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December 3, 2018
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Blogs and Musings
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A Rio Grande Fish Story (photos, art, and text by A. Leon Miler)

December 3, 2018 Blogs and Musings Leave a comment
nm clouds53 rio grande sunset

Rio Grande at Sunset, Socorro, New Mexico

Several years ago, Duane Baker and I went cat fishing down on the Rio Grande here in Socorro. It was the 1st week of April and the river was running good. We got there just about dusk, pulled out the sunflower seeds, Doritos, and Dr. Peppers, leaned back and listened to the water swirling, sloshing, and gurgling. We managed to catch several 12 to 16 inch fish, when somewhere after midnight Duane got a very hard hit. He started reeling it in when the line went suddenly slack. After reeling the line all the way in, out of the dark water came the front 12 inches of what must have been a 2 to 3 foot cat fish. The back part of the fish had been bitten cleanly off.
That was a bit unnerving. After our “What the……?” Duane says, “Hey, I’ve got an idea. You know that rattlesnake we killed when we got here? I’ve got some wire leader for tiger muskies, let’s hook that snake up and see what happens.”
So we did, and we cast that 42 inch rattler out in the same area we had been fishing, sat back and worked on finishing off the sunflower seeds, watching the bats skim the river, and catching a few shooting stars as the water rippled on downstream. Somewhere along about 2:30 am, it happened. We got that monster hit, but like before, it went slack. This time there wasn’t even a drag on the line. On reeling it in, we found that the wire leader had been cut as cleanly as if it had been cut with wire cutters, with absolutely no sign of our rattlesnake bait. As before, this was unsettling, to say the least, but the sunflower seeds were pretty much gone, so we packed it up and went home.

About 3 weeks later, I was talking to an older gentleman (since deceased) who had grown up in Socorro, from one of Socorro’s oldest families, and telling him about our fishing trip.

“Tiburón” he said, “You know, tiburón de barro, the Rio Grande mud shark!”,

to which my response was “huh?’
“Well, before they built the dams, they came up the river all the time. My grandpa who grew up in San Marcial said they got caught behind the dam and that they are still there. When the river goes dry, they wiggle down into the mud until the water comes up. We were always told to be careful when we were hanging around the water. They don’t get, like shark big. They only get 4 to 5 feet long. Like catfish, they don’t got scales, but they got really sharp teeth….”

“My great grandpa, he worked on building that first dam down there at Elephant Butte. He’d go down there and live in tents while they were working. That was, … I dunno, 1910 maybe. They didn’t have time to do no fishing, but he sure knew about tiburón.”

So there you go, Carcharias Rio Grandii, the Rio Grande mud shark.

The documentation on it is really quite slim. It’s primary habitat was mostly destroyed a hundred years ago before people cared about such things. The sightings are all anecdotal, made by fishermen who are prone to drinking cheap beer, so there’s not really much to go on, and we did not actually see the creature.

DSC_0074 for doc.jpg

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September 18, 2018
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Blogs and Musings
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A Swallow’s Song:

September 18, 2018 Blogs and Musings Leave a comment

When red is blue and orange is green,

When summer’s come to an end

And frost has touched the wind,

When the world I knew is now no more,

As the desert land where

Once the sea made shore

When ghosts from the distant past,-

When your face keeps coming back…

The season’s too fast fading,

The road is running empty,

And the swallows flight is flying,

Lonely is no place to be.

Where you are matters not,

Still I’m here surrounded by you.

 

We were just small birds

sheltered from the rain.

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September 9, 2018
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There’s Restlessness In the Breeze…. (graphics and text by A. Leon Miler)

September 9, 2018 Blogs and Musings Leave a comment

There’s restlessness in the breeze,

Warm and easy though it is,

Like the smell of autumn, she’s

Already got her mind made.

The pleasure is, while it lasts,

Where sun cast shadows are laid.

Softly, the sun’s love kisses

Tightly in a warm hug.

You know, truly, one misses

These things on a rainy day.

“O, but my love has promised

She will never go away…”

Like an old worn love song,

I don’t know about life, I’ve

Been living asleep too long,-

All for a dream.

There’s restlessness in the breeze,

Without thought the pine trees talk,

Branch on branch, whispers to tease

You with melancholy strains,

Lullabies that will promise

All things in countless refrains,-

All for a dream.

There’s restlessness in the breeze

That prompts me to wander far

Away, though my feet don’t seize

The moment. Gather your strength,

The sun’s glow hobbled, obscured,

Dark shadows, they grow in length,

At world’s edge, to make one grand

Blazing exit, fading sparks….

