trees.
He turns on a dime from that whistle of mine,
Every fiber of his being for me.

He runs like the wind through thicket or field,
Bird dogging, zigzagging through night.
Dog tired and hungry he'll curl at my feet,
Still guarding with all of his might.

When I'm far from home, he'll wait at the gate,
No grass can grow long where he stood.
With a jump, and a twist, and a laughing bark,
He welcomes like no one else could.

Page forty-four

Of all relationships a man could take,
From life..., from beginning to end.
Nothing quite compares, to the companionship there,
Between a man, and his faithful best friend.

Coaster Ride

Clink! Clink! Clink! Up, up, we go.
To the crest to make some dough.
No time to enjoy this ride,
Preparation for the slide.
On the crest the world’s so fair,
Just a moment balanced there.
Down the tubes our world may go,
Trying to go with the flow.
Strive you may, you can’t hide
From the oil-field coaster ride

Sing it!

Roller coaster, you can’t hide
From the oil-field coaster ride
In preparation for the slide
No time to enjoy this ride

Rip! Rip! Rip! Down, down, we go,
Trying not to let it show.
Win a battle, loose the war,
Unemployment’s not that far.
One last contact, now he’s gone,
Said they took away his phone.
Strive you may, but you can’t hide,
From the oil-field coaster ride.


Roller coaster, you can’t hide,
Balanced checkbooks tell no lies.
Credit cards are out of sight,
Last one out turn out the lights!

Page forty-five

From traveling flat out on the bayou at night…

Cajun Boat Skipper

An eye that shot red through yellow and white,
A neck like tree-bark in the pale moon light.
Dry callused hands with grip pads of cold steel,
Through gray cigar smoke he turned the old wheel.

Feet tapped a rhythm with old yellow thongs,
Spitting his phlegm through hummed Cajun songs.
He turned with a spark in his one good eye,
As the dark shapes of cypress passed us by.

He said, “My soul, but I gotta take a piss,
Days gotta be a betta job den dis!”
Ma’, I’m gonna drink some dat beer tonight,
An eat me some pussy till da morn’in light!”

He rolled up his sleeve to reveal a tattoo,
Said, “Fuck The Warden,” in gun metal blue.
I jumped to the bank as we came about,
And dry laughter jelled the side of his mouth.

Waved him goodbye as I walked up the ramp,
Fumbling for keys under dull tungsten lamp.
I turned and saw in his glowing smoke smile,
That violent demeanor was nothing but guile.

A Brief Moment

Sometimes, in a brief moment,
It all makes since…
But more then this, much more,
I feel euphoria so grand that
My heart leaps within my chest…
And then, like the misty residual of a dream,
It dissipates into a reality of my own design, or
A poor perception of it…

Page forty-six

But as a wave on a beach, this
Tide of a thought is pulled
By a long ago happiness, and a
Profound understanding, and
I just know that
It will again return, and
With time remain…

Memories of Villahermousa…


Smoking hearth fire shifts its embered sparks,
Charcoaled chicken bones flicker the dark.

Slow swinging hammock through hot damp air,
Throb from frogs in the jungle out there.

Glowing Mezcal worms soon fog my eyes
Reflecting the window’s fire-flies.

Tarnished moon-beams crawl across dirt floors,
Mayan silver through dust faded doors.

Huge mosquitoes buzz my sweaty hair,
Too tired and drunk to really care.

Turkeys and pigs play on sun baked clay,
Awake from naps in the shade of day.

Safe in the night with bought amigos,
With much laughter for this poor gringo.

Sleep comes as a merciful delay,
And tomorrow is another day.

Every breath we take is God inspired…
Page forty-seven

I must include one of my oldest poems to have survived. So many I remember writing, but can no longer find. This poem was written when I was 19, and found in a shoebox in my father’s attic.

The Storm
Spear point skyward
To guard my people into night
When ghostly shapes
Flicker the trees around us

With energy and blinding light
The cold drops fall
They hiss in the fire between us
As we huddle to keep warm

Blinking the drops from my eyes
I catch the huge black shapes overhead
Moving as a mighty river
Over the face of the earth

They squat here with e
My comrades who do not understand
They fear the darkness
Because they can not see it

The gold flashes
Through my lids
The women whimper louder
With each

I whisper to them
But comfort them not
Only with the light
Will they be eased

It is useless to fear
They come for us at last
Following us since the last moon
Alas, I hear them coming

Their eyes are slits of gold
Glinting from our fire
I push the little one
To clutch her mother’s breast

Page forty-eight

Moon Storm

A moon rise of silver on calm’s midnight,
Spinning horizons of diamond rig lights.
Black waves ascend on blue-cresting spumes,
Crashing implosions of phosphorous plumbs.
Wispy salt powders of mercury taste,
Swirling mist crystals adhere to my face.
Boiling clouds banding on wires of gold,
Flashing storms standing pour raindrops of cold.
Window-pain dreams on a catwalk alone,
Loneliness screams for a far away home.
Eyes of glaze embers for treasure’s of jewels,
Dreams of December will bring them to you.

The Tattoo

I was tattooed in my cradle
with water colors…
Painted in vivid hues,
with black undertones…
As I grew to manhood I
noted that others were
tattooed with indelible ink…
Mine washed off so easily
because there was such
fraud in the painting…
I saw, as I stood upright,
that I was painted
in counterfeit colors…
And it washed off easily,
with tears…

There is a memory, is in a recurring dream, where happiness is a reality and everything fits into place. It is just on the tip of my soul…

Page forty-nine
A Brief Moment

Sometimes, in a brief moment,
It all makes since…
But more then this, much more,
I feel euphoria so grand that
My heart leaps within my chest…
And then, like the misty residual of a dream,
It dissipates into a reality of my own design, or
A poor perception of it…

But as a wave on a beach, this
Tide of a thought is pulled
By a long ago happiness, and a
Profound understanding, and
I just know that
It will again return, and
With time remain…

The CM (Chameleon) Lizard

Hides in the darkness of his smoky-cold lair,
Back bent to the form of his cushion-back chair.
Skin changes color with every phone call,
As he folds his fat tail for the illusion of balls.

Decisions are made by a superior’s dull hunch,
Like H2S gas from his early steak lunch.
As exceptional a lizard as you may well find,
And a great hero legend in his own mind.

An original thought or not seems the same,
As he covers his ass with your good name.
As practiced a Chameleon as he can be,
That can be found in the glow of a muted TV.

His finger points and shakes as responsibility goes,
Backed by the fear that his ignorance shows.
When the job is complete he may throw you a bone,
Just to know you survived for the chopper ride home.
Page fifty

From a graphic discription from a loving perspective. A neighbor tells of her grandchild…

Just One Moment More

The morning sun slanted like a mist of pure gold,
Glittering soft patterns in a room turned cold…
Her mom leaned forward to feel of her head,
And tears fell like raindrops on the hospital bed…
She helped her frail fingers pull the edges up tight,
And they looked through the pain of morning’s first light…
Saw that her eyes could betray not a lie,
Just one moment please… before she would die...
The pain was no more then she could take,
Helplessness was the fear she couldn’t fake…
But one moment more could not be found,
They saw in each other the same loss of dreams,
And aching empathy for what a moment can mean…
She whispered, “Mom, I don’t want to die!”
“Help me mom!” she said with a cry…
“I’ve got so much I want to do….”
“I’m sorry mom……….. I love you.”
They held each other as long as they could,
But her words held the dread for what never would…
To not know the loving of a good man,
Or to hold with delight her own child’s hand.
Never to know the joy of a grandma’s embrace,
Or to laugh at the laugh lines on her own face.
To feel that first snowflake on her rosy cheek,
Kick the can running, or play hide and seek.
A breath of mountain air under star filled skies,
Or to find loving years have piled on high.
For in that brief moment, the two became one,
As they sat all alone in that morning sun.
A moment so precious… a moment so fast,
When a mind understands that the moment can’t last…
That moment’s goodbye, was lost to a sigh,
As a powerless mother continued to cry…
And that one final moment… was lost to the wind,
As all that is left is what might have been…
And… as clouds break the sun, just a teardrop apart,
Tore that last moment from a lost mother’s heart…

Page fifty-one

It’s God’s precious gift that she holds to her breast,
As God takes her sweet baby to her final rest…
So light in her arms, so easy to hold,
That one moment more, and He took her soul…

We can be too hard on ourselves…


Oh my myopia…
My base presuppositions
Of twisted reality…
I grope blindly through the haze
Of passion’s mist by
The smoky eyes of others…

So short my vision, my
Perceptual validity, my
Dreams and fantasies
Unchecked in my hollow shell…
How foundless in retrospect.

But oh my Venus…
Who perceives her flaws
Through my limited perspectives…
Who lives for my sake
For the moment of a kiss
In the grand view
And lingers
As a pure cord from an angel’s harp
I am beyond forgiveness
For what I touch.

How can I hold what is
So precious to my heart
Where I see nothing on this earth
To compare with but that simplistic
Complexity of her look
Page fifty-two

That follows me into the night as
A glowing candle in a window.

That I could betray her with a thought?

What shadows in my heart
Where pain and pleasure mix in
Transitory vacuum, that
No two dimensional image can

Such purity, such
Grace on gossamer wings
That stir within me a longing
Hunger that goes unquenched
In my failings.

Spring Seasons

Suddenly, there is:

Pink buds of flowers on dry twisted sticks,
An old gray farmer shouldering his pick.
A fresh smelling breeze of newly disked earth,
Meadow Larks singing for all that it’s worth.


Children run barefoot on freshly cut grass,
A coy little wink from a blushing young lass.
Green leaves glow new for summer’s cool shade,
Creek melt sings dancing in the green hill glade.


Robins arrive from their warm southern home,
Teens finally weary of using the phone.
Laughter and good cheer is found all around,
Through barbecue smoke and lawn mower sounds.

Page fifty-three

And there’s…

Buckets of dew-berries from Pop’s corner lot,
Cooked by Mom in an aluminum pot.
Families resume their late afternoon walks,
Children pick flowers while grown ups talk.

And then…

Honey-do husbands, and children at play,
Signs that spring cleaning is well under way.
Sun warmed freckles on shoulders of white,
Run laughing through fields with colorful kites.

There is…

Ice cream churned by sweet children’s smiles,
With gramps in his rocker whittling the while.
Hot coffee mingles with smells of fresh bread,
Making it easy to get out of bed.

And then….

All things are new under skies of deep blue,
Snow blossoms of cherry, a magical hue.
Lovers kiss lightly as they walk hand in hand,
For joys of spring seasons our beautiful land.

On the Swamp

Past the white blanket of fog…
laying in the blackness
of the bayou’s night…
Far beyond
the ancient bog, I wait
in a swampy canopy
of pale starlight…
Then, under rich clouds
of summer rain, alone and
awash in cricket and frog song…

Page fifty-four

I gaze across
the plains of sugar cane, and
wish the night along…
Then finally, as morning pushes
a colored dawn…
I can still picture
her beautiful face… and as
sunlight pulls the day slowly along…
I am yet
closer to her embrace…

From the bottom of my heart…

My Daughter’s Love

What can a man say of his child?
When bias gets in the way…
What is so special about her smile?
Through the many along the way…

But I tell you girl, and know it’s true,
I’ve seen what you’re made of...
The reason I’m so proud of you,
Is the stock you put in love...

Your level head, your strength of will,
Still amazes me today….
To think of all the lives you’ll fill,
With kindness along the way…

You have been blest with a beautiful face,
But that’s nothing to compare…
With all the wonder you can trace,
With one flower in your hair…

Your love is real and follows true,
Uncompromised and shimmers pure...
An angel in heaven follows you,
Of that you can be sure…

Page fifty-five

Bravery you can not hide,
Your scared guts I can tell…
That I could have you at my side,
Even through the gates of hell…

No more precious on this earth,
Is the respect I have for you…
I measure you as my life’s worth,
And the love in your eyes of blue…

Through the years, your mom and me
Have wanted to guide you through…
Tried to teach, but now we see
That we learned much more from you…

A poet knows that God creates,
Those glorious thoughts are you...
What luminous love perpetuates,
As all your dreams come true…

Love’s Fortune
For Madeline on our 27th Anniversary, 1998

Love fluttered through the shadows of my mind,
And lit the sparkled embers of my heart.
Thin strands, like molten-gold and silver bind,
Twin edged with diamond facets from the start.

Her eyes reflected blue with phosphor trace,
That danced with humored joy that velvet night.
A blush of rose on pearl upon her face,
The sight of her was shot with pure delight.

She danced with grace that was divinely taught,
Her hand in mine so softly in my spell.
That all else in this world blurred in a fraught,
Suspended in my pangs from heaven, fell.

Her laughter chimed like glass upon the air,
And echoed in my open heart, unlocked.
Eternity was mine for loving care,
We danced bedazzled like a spinning top.

Page fifty-six

White garland on her head of copper-gold,
Soft flowers nestled fragile in her curls.
A garden of delight her beauty told,
I knew with out a doubt that I was hers.

Years turned like colored leaves upon the wing,
Forever are my dreams of Maddy fair.
Painted pinions blaze, and colors fling,
A whisper of our love is in the air.

Transparent is my soul within her sight,
As sun amid the gilded tincture’s shine.
A richness grows more lucid in her light,
Rare fortunes that no man could ever find.

Time has been kind to this beauty of mine,
As she sleeps under the green shaded tree.
And then by the glow of a candle we dine,
An anniversary for she, and me.

True Love

Memories are mine
Nurtured like fine wine…
Whole within my breast
Some stand above the rest…

Diamonds are my thoughts
Memories enough…
Your ivory tower
Soothes my darkest hour…

When the earth lay bare
What suffering there…
None of it touched me
With just one thought I’m free…

Page fifty-seven

One blood red flower
Is haven’s bower…
Not one droplet tear
No shadow of a fear…

Our strong bond was found
Hearts a sacred bond…
With love’s sweet embrace
There’s nothing I can’t face…

In the dark of night
I walk in bright sun light…
What we choose to give
Are reasons that we live…

Though I’m far from home
Days when I’m alone…
Thoughts of you run clear
With every flying year…

Time stands still for us
Though life is dust to dust…
Death can not sever
True love is forever…

Nothing base remains
Love washes every stain…
There when we’re apart
Love folds within my heart…

Highlander Pipes

Through burning sand, a defeated band,
O’er rocks we stumbled and fell.
We glanced behind, for an enemy line,
But saw only the gates of hell.

I lost my hold, on a sword turned cold,
And it slipped from bloody hands.
The morning sky, were filled with cries,
As we curse these filthy lands.
Page fifty-eight

Few remain, to tell our shame,
We have left our dead behind!
Armor shed, our wounds have bled,
Like trails of berry wine.

Red’s last breath, an honorable death,
Was to fight another day.
Our tears have dried, on empty eyes,
Warriors have run away!

Huddled in mass we stumble past,
Our campment of colored tents.
Those that fall, are carried tall,
On our shields of bloody rent.

Our dragon ships, on tide they slip,
O’er dunes we see the mast.
Sails of white, our grief’s delight,
Are homeward bound at last.

Past the cliffs, of limestone rifts,
We hail our last goodbye.
For heavy cost, our comrades lost,
On English soil they lie.

With highland pipes, on moonlit nights,
We muster our strength again.
Our hearts are filled, from voices stilled,
And a mother’s cry of pain.

You Were There

You’ve see me beaten in the pouring rain,
With only your courage left in my veins.
You saw what we worked for slip through our hands
And how quickly our foot-prints filled with sand.

Page fifty-nine

You were there when I learned to be my own man,
Helped me find truth in an ambiguous land.
Hungry and lost I reached out to you,
And you gave me the strength to see it through.

I found new meaning in you’re sky blue eyes,
Where unselfish love gave my soul wings to fly.
We shared the pain of loss in each other’s tears,
And the joy of good fortune conquered our fears.

I called your name through the long lonely miles.
And remembered the gentleness of your sweet smile.
My Maddy, you’re found so deep in my heart,
I’m filled with you even when we’re apart.

Nothing is lost, but will be returned to you…

Dust Devil Land

Dry heat cracks my sunburned back,
Hot winds of kindleling’s breath.
Dust devils storms, upon the morn,
Sweep sands of dusty death.

Clear sky dreams of sun baked beams,
On dusty powder face.
War worn man, on choking land,
With yellow Grit to taste.

Stinging fear of sweat and tear,
Run red from clear blue sky.
Fated ways, and painful days,
No cooling shade to hide.

Quiet screams , of broken dreams,
Cry out for what I’ve lost.
Strength of age, tomorrow’s page,
Turns free without a cost.

Page sixty

Fear to loose, a tool to use,
That dwells inside this man,
Truth of death, immortal breath,
Gave strength that I command.

Dust devil land, it’s hard to stand,
And blinds us in our sleep.
Life is swift, a golden gift,
But Truth is mine to keep.

The Song of Mystery

What sweet mystery, I ponder,
Of deep and darkened souls, a promised light?
What turns the pages of my heart, in wonder,
As I hold my head up high into the night?

Whose loving strength propels my spirit’s crying?
Through songs of love, we forge a gentle heart.
The blood of hope destroyed through mankind’s lying,
Was found in whispered reasons, torn apart.

What Truth of will, The Voice instills volition,
So cleverly concealed inside of me?
The scales of fear are shed as tears of reason,
And guides my clumsy wanderlust, to see.

With longing joy I will to understand.
On breaths of love, my life’s on fleeting wing.
Yet, immortal blood runs in the souls of man,
And fills me with His burning will, to sing.

On the Swamp

Past the white blanket of fog…
laying in the blackness
of the bayou’s night…
Far beyond
the ancient bog, I wait

Page sixty-one

in a swampy canopy
of pale starlight…
Then, under rich clouds
of summer rain, alone and
awash in cricket and frog song…
I gaze across
the plains of sugar cane, and
wish the night along…
Then finally, as morning pushes
a colored dawn…
I can still picture
her beautiful face… and as
sunlight pulls the day slowly along…
I am yet
closer to her embrace…

Lot’s Wife
By: Ken La Rive

She spent her days at the spinners wheel,
Raising her family in the house by the well.
In an old rock hearth she would cook their meal,
Wondering at the stories her husband would tell.