There’s restlessness in the land,

The owl’s hunting, a dog barks,

All for a dream.

You smile searching for a dream,-

There was a comet passing

Crossing through a starry stream

Just over the horizon.

I never saw its passage,

I’m told fortunes will anon

Change, that the mighty soon shall

Fall. It moves with a sliver

Of moon sliding cold and fell,-

There’s restlessness in the breeze,-

All for a dream.

No automatic alt text available.

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August 12, 2018
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Blogs and Musings
calligraphy, closing time, colored pencil, deduction, epic poetry, everything, freedom, happiness, induction, life, pen and ink, platypus, reason, wolves
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Platypus and Lady (graphics and text by A. Leon Miler)

August 12, 2018 Blogs and Musings Leave a comment

(Platypus & Lady A. Leon Miler)

So Platypus and Lady
Stepped into the moonlit night
Treading lightly over shadows
Into their waiting automobile,
Platypus carrying his instrument,
And Lady driving slowly into the
Many templed empire of the world.

Platypus had lived for many years
On the backside of the desert.
He had fallen in love with one like him,
A platypus, a lady, an Ethiopian,
Of rare and delicate demeanor,
And they had traveled through
Dry, dusty, and damp until
The night in Egypt along Nile’s
Well lit bank
She slipped away into the quiet
Murky pools where Pharaohs once
Had gazed.
The parting was such as might
Happen in a grocery store, when you
Are intent on finding your purchase
Among a crowd full of strangers and
Realize the one with whom you came is
No longer present, there is panic
Until the recognizable face is found,
Except she never returned.
This is when Lady found him
Wandering the back streets of Cairo
Looking for a ride to Athens or Rome.
She promised to take him only as far
As Bosporus or maybe the Black Sea,
But they continued on into Spain.
They were discussing crossing back into
France while strolling through an
Alpine meadow high in the Pyrenees
When a mighty rushing storm came fast
Off the sea from the north. Lady turned back
To Madrid, Platypus struck out for Marseille.
Once in town and with all memory
Of snow and Spain behind, Platypus fell
In with an Algerian princess. She held
His interest well past the break of day,
Then she asked for the principle
And obliged him to pay.
With his last quarter and deep in south France,
He called lady to ask if they might be re-united,
“It was a mistake”, he said, “to be parted in the pass,
Or to pass in the night with no one around.”

Platypus learned to play violin
In the south of France,
Folk music really, in a Breton style
With a slight Creole flavor,
“Platypus swamp” he called it.
He won great acclaim for this and was
Sought all the way from
Normandy down to Nice.
It was Lady who suggested he play
His music around the world,
Just as it was Lady
Who gave Platypus his first saxophone.
She had found it in a pawn shop in south
Baton Rouge and was taken with it’s
Highly reflective and cursive brass surface.
She was much taken with her reflection in its brass bell.
Lady was tender in her heart, quite
Romantic in many ways. Her eyes were blue,
And she had her driver’s license.
Platypus had grown to love her deeply.
So it was she drove while he rode writing
His scores for the next town.
At times they picnicked where gypsies stopped
to play beneath mountain shadows
Where medieval fortresses stood.
And again they would stop beneath the walls
Of some ancient Gothic church,
Or the remnants of some ancient forests
Where had echoed Roland’s horn or some
Druid had stood.
The village priest married them,
And the constable blessed them and escorted
Them to the edge of town.
Platypus had a soul of nobility though his
Heart knew nothing of responsibility,
But he loved Lady, and with Lady he played,
Tripping through the trees, rolling in the grass,
Running through the water, splashing where they might,
Kissing in the starlight at the end of every day.

Freedom is like wine, it makes glad the heart,
And then there are those who
Are drunk on freedom and remain
In the streets after closing time, slouched
In the door frames of stores
After the lights have gone out.
Freedom is the fermented remains
Of spring ripened in hot August sun.
Freedom is not a romantic notion,
Not a thing to be trifled with,
It is more easily broken than repaired.
I met freedom walking down the street,
“I don’t know you, I don’t know you”
is all she said,
I only smiled and said something about
Getting together once in a while.