He knew of a strange god of power and might,
Who was angry with wrath at these lustful Sodomites.
Lot would sit by their fire and shake with fright,
With the certainty of a righteous man of sight.

Lot woke his family as that morning drew near,
Hushing them from sound, and hurrying to leave town.
Her doubts and fears fell deaf on his enlightened ear,
He bad caution not to turn by destruction’s sound.

But oh, the memories to leave behind!
As turning to gaze was a most grievous fault.
That last look of regret was in her mind,
Was crystallized in a pillar of transparent salt.

Page sixty-two

They shuttered in the terror of god’s own wrath,
And they left her standing cursed, and all alone.
They ran, arm and arm, crying down the rocky path,
Together, from the tempest of fire and stone.

My heart goes out to that poor woman of doubt,
As curiosity is one of God’s greatest gifts to find.
I don’t pretend to know what wrath is all about,
As we both find it hard to leave the past behind.

I miss the point when fear is life’s strife,
From a god that would crush by revenge.
What point to create an eternal free life,
To enslave it by an unforgivable sin.

What metaphor can one hope to take?
Salt as staple to sustain desert life?
Enhance pain in the wound for lesson’s sake?
Crystallized, in the death of Lot’s wife?

A Thread of Hope

Hope hangs the soul on a thread
Of it’s own design…
Fashioned by that perpetual need
And God’s great sense of humor…
It’s laughter brings on tears
For what little we control…
And in the finite space of life
An infinite search for light…

Salvation is in the dreams
Of the bitterness we drink…
Ice arrows pierce our hearts,
And blood boils inside the womb…
But the burdens we hold seem lighter
Taking flight when the yoke is laid…
Where in the falling we grasp
A thread of strength called hope…

Page sixty-three

For Madeline on our 27th Anniversary

Love’s Fortune

Love fluttered through the shadows of my mind,
And lit the sparkled embers of my heart.
Thin strands, like molten-gold and silver bind,
Twin edged with diamond facets from the start.

Her eyes reflected blue with phosphor trace,
That danced with humored joy that velvet night.
A blush of rose on pearl upon her face,
The sight of her was shot with pure delight.

She danced with grace that was divinely taught,
Her hand in mine so softly in my spell.
That all else in this world blurred in a fraught,
Suspended in my pangs from heaven, fell.

Her laughter chimed like glass upon the air,
And echoed in my open heart, unlocked.
Eternity was mine for loving care,
We danced bedazzled like a spinning top.

White garland on her head of copper-gold,
Soft flowers nestled fragile in her curls.
A garden of delight her beauty told,
I knew with out a doubt that I was hers.

Years turned like colored leaves upon the wing,
Forever are my dreams of Maddy fair.
Painted pinions blaze, and colors fling,
A whisper of our love is in the air.

Transparent is my soul within her sight,
As sun amid the gilded tincture’s shine.
A richness grows more lucid in her light,
Rare fortunes that no man could ever find.

Time has been kind to this beauty of mine,
As she sleeps under the green shaded tree.
And then by the glow of a candle we dine,
An anniversary for she, and me.
Page sixty-four

On Maddy’s Birthday

The spring rain fell soft the day that you were born,
A gentle rain, as lightning flashed the morn…
Clouds parted and the gold of sun fell through,
On fields of clover, April flowers grew…
Theresa’s tired phone-calls filled the land,
As Clovis marveled at your tiny hands…
Angel Laura got her white wings that day,
While little birdies hopped along the way…
Madeline they thought was the perfect name,
An Irish Norman-Battle just the same…
Rhetta knew you were special from the start,
As just a little smile would win a heart...
And now at forty-six the same is true,
A happy birthday love, from me to you…

Happy Birthday Maddy…
I Love You…

Kenny 040399

The Archangel

Desert sands swirled in the dry river’s bed,
Thoughts were the whirlwinds that coursed through my head.

Sharpened my sword on tempered blue steel,
Exploring my path through hot desert fields.

Tarnished and worn was my sun-heated mail,
But never was the thought that I could fail.

From the void there came a great spark of light,
A flash of pure gold from a star’s distant height.

Held armor-clad fists before my closed eyes,
From the point that came glistening from the sky.

Page sixty-five

Saw flash of bones through the flesh of my hands,
And fell to my knees on the dry barren sands.

She came in a vision of silver and white,
As I gazed up in awe, and shaking with fright.

Her hair was a halo of sunshine’s full grace,
Highlighting the beauty of a compassionate face.

A breathtaking Venus in diaphanous gown,
I shuttered with the immensity found.

Great wings beat the sky in a cobalt fold,
An aura of love that touched my uncut soul.

Sand swirled in vortex to the desert behind,
And I heard her sweet voice both gentle and kind.

Such a tenderness shown in her clear azure eyes,
Reaching for me with a soft music cry…,
“Tis I, your Madeline!” she sighed.

She saw in my heart with a love unstained,
Her wings folded down in a bright blue flame.

Her smile was memory of my old soul,
As she held me to her breast, I was whole.

Together we fly to the vaults of sky,
A thousand lifetimes, Archangel and I.

The Trail

Sparked by diamond morning dew,
Gold dawn through darkened wood,
Roused by pine and coffee brew,
On cramping legs I stood.

Page sixty-six

Stretched the cold of night away,
Gazed up to clear blue skies,
It looked to be a perfect day,
As sleep cleared from my eyes.

Maddy sat by fire light,
Her hair a shimmered gleam,
Turning shadows of the night,
Into smiles of loving dreams.

Her kiss as soft as honey love,
On the cheek of that young man.
We stood upon the cliffs above,
And looked far upon the land.

Sunlight fell upon the trees,
And streaked the misty air,
Scents of flowers filled the breeze,
Love’s hope of spring was there.

Saw the path through wooded vale,
And donned our hiking sacks,
Set upon the winding trail,
And never did look back.

Hand in hand we plowed along,
The wonderer, and lady fair.
Turned and found us not alone,
Our Laura was standing there.

I Love You When...

I love you
when you giggle with your friends...

I love you
when you ask me a question...

Page sixty-seven

I love you
when you hold my hand in public...

I love you
when you hug me out of the blue...

I love you
when I see you waiting for me at school...

I love you
when you tell me a story...

I love you
when you sing in the shower...

I love you
when you talk about the children you’ll have...

I love you
when I see your yellow bus bringing you home...

I love you
when your eyes are bright with wonder...

I love you
when you give me the last piece of pizza...
...then ask for the pepperoni...

I love you
when you call me “daddy”...

I love you
when I saw you the first time...

I love you
aways and forever and ever…

Page sixty-eight


It’s the heart’s hunger pain.

It’s the blond hair on your dress blues.

It’s the cool wind at sunset.

It’s a cold bunk.

It’s the red flash of neon on a frosted motel window.

It’s the slash of rain on an unfamiliar road.

It’s the hugs of an airport waiting room.

It’s the tinkle of ice in an empty glass.

It’s the kiss you feel when you close your eyes.

It’s that last mile home, and the pang of unforeseen delay.

It’s a wrong number in a strange city.

It’s cab driver stories.

It’s the snow on a grounded plane.

It’s the quiet that wakes at midnight.

It’s the laughter through thin walls.

It’s the smile from a beautiful stranger.

It’s the echo of your footsteps in the dark.

It’s our first breath, and our last good-bye.

It’s the hidden tear in your beer.

It’s the smoking ghost of regret.

Page sixty-nine

It’s your companion on the road less traveled.

It’s the crowd of the commuter train.

It’s the pile of paper on your desk.

It’s the hand of god withdrawn.

It’s a familiar face a thousand miles from home.

Little Girl of Mine

When Laura laughed upon my knee,
She’d toss her curls with childish glee.
I’d tickle her, and hold her tight,
And tuck her into bed at night.
Stuffed animals laid around her head,
She’d point, and name each on her bed.
We prayed together, her hands in mine,
Her upturned eyes had loving shine.

How can I forget that sunny day,
When I was included in her play.
When there were father daughter trips,
And I carried her safely on my hip.
With tiny arms around my head,
She’d listen to every word I said.
Where are the days of dad and toys,
Before there were any thoughts of boys?

Doors locked, she puts her makeup on,
And spends her free time on the phone.
Homework’s done, she’s on a date!
I tell them not to stay out late!
The night wears on, I hear the key,
And know she’s safely home with me.
But time’s left daddy far behind,
And I miss that little girl of mine.

Page seventy

I know I’ve got to let her go,
It’s hard because I love her so.
When all is said and done, I’ll bet,
Those days we had, she won’t forget!
So even when we’re far apart,
I’ll always be inside her heart.
And then one day I’m sure will be,
A grandchild laughing on my knee.

It Lives
It lives…
a part of me forever more,
A facet…
reflecting on pain’s mirrored door.
but not forgotten.
It sits…
On the dusty shelves in my mind… unlit.
A slight of hand…
And my life goes on,
As sunshine through a storm…

I Cry

So I’ve been taught
it seems
That I am not the man
of my ancestors
They were of a different breed
a hardier breed
Men of control
with purpose and
without fear, and
would never cry
it seems

Page seventy-one

Is it because
I see the world
differently, or
am I
of a weaker spirit?

My basic needs
are the same
it seems

My responsibilities as a man?
mostly selfless?
are they not?

And yet at times
the pain seems too great
or so
it seems

I have learned the process of men
taught to me
taught to be
and yet
it seems

I cry
just as I know
they did
on the inside

Hammock Adventure

On my hammock the other day,
I watched the summer winds at play.
Two jet liners crossed the sky,
Xing the vaulted ceiling high.
Felt so small on my swinging bed,
That big ideas popped in my head.

Page seventy-two

What if I could fly away?
What is it that makes me stay?
Nothing stops me, I could leave!
I'm as free as this summer breeze.
A blink of an eye, and I could be,
An adventurer far across the sea.

I saw mountains of purple snow,
People of every kind to know.
Experiences on every mile,
Imagination running wild.
Relinquished responsibility,
Decisions made for only me.

This moment ended in a flash,
As in my house I quickly dashed.
Dialed the number I knew by heart,
And waited for the ring to start.
Her voice came on the phone at last,
And every thought of leaving passed.

I'll put a pound of red beans on,
And time a bread for when it's done.
I'll vacuum well, and dust the house,
Then set a trap for that o'l mouse.
I'll put a load of cloths to wash.
Make sure that only whites I'll toss.

I'll stay awhile, because you see,
They'll all be coming home to me.

Gras N.O.

Early on we grab our spot,
Our group is such a merry lot!
On the lounger I will lie,
And give it that ol’ college try.
Distant sirens I could hear,
As I opened my first beer.

Page seventy-three

Observation is my best,
Fight the Mob? It’s time to rest!
Crowds of costumes push us back,
Our spot becomes a front door mat.
My chest and chair are islands now,
As seas of jumping legs allow.
Through a mill of hands above,
I sip my beer, and think of love.
Children grab for plastic beads,
That hang like garland from the trees.
From this angle I can find,
A new perspective in my mind.
Flashes of color, purple and gold,
Dance to jazzed up chords of old.
High school bands between the floats,
March with steps in vibrant notes.
Peals of laughter fill the air,
As something fell into my hair.
Aluminum doubloons are thrown on high,
And slip through hands with heavy sigh.
A blue one lands upon my chest,
And grabbed by giggly pirate pest.
Countless truck rides pass us by,
And tinsel dazzle fills the sky.
Lovers kiss in heated state,
I’m glad my daughters only eight.
Reckless youths with skins of wine,
Snake through crowds with arms entwined.
Women show their naked breasts,
To give long beads a place to rest.
Down the backstreets people flee,
For a Place to take a pee.
Lo, it’s time to find der car!
No! Let’s go dat corner bar!
Dragging hard won trinket bags,
We crane our necks for those who lag.
There’s our car! The wheels are locked!
Red zone son! Why look so shocked?
“I told you so!” soon fills my head,
Oh God! I could be home in bed!
Fine is paid, we’re on our way,
Alive to gras another day.

Page seventy-four

My Rock

Like a skipping flat rock on a calm lake’s surface
Softly touching in its flight
Leaving gentle ringlets in concentric curves
In it’s spiraling wake…

So too does our souls softly skip
And our lives spiral
Through the eternity we touch
The face of God…

Diver Dreams

Swimming the depths on rented air.
Through rocks of coral head.
Partners search the bottom lair,
On Caribbean blue sea bed.

Gems of bubbled breaths expel,
In rhythm as we blow.
Practiced flexing legs propel,
As soldiers of fortune go.

The deep has a fascinating hold,
As we dream of treasures found.
We pick our way as creatures bold,
And rush adventure bound.

Neoprene suits of second skins,
Dance dim through rainbow ray.
Stroking our polished rubber fins,
Leave sediment along the way.

Sweeping eyes seek every light,
Through frosted tempered glass.
Shadows fill our heart’s delight
As we huddle in a mass.

Page seventy-five

Tank is low on red line band,
Our depth gauge points the way.
Thumbs up signs with empty hand,
Shows time out for the day.

With heavy hearts we float on high,
Following our twinkling flume,
Yet what a joy to see the sky,
Through this luminous water gloom.

Like bobbing corks we make for land,
High signs, and joyous cries.
The wealth of this courageous band,
Is but the sparkle in our eyes.

Some thought are universal…


* The more you make the more you find to spend.
* Work grows proportional to the time you give it.
* Blaming someone else for your own mistake only works when you can totally convince yourself.
* Giving work all you have leaves nothing left to enjoy it’s fruits.
* Reaching for the carrot keeps you lean, a taste will motivate, eating it all will leave you fat. (It’s not on the Sugar Buster’s diet.)
* That empty feeling is the spirit’s hunger pangs.
* The rainbow circle rarely seen from an airplane I call “an angel’s eye.”
* God is insulin for the soul.
* Laugh, and the world laughs with you, cry, and only those who love you will hear.
* A photograph is a lost memory.
* Good looks isn’t what you are inside, unless you’re ugly.
* Fireflies spark the imagination, so does that sparkle in your eye.
* Wearing glasses makes your eyes worse, but you can sure see better.
* Those who stand on principle at all costs, hasn’t faced a woman’s scorn.
* Only those who have laughed in the face of death know it’s impetus.

Page seventy-six

* A goal reached is a black day indeed for those who love their work.
* Headaches are caused by lack of water, or playing hard ball.
* The best pain killer in the world is a mother’s hug.
* Time marches on your hopes and dreams, but time that dances creates them.
* A tree that stops growing soon dies.
* There are no two sunrises that are the same, yet each warms and lights the day.
* Standing on ceremony is the safe way to loose your identity, and your ability to stand.
* In your eyes I see all the people I’ve ever loved.
* Goose bumps is your body’s response to great beauty, and cold feet.
* One can realize immensity by looking through both a telescope and microscope.
* Magic is a label for what we don’t understand.
* Religion is man’s attempt to use magic for his own selfish good.
* Solitaire is only a waste of time when you play it alone.
* The meaning of life is anything you want it to be.
* A fool soon parts with his money, just as a smart man learns to know it’s value, and yet each may come to realize that nothing belongs to him.
* Focus the sun’s rays and a fire will result. Focus your thoughts and reality will result.
*And Adam ate of the forbidden fruit and exclaimed, “I am!”
* The raven will sit on our shoulder forever more.
* And the raven ate of the forbidden fruit and exclaimed, “Never more!”
* When the body is sick and tired, the mind soon follows.
* Slavery is mostly created in thought.
* Slavery is the chains of your own design, built by the links of other slaves you’ve known.
* Dogs are a reflection of man’s need for ego, and his attempt to see in the dark.
*Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.
* Poetry is a concentrated thought.
* Wipe your metaphorical feet before entering a paradigm.
* Death is life’s crescendo.
*And the blind man asked, “See what I mean?”
* Beauty is in the heart of the beholder.
* Stay tuned.
* Burn a bridge only if something is after you.
* Even Bob Newheart has a life.
* Comparing yourself to others is ludicrous because you will feel both superior and inferior at the same time, canceling you out.
Page seventy-seven

* Keep your feet in Dixie and you’re head in the cool blue north.
Page seventy-seven

* Watch what you wish for, it might be granted.
* The primary question in determining the direction of your life is: “Is it a rat race?” The next should be, “Am I a rat?”
* Forgiveness is impossible so long as fear still lingers.
* The meaning of life is anything you want it to be.
* The world gets out of the way for the man who know where he is going.
* A man who stands tall in war is the first to get shot.
* Live long, and prosper.
* It takes both a bolt and a nut to screw.
* Lo and behold means look and you will see.
* Life’s path is a variation on a theme.
* Damn it means ouch.
* You little shit is a term of endearment, to some.
* Being called an egghead may be a complement.
* Life is complicated by the clashing processes of realities.
*The first rule of a traveling salesman is not to start your engine until you know where you are going.
* Going at a task blindly is better then waiting for the perfect opportunity.
* A joke is always based on some wrongness.
* Statutory means authorized or sanctioned.
* Men only squat to pee when they are hiding.
* One can pee in front of your father or wife, but never at the same time.
* Committing suicide is against the law, but punishable only if unsuccessful.
* You are what you think you are, even if you are wrong.
* Show me a good looser, and I’ll show you a looser.
* You can only call it breakfast if you didn’t have a midnight snack.
* If involved in an auto accident it is an unwritten rule not to say you’re sorry out loud.
* Behind every cloud is a silver lining should not be taken literally.
* The new age is called Aquarius.
*It’s the thorn on a rose that makes it alluring.
* Sometimes a quiet person says a lot more.
* Morality is the pulse of the times, and has little to do with what is right and wrong.
* Volition is the kick in the pants you give yourself.
* Standard practice is blind.
* Going south is oil-field lingo for loosing drilling fluids to the hole.