(Freedom Cranes by A. Leon Miler)

Platypus did not understand freedom
Anymore than a blackbird understands flying.
Could it be that freedom is for the oblivious?
Not understanding flying,
Platypus soared from where he had stood,
But freedom was his natural domain,
If freedom can be compared to real estate.
Platypus and Lady took to their travel
Without much of a goal,
Without much real thought,
Without much money,
Just a Cadillac La Salle,
Just a smile and a wave,
And away they drove
Down roads bricked out in time,
Down roads black topped and paved,
Down roads divided and distant,
Down roads rutted and dusty.

Freedom finally came to a halt,
Broken down on tires bald and slippery,
In a place quite distant,
Far from south France.
It’s alright to break down
At night in a far distant place;
For you lie down to sleep,
And when the light creeps over
The edge of the world,
You awake in silence broken by birds
Different from those you have known,
And the cool of the morning
You would otherwise have missed:
Observation forced by circumstance.

Freedom has become slave to decay.
Freedom and circumstance
Dance a quiet dance
Slowed to the refrain of every breaking day.

What of Platypus?
He’s in the backseat sleeping.
Lady is combing her hair
using the rear view mirror.
All is quiet while freedom and circumstance dance.

Response is reaction to learned events,
Cognitive things stuck in your memory.
Responsibility is reaction to circumstance,
Like Freedom’s arms flailing
While she is falling:
Circumstance is a lousy dancer.
Lady is not.

Lady’s a queen, she plays it in spades,
She’ll trump you,
Then she’ll smile all sweet and demure,
And convince you she’s quite shy,
But in the end she holds
All the cards.

Lady was his model and she was his peer,
She waited while he ate avocados
And French bread buttered with hollandaise.
She held the violets to be the flower girl,
Her origins were ancestral,
She dated them to the beginning.
Her early youth were made of vague memories,
Random and rare, and mostly things
Beyond her.
She remembered nothing prehistoric,
And the historic was a remembered relic,
Like Adonis or Apollo,
Like Athena or Aphrodite,
Like Barbie, long legged and bare
Riding the ocean waves on a clam shell.
Her life was like a harmonic pattern
Like the grain of wood,
Like the cirrus clouded sky,
Or wind across the grassy lot,
Or like the water’s rippling waves.

Lady dances but she is discreet.
She was a traveler, but she knew her rights,
A lady in her right, she could see
The road ahead until it ran from sight.
Lady was a merchant who sold her goods
And received her return
All the way from Oklahoma to Istanbul.
She sold what was wanted,
She sold it well,
She sold with a personal touch
That was pleasant to see,
What she sold to others
She gave to me.
She was charitable.
She was an angel when she stopped in a dry and dusty land,
Platypus was a pilgrim when he took her hand.
This was the beginning of their friendship.

Lady’s a lady, and Freedom’s a queen,
And freedom is victim to noblesse oblige.
Freedom’s obligation gives her right,
But the card must be played,
Else right turns to license
And the Queen becomes libertine.

While seeming certain has its distinct advantages,
Composure under fire when nothing comes to mind has
Its merits;
Uncertain certainty,
What I don’t know, I don’t know well.
They say those on parallel courses will
Never meet.
It seems a shame to never meet the one with whom
You most agree.
Space; like time, is a thief,
A bandit on a holy pilgrimage with profane hands
Searching for profound thoughts,
And finding them, he becomes a holy thief,
A prophet of conceit.
Space and time are distant figures
On the edge of my vision.
I have no space and too little time.

(3 Wolves by A. Leon Miler)

There were three brother wolves
Posing in the shadows.
Their aim was not to intimidate,
They were just hanging out being cool.
Platypus was not predatory,
Predation disturbed him.
He did not care for the sound of being chewed upon.
So it was that the 1st Brother said to the 2nd Brother,
and the 3rd Brother agreed,
That Platypus in the shadows
Was out of his environment,
And maybe he should take his lady and leave.
They were not trying to intimidate,
They were environmentalists.
They were seeking only what was pure and unblemished.
The three brother Wolves
Had not been born in the shadows,
They had been born in a dirt bank,
And rocks were the only
Hard currency in their vault.
It had not occurred to them
That their place in the shadows
Was not original,
And they were only shades
Of what they used to be.
Seeing them posing,
Lady knew they should be released.
She followed after Platypus
And vowed to return and set them free.

It may be presumptuous to consider shadows as restraints.
I do not believe I would have presumed such,
Nonetheless Lady so presumed,
Or maybe she knew,
For Lady’s a queen,
And freedom’s a bitch howling at the moon.