Page seventy-eight

*Trees loose their leaves to stimulate spring growth.
* Our reason for being is to learn, yet learning to learn takes a lifetime.
* Voicing an opinion is the fastest way to learn from your mistakes.
* Standardized testing should be a perfect way to test clones.
* Women fan themselves primarily to draw attention to themselves.
* Do be a do bee.
* Don’t be a don’t bee.
* Prejudice stews well when mixed with ignorance and fear.
* One can never know true love without truly loving himself first.
* Dreams are the reality of an unfinished day.
* Something learned strikes a facet on the uncut diamond of our soul.
* Those who bend over backwards can see where the knife is stuck.
* Rubbing people the wrong way takes a certain amount of talent, and can be quite pleasurable as well.
* Stopping from your journey to smell a flower may catapult you spiritually.
* Shooting from the hip takes practice, and balls.
* Keep off the grass signs should be trampled.
* Some people are like snowballs, growing with momentum, with a solid center. Others are like fire crackers, short lived embers, and a flash in the pan. Both, however, have the same general needs, it’s their attitudes that differ.
* Violence begins with nether a ruler, a strap, a switch, or a slap…, but with a word.
* A king could easily be found in a line-up. He’s the one wearing the crown.
* A company man could easily be found in a line up. He is wearing the same color as the wall.
* If Wal Mart is open twenty-four hours a day, why is there locks on the door?
* Selling a creation stifles further creativity. I don’t know why. Crank out mass produced items to make money.
* Raising a child is like learning from one mistake to make another, weather or not the child was.
* Do not trust people with “Born to loose,” or “Fuck the Warden,” tattoos, or pierce their genitals.
* Tailgaters should be forced to take a physics class.
* If a person is hungry enough, they will seek employment.
*Taking control of your life is difficult when so little depends on it.
* A great leader’s ability depends on promises.
* People will follow only if they think something will be gained from it.
*The kilt was designed to shoot the moon, and don’t let them tell you different. It’s also easier to pee on your enemies.
* The longer you live the longer you want to.


* Truth serum should be used instead of a bible in a hearing. Little would continue to trial.
*Drug enforcement should start at the top and work it’s way down.
* A crooked cop should be treated like a war time traitor.
* A person on death row should be allowed to commit suicide.
* Those on the public dole should have to take a periodic urine analysis.
* ZPG should be in force in the US by the use of tax advantages. Those with two or less children should have tax advantages.
* A woman who has had three abortions should be forced to have their tubes tied.
* No cokes or candy should be sold on any school ground. Fruit juice without sugar and milk, a balanced meal, and fruit as a snack… what a concept.
* Children should be encouraged to loose weight and exercise.
* A class called Life 101 should be implemented to teach survival techniques like saving money, writing checks, cooking, etc.
Enough, I’m beginning to get too serious!

Chicot Hiker

Warmed over coffee, power bars,
Cool clear night of colored stars.
Repellent scent on earthy bed,
Leaves like stick pins on my head,

Cold camp fire, lunar moths,
Bubble brook of rainbow froth.
Owls hoot, coyote sighs,
Phosphor trace of fire flies.

Amber sunlight, morning breeze,
Dew soaked boots on amber leaves.
Golden flowers, sunlit trees,
Glinting flash of bumble bees.

Mossy carpets, fern leaf sails,
Rooted steps on winding trails.
Creaking leather, marching men,
Dancing leaves on laughing wind.

Page eighty

Band-aid blisters, shirt sleeve torn,
Waist high brush of berry thorn.
Cooling shade, a sunny patch.
Khaki canvas packs file past.

Machete blade, a hiking stick,
Over rotted logs we pick.
Compass map, we fork to right,
Gleam of Chicot lake in sight.

Sun is done, our camp is made,
Rest our bones in twilight shade.
Puff of pipe, a purple moon,
Distant echo of the loon.

Stories told, a starry sky,
Glowing embers flicker high.
Supper cups, hydrated packs,
All are snug within our sacks.

“Dutch”, my dog, a tired night,
Returned to curl by firelight.
Sleepy pawing, muffled bay,
Adventure dreaming of the day.


It’s pulling someone over the line.

It’s pushing someone ahead of yourself.

It’s good will tempered by solace.

It’s the sword of compassion.

It’s the knowledge to destroy an antagonist, with the controlled power to pardon.

It’s knowing the weakness of an enemy, and having the restraint to keep it in check.
Page eighty-one

It’s the sharing of self.

It’s giving without the expectation of a return on investment.

It’s lending a hand.

It’s the hope of the weak and oppressed.

It’s the overflowing of heart.

It’s love’s response to empathy.

It’s the will of God’s gift.

It’s compassion’s inspiration.

It’s the remission of greed.

It’s sensitivity to need.

It’s the generosity of consideration.

It’s the sympathy of pity.

It’s kind reaction.

It’s taking what you need, and leaving the rest.

It’s hard to conquer in a world of winner take all.


It’s playing the game when you don’t know the rules.

It’s being confident in your abilities, when you know your weaknesses.

It’s trying when the rules are changing.

It’s standing by your convictions at a moment of ridicule.


It’s admitting you were wrong.

It’s being bold when even your very life is a stake.

It’s laying it on the line.

It’s taking action alone.

It’s trying again.

It’s using your fear as a sword.

It’s standing above your fear.

It’s standing your ground.

It’s backing down when the win isn’t worth the loss.

It’s doing what is good and right for its own sake.

It’s for nothing in return.

It’s no thought for glory.

It’s the flight at the end of a rope.

It’s the rising warmth of justification.

It’s God’s voice in the darkest hour.

It’s God’s strength in your arms.

It’s love’s own reward.

It’s the sacrifice of self.

Death of a Salamander

They stood round the ditch,
Men, black as pitch,
Who shoveled with oily gloved hands…

Page eighty-three

Afternoon laughed past,
They jumped back too fast,
Startled by a salamander…

It slipped on sheave loam,
Lost from its hole home,
As they nervously danced around…

No beauty or awe,
Just useless they saw,
And it could not be left alone…

Their fears ran ahead,
They cut off its head,
And the rest of it dried in the heat…

What more could I say?
The waist of it lay,
They fear what they don’t understand…

An ignorant thought,
No splendor was sought,
As it slowly seared in the street…

It’s link in the chain,
Where blood leaves a stain,
Is found in their oily gloved hands…

Inspired by our two years in the Cayman Islands and our love…

Caribbean Calm

We passed hot days behind pastel curtains and cooling wood fans. Her blond pale beauty glided from room to room in flowing gowns of alabaster and coral. Smiles reflected glowing drapes of beach glare on soft porcelain skin. Damp breath and whispered laughter filled my ears as we lounged on the verandah hammock. Knots of creaking hemp calmed my mind as the afternoon turned to evening in each others arms.

Page eighty-four

In the twilight cool we would drive our polished red Stellar under the shade of giant breadfruit and palm, darting along Georgetown boulevards of pink stucco and aqua-blue sunblinds. With sweet dusk breezes on our faces, we would search for rare treasures through cooling cavalcades of multicolored boutiques. Women in ironed white summer dresses, and men in colored cotton shirts, moved slowly along the boardwalk, glowing festivity in the late day sun. Refracting light danced from the shaded ceilings over their heads, shielding their eyes from the shimmering glare of golden sea-sparkle.

Mingling with tourists, we would watch the sun melt as glinting gold on the tide, and breathe the chilled night breezes of Caribbean spice, sea salt, poinciana, periwinkle, and rum. From tables of crisp linen, we hardly noticed our Cayman waiter floating past, refilling our “sundowners” from a frosty pink pitcher of Pimm’s cup. Shells of lobster and bowls of conch salad are brought, followed shortly by dishes of fried plantain slices and scoops of stuffed land crab. Flashes of small florescent green parrots squawked goodnight in the darkening gloom of lofty mahogany trees. As I sat back comfortably in my painted wicker chair, the last patches of sun flickered as a rosy halo around Maddy’s head. We spoke without words, as only lovers do.

Somewhere along the beach of strung lights and a new moon, floated the sounds of children’s revelry, and the magic clang of steel drums. Wavelets chimed like broken glass beyond the rusty rail, and tiny rainbow fish danced in the shallows of crystal water, drawn by the hope of a tossed cracker crumb. I caught her dreamy glance toward the blue-black horizon band and a pair of pink-white schooner sails bellowing to a safe night’s harbor. Her laughter was music, and as I held her hand I closed my eyes... and a quiet lull of calmness would fill me...

Celtic Heart

The sun glimmered through my tears that last day,
A green clover trail and a pure blue sky.
The long years marched with me along the way;
Memories burned my heart the day they died.

Lifetimes of battle, a lifetime of scars,
Gray haired old soldiers that swore by their blood.
Campaigns for freedom, cold tempered by wars,
Fought for our dreams on fields of red sod.

Page eighty-five

Measured the distance by lives of good men,
Whose pyre smoke fills this springtime’s fresh air.
Ireland war cries on the cold Celtic wind,
Emerald freedom is the dream they dared.

On my grave I make these memories stand,
Whose brave hearts united to break the tie.
For love of family, hope, and God’s green land,
Are spirits of the men who gave their lives.

Exhausted by fire, their ashes fly,
Over lands tamed by our father’s strong hands.
Piper songs rise like an angel’s sweet sigh,
And the deeds of our heroes fill the land.

The Promised Land

There's a breeze that tastes sweet as of honey and spice,
Down from the mountains of flowers and ice.
Clear brooks from spring melting as bubble and flow,
Cold washing round pebbles that roll where they go.
Clouds of white crystals o'r treetop and hill,
Hang as suspended on skies of blue frill.
Depths of glass lakes reflect fountains so pure,
That butterflies and fish seem to dance on the shore.
Winds chiming like music to fluttering leaves,
Swinging together with seedlings and bees.
Children run laughing through green clover seas,
Chasing jewels of bright insects with rich childish glee.
Mountains of forests in late seasoned snow,
Reflecting the sun in a warm golden glow.
A path of soft sandstone to valleys so fair,
That showers create rainbows of color out there.
Lovers step lightly, blue posies in hand,
Peace without ending in God's promised land.

Page eighty-six

On a breezy day…


It comes with a soft hand
That tenderly gusts past the oaks and willows
In a whistling rustle of micro dust particles where
I blink and look away.

It draws up before me and coils
Its invisible cool body round as
Playfully mussing up my hair
It moves on.

But later in calm
Amazement I hear tell
Of its relentless fury and seemingly
indiscriminate destruction.

With wonder I realize
That easily it just might have
Dashed me to earth in
Compassionless abandon.

Memories of a border town…

A Product of Mexico

She was a product of Mexico: born of the border town called Tijuana, and a child of the sun baked dust that swirled as devils around her. I remember sand-frosted hair that twisted in tangles across her sweet young face, as dreadlocks. Four year old skin shown like fine, caramel colored glaze on baked enamel, in the morning glare. Streaks of caked sweat framed her cheeks, like the fetid streams of sewer mud that crisscrossed in florescent green from her cardboard village beyond.

A river of people tugged and pulled us from the checkpoint, over the bridge, toward downtown. They moved in mass, and seemed to take no notice of the expanse of boxed homes that stretched as far as the horizon in the wash below. I was pulled by Maddy’s hand, and the crowd, but the sight of her held me in check like a whirlpool.
Page eighty-seven


Her dirty dress was bleached the same color as the California sky. A large bow was tied in the back, and stained puffy sleeves were pulled high on dark fragile arms. Several scrawny hens scratched past as she leaned forward, gazing intently at what lay in the street. It vibrated and glistened, surrounded with the pulsing metallic life of black flies. Squatting, she incredulously reached that delicate little hand gingerly into the swarming mound. They rose as an explosion of flickering colored sparks that covered her face, eyes and mouth. Swishing at them with her free arm, she held it away by two fingers. In shimmering heat, she slowly turned toward the city of boxes. Her tiny bare feet left clouds of powder-rings on the hot desert street.

Breath, the grit on my teeth, and the sounds of the crowd returned. They surged, and we were caught up once more. I forgot her as the day was filled with colored crepe paper products, Mexi-beer, and the bartering for leather, fired clay, and painted iron. With the setting sun, these treasures were carried back with hardly a glance below the bridge.. All of these things have long ago been outgrown, broken, lost, and thrown away. Yet now, after these many years, the memory of that little girl with the California blue dress, still lingers. I’ll never forget her. She was a product of Mexico.

The blowout that killed three men…
The Pressure Valve

My Coffee breath yielded through wind and rain,
Running hoarse through fumes and dull back pain.
Steal rings bent through, and clangs to fall,
Soon bending it fractured our casings wall…

Hydraulic horsepower showed the gauge,
On pressured lines our tempers rage.
Fear flipped the greasy switch to send,
More barited barrels end to end.

But there was a pressure in that black hole,
And the lives of three men it surely stole.
As a dark sandy ball of gas it came,
A tar-rain scream, in a hall of blue flame…

The motor room filled with noxious gas,
And tore the pumps like shards of glass.
Splash and spark adorned that dark night,
As a small golden flash of horizon’s light…

Page eighty-eight

Twisted metal melted, and hot orange flew,
Through sand polished pipe, the crown-block blew.
Tortured rig fingers folded and fell,
Among gaseous oils, and a sulfur-burn smell…

But from a safe distance it seemed so small,
Just a glow on the waves as we’d call, and call.
But those three men were never found,
As we’d heard the last muster sound…

A meter’s length, a driller’s blink,
A moment in time can break the link.
A decision made, a moment late,
A broken valve had sealed their fate…

I wrote this in 1980 on a rig in the gulf. I had not yet found solace in life. It was a depressed time of looking, and searching...

One Tear

I shed one tear tonight, as tribute. For the many clouds that blind me, and the lack of courage that bind me, to the unclear roads ahead; for the victories not yet won, and the goals still unseen.

A tear for lost moments in time that can never be returned, and love’s possibilities that are lost forever.

I shed one tear tonight for all the gifts I’ve never used. Of all the wasted, thankless moments that can never be returned whole; for second chances never realized, and gone again. For giving up and letting go, moments at a time, the love that is my very breath-of-life.

One tear, for one small spark of hope.

Stimulated by my trip Palenque. Unusual that it was written that Kulkulkan would return, and on that date Cortez landed in Mexico, where Montezuma opened the gates to him…

Page eighty-nine

Flower King

Remember Toltec, “Fethered Serpent”,
From the setting sun his armies rent.
Taste victory cries in Nahua tongue,
From Tula to Chichen Itza won.

Kulkulkan’s flower, a jaded throne,
With feathers, of science, and of stone,
He swept his art upon the land,
And created with a civil hand.

Caracol followed Venus’ path,
And turned away god’s bloody wrath.
The cenote cleared of jaguar red,
Starved for the sacrifice it fed.

But the rift of “Smoking Mirror” blood,
Made more empty gods of sand and mud.
In offering precious lives of men,
A codex of terra-cotta ken.

He tried to quench the bonds of fear,
With sweetened flowers, of virgin tears.
Image, given by children of corn,
From Tula, where gentle gods were born.

Reflecting a “Smoking Mirror” core,
Obsidian demanded blood once more.
Hearts were rent from captive cries,
And again held beating to the skies.

Tezcatlipoca wrest his flower king,
And Quetzalcoatl fled on eastern wing.
His ideal lived long on legend’s bard,
And returned by steel of Cortez’s sword.

Page ninety

Pure Maya blood, on stucco glyphs,
Formed by nightly constellation shifts.
Yucatan ruins in jungle jade,
For furious gods of blood well paid.


It’s the kiss from a crying man.

It’s a tired song.

It’s the calluses on your hands.

It’s the leak in your worn out boots.

It’s the pictures on your desk.

It’s the prayer of thanks in your head.

It’s what keeps your enemy alive.

It’s the voice of God inside.

It’s the twinkle in your eye.

It’s the wave of your wife’s good-bye.

It’s an open smile through pain.

It’s a woman’s contractions.

It’s the strength when you’re alone.

It’s tiny arms around your neck.

It’s a woman’s nursing baby.

It’s the voice of the “Watch Tower” lady.

It’s an unselfish act.

Page ninety-one

It’s forgiving your enemy’s wrath.

It’s taking pity.

It’s the capacity of God.

It’s the driving force of good.

It’s the power of might for right.

It’s amplitude beyond mortal bounds.

It’s energy of balancing balls.

It’s the nerve of Truth and justice.

Observations from the pipe rack…

The Egret

…Invisible from beneath the surface lens, he looks to be a floating feather-cloud above the reeds.
…Minnow and Molly’s silvered streaks play at his stick legs, standing indiscernible against the clear blue sky.
…With splayed feet he walks with the rhythm of a swaying breeze on the soft loam of wet sandy mud.
…Bejeweled golden-green eyes bulge forward in focus, his neck cocked and powerfully coiled.
…A slow motion parody of snow-white breast and polished dagger-beak blurs in a transition of ebony and ivory as he strikes.
…Balanced in a perfect niche they slide wiggling live down his long white neck, so quick that the others are seemingly unaware of the movement.
…He guards his territory rive with a gulling threat of flashing wing and a rushing parry.
…Suddenly, with a squawk and a short bound he is aloft on powerful pale ailerons, searching for a safe perch in the deepening dusk of late afternoon.
…Alone in the day’s hunting, they now flock together in radiant lines on a rose colored sky.
…Contemporaneously they sit with conversing cackle on the high branches of familiar swamp trees; starlit sentinels that wait the dawn as luminous orbs.
Page ninety-two


Like dead Tinkerbells, they stick to the glass of my office window by the score. They’re little light yellow bodies, transparent cellophane wings, and long thread-like scissortails adhere struggling to the wet glass, drowning in a single droplet of rain. A mud-dauber wasp hovers above each one in turn, for some unknown reason. Does she hear their cries for help? Does she smell or see that they are beyond aid, or salvage? Does she want to stuff them in her new mud home for her hatchling to devour? They are helpless in a clear bulbous prism. On an impulse, or so it seems, the dauber zips away into the open blue sky and disappears.

Alone, I Walk

Alone, I walk,
Taking my time… I move in slow motion…
Clumsily, the dry leave crackle under my feet
Marking my position and betraying
My blindness.