 

 

Six miles high the clouds are forming
Crystal ice rings around the moon.
Freedom is left in a swirl of turbulence
Shearing around the word.
Freedom obscured is the motion of the moment.
Freedom remains a visualized abstraction.
Freedom in my thoughts is less than a word.
Freedom written is a crystallized abstraction.
Graphic freedom dissolves once again into a visual abstraction.
Freedom is thoughtless action in flight
Snatching the woodland mouse like a bird of prey.
Freedom thought about is captive to the idea.
Freedom captive is less than free
But nonetheless it motivates me.
Freedom chooses its own restraints,
Freedom bricked in with the mortar of choice
Becomes a barricade behind which I choose shelter.
I will not sell freedom for a dime,
Nevertheless, if you have a dollar, we’ll negotiate.
Freedom is a prison that constrains me from
Carrying the burden of the present.

 

 

(Closing Time by A. Leon Miler)

So Platypus and Lady
Stepped into the moonlit night
Going from the place of shadows
Where posers were
And walked off down the street
past all the darkened retreats.
It was past the hour when the late night
People were about.
The streets were empty.
It was here they found Happiness in pursuit
of one who could stay true and not depart.
There are those who claim a right to Happiness,
But he cannot be held when it is not his will.
Nevertheless there are those
Who make it their quest.
Sir Galahad had never sought the Holy Grail so earnestly.
Yet Happiness is an elusive soul,
Not one to articulate his desires past the moment.
For when Happiness has dined
And his soul is sate,
He is prone to fall asleep within his retreat
And stay until the summer sun
Is blown in with the wind.
This night Platypus and Lady dined with Happiness,
When morning had come, he had gone.

“Don’t talk to me of attitudes,” Lady spoke
After Happiness had disappeared,
For Platypus had awoke grouchy and glum,
“I have right to Happiness,” he said,
And threw his shoes across the room.
He did not wear shoes,
It did not make him happy,
So he complained of attitudes and such.

Lady’s a queen and Happiness is a knave,
Though its not quite clear
He stole tarts or hearts or anything else.
Happiness is a fleeting hope, a vicarious moment.
I saw the knave of hearts out on the streets,
Flirting with a skinny girl,
And though her heart was with his heart,
Her ideals would not allow a smile,
Would not allow the touch of a hand,
Would not allow a soft kiss in the night.
Happiness went weeping down the street,
So both Happiness and the skinny girl appealed to the queen.

THE APPEAL:

Lady was reclining in a lawn chair
With Platypus beside her.
Both were in the shade of a distinguished tree
On the lawn beside the sidewalk.
Hollyhocks, poppies, and old fashioned roses
Grew between the sidewalk and the street.
The walk to the front door was lined with English yews
And rosemary.
Platypus was playing the saxophone softly
As Lady was singing a waltz
With the evening breeze as a counter point,
And the neighbor’s water sprinkler
Keeping time from across the street.
The curtains blew from the window above their heads.
From down the street, several blocks distant,
Almost to the corner store,
Happiness was was walking
Alone and dejected.
From up the street,
Past the corner where the grocery store was,
All the way past the old, vacant Presbyterian church,
The skinny girl was walking alone heading their way.
Lady had changed her tune, now humming softly
An ancient Irish hymn,
(Or was it a Mexican lullaby?),
Platypus followed with ease,
Leaning back in the grass
And closing his eyes to the sky.
The skinny girl and Happiness
Having arrived at the same time,
Slowly began their discourse:
“If Freedom is a Lady,
And Lady is a Queen,
Then Freedom is a Queen…”
Happiness stated categorically.
“Either Freedom’s a Lady, or—
But no, the alternatives are not so good…”
“What right have you to Happiness?”
Happiness is a knave,
He’ll play into your hand,
Happiness is vagrant and fleeting,
You play him and he’s gone,
Like a kiss in the night,
Like a shot in the dark,
Like a dog on the run,
But onward he spoke:
If Happiness is right, and right is supreme,
Then Happiness is supreme.”

The skinny girl;
Who until now, had not spoken,
Only said:
“That’s stupid,
For if Happiness is supreme,
What of the Queen?”
“Is the knave a wild card
that he can trump all?”
“And what of the Joker,
He’s not been seen for awhile.”
Deduction pours facts
Down the funnel of reason,
Induction’s a shotgun blast
From the point of impact,
And Happiness stands to reason before the Queen.
But the skinny girl is no fool,
In the Parliament of cards,
She has made the rule.
And what of the impact of shooting stars
and striking metaphors? I guess it depends
on the point of impact.
Lady smiled and dealt another hand
From the lawn chair where she sat.
Platypus played on undisturbed.
Happiness comes and goes like a child.
And the skinny girl?
She’s a Lady.