But with time,
I seem to be absorbed into the rhythm, almost
Accepted, seemingly
Forgiven, and a gift is given…
In a glimpse of God’s dream

The Foundation

What need of mortar or a brick?
…but a look, a word, an embrace…
What need of building casings thick?
…that rain could wash away…
What marble block could crumble and fall?
…from faults of selfish kind…
What strength do beams support the wall?
…but a foundation built on love…

Page ninety-three


Like quicksilver, it magnetically ran, from
Incandescent blue-black ether it crossed, on
Sparked jewel wires of ozone’s dynatron,
Unzipping the gale’s zephyr winds.

In through the thundering voice of friction, by
Cool of converging wet and heat, with
Atmospheric barometric pressure,
Flowing through channels of strata’s vapor.

Charged from friction’s inversion, on
Grounded capacity and relinquished voltage, it
Rides suspended through charged electrons,
Gilding the membranes of my eyes.

Seeking its own level of power, it
Drives the rain in a rumbling scream, where
The ache in my bones tell of its passing,
Flickering my shadow as a glittering entity.


There is an indigenous reality that inhabits my tempered civilized existence
Where experiences are perceived by conditioned reactions… these
Silent observations… I have looked… to erase my
Personal history, inventory my energy and power,
Bury my “self” in search of my “other self”, and walk (and crawl) the path
(More or less) alone and (seemingly) unchecked. I have
Searched to break the artificial limits that have
Determined my self-image and have attempted to unilaterally discard it.
I have searched…
To find the balance in imbalance, the symmetry in asymmetry… to
Recover the equilibrium lost through the eons, in the chaotic
March of centuries, the millennia, where I have evolved…

Page ninety-four

Life Knife

My “Life” knife’s
name is stamped
next to mine
on it’s chromium silver blade

It but hungers
in it’s razor heart
for the cut
without a thought for the holder

On its polished
mirror sheen it reflects
the red of my blood and
the white of my bone

I sharpen it
with practiced care
for that precise moment
I drop my guard

April Fools Day

It’s a may-day field day,
I daresay…
A horseplay mainstay…
This April Fools Day.

It’s a red-letter day,
I must say…
A red-tag-funday…
And a workaday foray.

It’s a hayday holiday,
This playday waylay…
A by-the-way payday…
And a mislaid Thursday.

Page ninety-five

Blond Light

How can such a little blond
Who melts in the summer’s heat…
Burning to a crisp in the noonday sun…
Fill me with such a light?

Changing winds…

There’s a change on the air tonight;
It comes on the wind, pushing
Through the tree tops to
Ripple down the bayou in a deepening
Royal blue and purple twilight…

Islands of water weed tangles, and
Miniature elephant ears float past
Imperceptionally pushed by
A crisp cooling front, and
Pulled on a macro swamp tide...

Suddenly, on a surreal canvas of
Deep shimmering velvet, on the
Pallet of an immense vaulted sky, the
First star immerges clear in a
Pure white light…

My eyes are drawn to it
As from some distant life, where a
Wish was once required to
Bring in the new night…

And my eyes blur…

I wish for wings that would
Flash powerful in this new moon…
And in these changing winds,
Carry me to your open arms…

Page ninety-six

Wasteland Whirlwind
By: Ken La Rive 112797

There is a whirlwind coming my children
Already its black body twists on the horizon
We hold it at bay with only our sheer will
For it still lingers and grows stronger, my sons
As we extend and learn, so too does it shadow us

Once fertile, a vast wasteland is torn asunder
Little is left of its original design and worth
Hearts of men have become like pillars of salt
Where these winds have shackled free thought
The voice of God is stifled in its dark static vacuum

But there remains within our desert confines
Precious jewels, as an oasis of life-giving refuge
Where the waters we thirst for give us sustenance
Even now, others of like mind grow in numbers
Along this splendid path we choose to travel

Fear not for your safety, my children of God
Your protection comes from your will to learn
Your volition toward Truth will send you along
To the righteousness that is God’s light along the way
Keeping you whole and at peace with your self.

Turn your back and the wind is upon you
Doubt, and feeding fear will be like sand in your eyes
Pulling you into blind directions of its own design
Leaving even your footprints blown away
As enslaved, your life will no longer be yours

Turn to the light of right and see beyond
Strength is the might of your own free will
Where nothing of gross matter can ever hurt you again
And personal responsibilities will transform your soul
From a cocoon, to the butterfly you already were

Page ninety-seven

Windows of the Night

Oh, eternal night…
Day’s curtain thus dissolves upon the sky…
Where universe reflects the spangled vault…
Night’s eternal windows are reveled…

Oh! Gentile night…
Who breathes the cool on daylight’s bleached and parched…
To sip from cups of fog’s clear droplet wine…
Exquisitely lit by moonbeams on the grass…

Oh, sweet night…
Where water sprites spin webs of silken jewels…
For clouds of tarnished moon, so soon dissolves…
Reveals the desert nomad’s sparkled map…

Oh, pacific night…
Where timid creatures fair in bold displays…
That tired minds can dream in calm reprieve…
The view of God’s eternity is laid…

Oh, velvet night…
Beyond the opaque curtain of mind’s eye…
Transported dimensions soar from earth confines…
With a Night Jasmine breeze upon my face…

Oh, night windows…
Where once there hung the glimpse of specter fears…
Imagination blends again the spirit’s flame…
Fused pure beyond the vision’s primal kin…

By: Ken La Rive 122498

They arose
from the warm wave froth,
by the hands of Arctic air.

Page ninety-eight

Lifted and pushed
they travel together
as a misty mass of
glimmering crystal
across the stern…
They balance together
like drunken sailors, with
vapored arms and legs a-tangled…
Deep hollow mouths,
with breaths
like salt and ice,
move from the moon’s glow
into our tungsten spotlight...
Their cold fingers touch my neck,
my cheek, my lips,
like a Syrian’s kiss of death…
Twisted in unnatural contortions,
like tortured souls,
they move past our rigging
into the night…
Others take up the dance
in long processions, with
the ser-real cadence of a
hollow whispering whistle...
They roll out, as
the creation of
a gulf’s zephyr god,
with a lonely,
mad mind…
As a shiver…

Time Life

Lessons of progression…
the moment we take stock.

Page ninety-nine

The mind forgets it’s lessons…
a swiftly ticking clock.
So gradual it’s procession…
that creep into our joints.
Goals we’ve set as missions…
have lost their finer points.

Later in the junket…
when time has slipped away.
Differences we make it…
will ring away the day.

Every hour glistens…
with the flower of new starts.
Time will stand and listen…
to the beating of your heart.

What gives your journey substance…
is not the sands of time.
Your attitude’s the essence…
of the life you seek to find.

Fill your mind with goodness…
let love and joy surmount.
Make every day a newness…
and every second count.

Tomorrow will be brighter…
when last your toil runs through.
The loads you’ll carry lighter…
when life’s designed by you.

Winds that terry some men…
will sweep into your sails.
Righteousness as your ken…
will never let you fail.

Hold the ones that love you…
and fill their life with song.
Giving is the answer…
you’ll be remembered long.

Page one-hundred

Though your days are numbered…
your soul will still live on.
A giving self is counted…
long after you are gone.

A Breath of Fresh Air

Amorphously invisible, in
Efforts to form…

It takes on
Kicking and screaming…
Picking up its tools
Of dust and leaves,
And the draft of minute particles
Along it’s resistant way…

Through twisting and
Mindless meandering…
It’s feigns a gentile weakness…
But still…
In spiritless absurdity…
Never tires in its attempts…

And by surprise…
With a liquid lover ally…
Eventually finds…

The angle of
The entry…
The direction of
The power…
The lever of
The seam…
The Trajectory of
The pitch

To flip over…
To push and pull…
To spin, flatten and smash…
To whisper and howl…
To chill in its thrill, and
With time…
Page one-hundred and one

Inadvertently kill…

An oppressive caress…
In it’s variant of pressures

It is
A breath of fresh air…


Thoughts are like flashcards
Multiplication and division
Adding and subtracting
In chaotic imagery…

Measuring and promoting
An action or a flight,
Maneuvering the scheme and
Stratagem angles…

They do battle with the
Gross and splendid,
Biting their tails, and
Flying like colored banners…

Little is saved, or restored, but
Spin in a tangled mass,
Seeking their own level in
A world of absurdity…

Sometimes I’m thankful that
There is such a great void to
Fling them…ha ha ha!