♥♥♥
♣♣♣♣♣♣
♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦
♠♠♠♠♠♠♠♠♠♠

(Platypus Playing Violin by A. Leon Miler)

 

   

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August 12, 2018
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Blogs and Musings
A. Leon Miler, villanelle
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Villanelle

August 12, 2018 Blogs and Musings Leave a comment

I wrote this villanelle some time ago, and just revised it.  

(poem and graphic by A. Leon Miler)

To sing the song once it’s begun

Will find its way through out the day

Returns to start when all is done,

 

Or rainy days without the sun

Or greening leaves that spring through gray

To sing the song once it’s begun,

 

Or daffodils that bloom, they run

In haste, the days of March don’t stay,

Returns to start when all is done,

 

As summer days begin in sun

Sublime, involves the rest to play,

To sing the song once it’s begun,

 

The winds, they blow around, and gone;

Around and round, they don’t delay,

Returns to start when all is done.

 

Flower chains and a red ribbon

For you, my girls, to be so gay,

To sing the song once it’s begun

Returns to start when all is done.

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August 12, 2018
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Blogs and Musings
A. Leon Miler, Leon Miler, new mexico, socorro
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A Song for Socorro

August 12, 2018 Blogs and Musings Leave a comment

A Song for Socorro

May good things come to you
Like rain on the mountain 
Where the streams overflow.

May good things come to you 
Like a song in the night 
When there’s dancing to be done, 
The plaza’s warm and love’s the light,

May good things come to you.

Come away with me my love,
The thunder’s quit rolling, 
The lightning’s on distant hills, 
The breeze blows cool in the valley 
Where the cottonwoods grow 
Beneath the stars spread like a cloud 
On a storm washed night.

Come away with me my love 
To the hills beyond where wild horses go, 
This night’s for freedom,
The day’s for toil,
We can leave foot prints in plowed Fields, 
No one will see, 
Save night hawks and owls.

In the hour of earnestness
Some strive for our souls,
Some for our votes.
Do the earnest ever laugh
For the pleasure of laughing?
Must every joke carry a knife
Hidden to hurt?
Can love songs ever be sung
Just for love?
Can dancing ever be done
Just for joy?

Awake, your time has come.
They’re singing on the plaza,
The band has struck the chord,
The dancing has begun.

May good things come to you 
Like a song in the night 
While there’s dancing yet to be done, 
The plaza’s warm and love’s the light;-

May good things come to you.

May He who made the morning star to shine 
And the evening star to set 
Bless you with a heart full of peace. 
May He who hung Pleiades with care 
Bless your children with warmth
When the winter brings chill.
May He who makes the sun to rise
Make your future clear
As the morning’s first light,
May you find delight in each breaking day.
May good things come to you.

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August 12, 2018
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Blogs and Musings
A. Leon Miler, blackbirds, crows, freedom, Leon Miler, ravens
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Freedom is a Blackbird

August 12, 2018 Blogs and Musings Leave a comment

raven2

Freedom is a blackbird

living on the road,

eats what he eats for free,

and the rest he steals.

Freedom is a blackbird,

takes at any moment

only what can be taken,

and does not pursue the rest.

Passive in the face of what

cannot be won,

he sheds no tears for me

engaged in active futility.

What does freedom bring for gifts?

Freedom is perched up high

looking to take.

Freedom shall give nothing

but a wasted & wanton feather.

When freedom flies away

and I remain on the road,

and what remains

washes away in a winter rain

leaving me stranded

like yesterday’s news in a thornbush,

when freedom flies away

what will I say?

Is Freedom a bandit?

blackbirds

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August 12, 2018
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The Day that Billy Died

August 12, 2018 Blogs and Musings Leave a comment
(In memory of Oscar Norris who was my friend when I needed a friend, who taught me how to sharpen a knife, who taught me how to carve a chain out of wood, who taught me how to catch and clean a trout…)

by Emmie Domschot

There were horses running wild

and thunder in the sky

The day that Billy died.

Lightening flashed east to east

and broke the morning light.

The desert ran water in dry ditches

and floods over stony ground.

Billy said it would be that way.

His momma told him he was born

without a whisper or sound

And, by God, he’d have to redeem himself

on the way out.

It was time someone in the family

stood for something more than cheap beer

and broke down pickup trucks.

So it was that thunder ripped the sky

The day that Billy died.

Streams in the Desert by A. Leon Miler

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August 12, 2018
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All for a Dream

August 12, 2018 Blogs and Musings Leave a comment

raven spiral 1-8-2012

There’s restlessness in the breeze,

Warm and easy though it is,

Like the smell of springtime, she’s

Already got her mind made.

The pleasure is, while it lasts,

Where sun cast shadows are laid.

Softly, the sun’s love kisses

Tightly in a warm hug.

You know, truly, one misses

These things on a rainy day.

“O, but my love has promised

She will never go away…”

Like an old worn love song,

I don’t know about life, I’ve

Been living asleep too long,-

All for a dream.

There’s restlessness in the breeze,

Without thought the pine trees talk,

Branch on branch, whispers to tease

You with melancholy strains,

Lullabies that will promise

All things in countless refrains,-

All for a dream.

There’s restlessness in the breeze

That prompts me to wander far

Away, though my feet don’t seize

The moment. Gather your strength,

The sun’s glow hobbled, obscured,

Dark shadows, they grow in length,

At world’s edge, to make one grand

Blazing exit, fading sparks….

There’s restlessness in the land,

The owl’s hunting, a dog barks,

All for a dream.

You smile searching for a dream,-

There was a comet passing

Crossing through a starry stream

Just over the horizon.

I never saw its passage,

I’m told fortunes will anon

Change, that the mighty soon shall

Fall. It moves with a sliver

Of moon sliding cold and fell,-

There’s restlessness in the breeze,-

All for a dream.

ravens calligraphic 1-8-2012

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August 11, 2018
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Blogs and Musings
A. Leon Miler, harmony, Leon Miler, reason, shakespeare
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We were young and not to be denied….

August 11, 2018 Blogs and Musings Leave a comment

I met Reason once, when I was young. The night was a fine night, and I think I had a bit too much adult beverage, because I was feeling fanciful. We discussed things well into the early hours of the morning when I offered Reason a kiss. She told me to get lost, and we really haven’t discussed anything much since. Occasionally we cross paths in the grocery store, but that’s about it. As for rationality, if you divide 880 by 440 you get perfect harmony, but since art is not art if it’s perfect in every part, the 4th comes out to 1.3348 rather than a neat 1.333…, the 5th comes out to 1.4983 rather than a neat 1.5, and this is not even considering the minor 6th .

Shakespeare sang the blues, or, at least his sonnets do:

     Shakespeare Sang the Blues

Shakespeare Sang the Blues

(A) That (D) time of (A) year thou (D) mayst in me be- (A) hold

(E) When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang

(D)Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,

(A) Bare ruined choirs, where (E) late the sweet birds (A) sang.

All the wretched roaches of the choir stood to sing, rank on rank, down the sidewalk they came!  Like rosy cheeked choirboys, their diminutive voices ring harmoniously into the cooling night time air:

“That time of year”, they sang,

“thou mayest in me behold……”

And the leaves were falling, racing before the wind, sometimes flying, but in the end falling down to the sidewalk below.

A Night at Woodrat’s Cactus Inn:

Woodrat's Cactus Inn

Woodrat’s Cactus Inn

Bratney McDougal came dressed for the ball

His whiskers neatly combed

With top hat, white gloves and all.

Gayly he asked with whom he should dance,

Ah, such a night, with a promise of romance

Brittney Bryce was quite demure,- quiet and shy,

She stood in the corner with cookies and drinks nearby.

Love seemed certain as the setting sun

Waiting for the waltzes, the dancing’s begun.

The shrew snuck out the backdoor,

The skink was nervous to the core,

Dancing each step according to Hoyle,

Leading the lady as though she were royal,

Bratney McDougal swept Brittney Bryce

Clean off her feet three times and thrice

Singing:

Robin, robin, roses and run,

Round about and do it again,

Through the grass and under the sun,

Robin, robin, ribbon and rain,

You call the dance, we’ll play it through,

Too fast, too slow, you can’t complain,

Robin, robin, rushes and rue,

Call me your love, our love is true!

The night would have ended perfectly if a panicked quail hadn’t upset the drinks in her quite unsettled emotional state as she fled the Cactus Inn in unsettled haste, but all told, it was still a most excellent ball.

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  • Villanelle
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  • The Day that Billy Died
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  • The Trestle
  • Box of Blackness