Page one hundred and two


It comes on the wind…
In the soft twilight of a perfect spring day…
A delicate voice, like a lone cord of a gentle flute,
As in the luscious melody of a grandchild’s laughter,
And of love’s whispering kiss on your cheek…

From far beyond the rustle of the orchard trees,
And the thundering songs of cricket and Bob-White…
Above the drumming life of your own heart,
It moves like an angel in your mind…

Pulling you around when you turn your back,
It tugs you each morning to flutter awake…
Hinting at life’s resplendent gifts,
In the flowered canyons of your soul…

It moves like a soft caress from someplace
Beyond time’s quickly flowing river…
Standing strong and still, from the deep forests yon,
And sings sweet ballads of fulfillment…

It chants a perfect duet with an infant’s coo,
And fills the silent crackle of a long distance call…
It wraps joy and promise in a parent’s thankful prayer,
Like a sweet breath of fresh air in your lungs…

I hear it in the dance of life all around me,
It modulates in echoes from the great void that fills this universe…
Focusing my eyes on a cold clear night,
And as far as my heart can rise on a pure, clear thought…

These moments are so easy to love God…

Page one hundred and three

My Heart
To: Laura 11119918:00

My heart isn’t just a pulsating muscle
Palpitating in a rhythmic vim…
Not just a series of valves, or
An electrically stimulated force…

It is my catalytic watchdog between
The fetters of earth and heaven’s freedom…
A door that is open to love, and for the sake of
All goodness viewed from within its recesses…
A illuminated abyss, triumphant, resilient, and
Rich, with passion’s tide fired by the need for good…
Woven and molded by the scars of life’s pain, but
Hardened and healed by the torch of spirit’s erudition…

It is surrounded by a heated corona called soul
That triggers my free leap of will,
And understanding’s open fist…
A red rose, it blooms when nurtured, and yet
Wilts by the mere touch of cold betrayal…
My heart is then a jeweled mirror,
Gilded by loving point’s of contact, and
Ordered by the wings of hope…

It is my clear window of celestial light,
Guided by my undying need for commitment,
And God’s grace, to forgive…
It is the focus of my inspiration, and
The spar where innocence resides…
My heart is the rainbow, the cloud, the meteor, and
Contains every justification for peace and war…
It is the spark in my eyes, the color in my cheeks,
And harbors my reasons for being…

And yet, as it is full in the giving,
My heart belongs to you…

Page one hundred and four

The Song of Mystery

What sweet mystery, I ponder,
Of deep and darkened souls, a promised light?
What turns the pages of my heart, in wonder,
As I hold my head up high into the night?

Whose loving strength propels my spirit’s crying?
Through songs of love, we forge a gentle heart.
The blood of hope destroyed through mankind’s lying,
Was found in whispered reasons, blown apart.

What Truth of will, the Voice instills volition,
So cleverly concealed inside of me?
The scales of fear are shed as tears of reason,
And guides my clumsy wanderlust, to see.

With longing joy I will to understand.
On breaths of love, my life’s on fleeting wing.
Yet, immortal blood runs in the souls of man,
And fills me with His burning will, to sing.

The Pressure Valve

My Coffee breath yielded through wind and rain,
Running hoarse through fumes and dull back pain.
Steal rings bent through, and clangs to fall,
Soon bending it fractured our casings wall…

Hydraulic horsepower showed the gauge,
On pressured lines our tempers rage.
Fear flipped the greasy switch to send,
More barited barrels end to end.

Page one hundred and five

But there was a pressure in that black hole,
And the lives of three men it surely stole.
As a dark sandy ball of gas it came,
A tar-rain scream, in a hall of blue flame…

The motor room filled with noxious gas,
And tore the pumps like shards of glass.
Splash and spark adorned that dark night,
As a small golden flash of horizon’s light…

Twisted metal melted, and hot orange flew,
Through sand polished pipe, the crown-block blew.
Tortured rig fingers folded and fell,
Among gaseous oils, and a sulfur-burn smell…

But from a safe distance it seemed so small,
Just a glow on the waves as we’d call, and call.
But those three men were never found,
As we’d heard the last muster sound…

A meter’s length, a driller’s blink,
A moment in time can break the link.
A decision made, a moment late,
A broken valve had sealed their fate…

The Mosquito Hawks

The mosquito hawks came suddenly as a flashing cluster at sunset, and with the sky darkening in a deep Parish blue, the sun gave up its last beams above the trees. In darting reciprocal patterns, they began to group above the rig. The first to materialize from the swamp trees were huge gold ones. They zigzagged like glazed aluminum aeroplanes with opaque cellophane wings, hunting and feeding on an invisible insect something. There was something alive in the sky, a something that had accumulated just above the heliport but could only be seen by the glinting iridescence of compound eyes. More assembled in a fading twilight, and materialized from the darkening woods in a rainbow of shimmering brilliance and diversity. A blending admixture, they filled the air from the

Page one hundred and six

deck to more then a hundred feet above me, using what seemed to be the residual updraft from sun-heated metal. There was a complex and managed method to their working, intricate and fascinating, and with a hierarchy that can only be imagined. Then, in the midst of the feeding fray, there came a sudden dart and flash of predatory green and black. Just a few, they entered the pattern at deliberate angles, and with metallic hooks and thorny rapiers, sliced and clutched from blind spots above, the sparkled gold, the velvet blues and purples, the shimmering nut-browns, and glossy rosy-reds, …all becoming part of a grand primal feast. A distant crumple, and then another sounded closer at hand. It sounded to my ears like a crunch of crushed plastic, even above the roar of the rig motors. From the corner of my eye I glimpsed the first of several headless golden bodies spiraling downward. They fluttered in tiny arcs and landed abruptly on the bayou surface. The wings sent wavelet spirals on the surface tension, and they lay flexing on the green slimes and dark tannin waters. It shed the last of life’s energy by the reluctant directions of an alternate brain, or perhaps a mimicked muscle memory, as there on the gentile evening wind, clutched tightly in metallic mandibles, the enameled green raiders quickly devoured the twisted off heads. Within arm’s length, one gold and black dragonfly hovered above me. I could see that his opalescent and transparent wings were serrated badly in its skirmish. His crystallized bubble-eyed head moved back and forth in a strain to survive. I turned, and for a moment my focus changed to something else. Perhaps it was the beauty of the last orange and yellow glow of the sun above the swamp, or the cool gathering of a deepening purple dusk among the trees. But then, when my attention returned, they were gone as quickly as they had appeared. Even the headless alloy colored bodies had been absorbed, or pulled down. The sound of evening locus seemed like applause, and the stars appeared to blink and dazzle this wondrous world, as they had for a millennium. I slapped an irritated itch on my arm. They hadn’t feasted long enough!

Page one hundred and seven

Fer’ Higher Ground

It’s an easterly wind that blows tonight,
And it moves through the waves with a song.
The sun left the day as a beautiful sight,
That I’ll remember the whole night long.

But the signs say a storm is heading ma’ way,
From icy clouds and a salmoned sky,
For with a moon that glowed orange all the day,
Shows ma old sailor’s wounds never lie.

The swells are laying higher upon the beach,
And the seabirds are none to be found.
And I’ve pulled me stern above it’s reach,
And made way for higher ground.

Horizon seems tame with a rum in me hand,
And from Jon’s pub comes a musical tune.
But the heart of this seaman yearns on dry land,
For the swell of the new tide’s spume.

I can smell the clouds there, past me sight,
As a tempest is bound for the coast.
An’ me Grace sure looks invit’en ta’night,
And in ’er berth I’d be warm as toast.

Choose yer battles, me pappa would say,
An me pappa, he raised him no lout.
For there’s tide enough coming for another day,
Hell! Its shore leave I’m talk’en about!

There’s rain there a’pound’in on the sill,
But that warm fire’s sure keep’en me.
Lil Grace here, she can’t get her fill,
Though she knows that me love is the sea.

You see, me pappa, he raised him no fool,
As me freedom is me only pay.
For if that sea breeze there just feels cool,
I’ll soon be follow’en the seabird’s way.

Page one hundred and eight

One Tear

I shed one tear tonight, as tribute…
For the many clouds that blind me, and
the lack of courage that bind me, to the unclear roads ahead;
for the victories not yet won, and
the goals still unseen...

A tear for lost moments in time that can never be returned, and
love’s possibilities that are lost forever…

I shed one tear tonight for all the gift’s I’ve never used. Of all
the wasted, thankless moments that can never be returned whole;
for second chances never realized, and gone again. For giving up and
letting go, moments at a time, the love that is my very breath-of-life.

One tear, for one small spark of hope…

Searching, searching for a direction…

The Balls

In the haze of the moment, I recognized them. They floated like balancing glass bubbles in my mind’s eye, just beyond my reach. I could see my soul reflecting in mirrored crystal clarity on its surface, and I was pure and beautiful. For a moment they were held suspended, and in perfect balance, and I knew, even as reached, that I couldn’t possess them. They slipped away, enclosed in the fog of my human frailty. The Voice echoed like footsteps in the void, and the memory is a small diamond facet on my holographic soul. I’m thankful. I’m thankful for that.

Slipping, slipping through my fingers…

For The Blood of Eve

Out of blindness, an innocent Eve first glimpsed the balls. They were set in motion by the hands of God, for good and bad, and right and wrong. Perfect and pure they floated in the garden, crystal spheres of understanding and Truth. Eve saw that to

Page one hundred and nine

posses them would change everything, and the great lie was that she could. As she reached for them The Voice spoke to her clear, and said in thunder, “You are Eve”.

Suddenly her eyes were opened, and she said, “Yes, yes! I am...Eve!” The world she knew fell from her eyes like scales, and for a moment the balls sparkled and shone in their divine supernatural brilliance. She reached out, and for the first time they slipped past her hands. A facet was made on her soul, and as her mind flooded with possibilities, The Voice grew quiet.

The concept of a diamond metaphor materializes…

Second Sight

For just a moment I could see my own reflection on the balanced spheres. It revealed the distant path through His eyes. I was running, running away. Through the blur of tears, I could see my own back! Deep, somewhere deep inside of my mind...I heard crying. The pain made a facet on my diamond soul, and I was grateful for that.