SHORT STORY
The following is a story that I wrote in a college English composition class. I always liked the poetic feel of how the story came out. It also gives a good overview to who I was to become.. that is how the experiences shaped my world view.

Goodbye Highway Lullaby

Thinking back on my childhood brings to mind memories of waving goodbye to friends, endless highways and new houses. My father was a laborer, and we followed him from town to town in his search for meaningful employment. We were transplants, uprooted by an unknown hand, seeds carried by the winds of change looking for a place to land.
My parents lived transitory lifestyles for many years. Packing our belongings in our small trailer became a routine for our family. Some of my fondest memories of my childhood are of the adventures we had on the road. Yet, these adventures helped develop strong patterns in me, which I still struggle to overcome. The dominance of these influences have changed dramatically as I have started a family of my own and settled down with the intent to create a consistent and solid foundation for my children.
After my birth, we left Washington State for the oil fields of Nebraska. This area is where my earliest memories originate. A home there was short lived though, and the long straight highways soon became a familiar sight. I used to rest my chin on the back of the seat, watching out the rear window as the past vanished into the distance, dropping off into dreams while listening to the lullaby of the road hum beneath the wheels.
Moving became an adventure for me and I said goodbye to my friends with ease and jumped into the car wondering about the new places and people that lie ahead. My attitudes were being formed at a very young age. The excitement of moving somehow began to mask the fear and sadness of leaving all that I knew behind. Deep inside, I would miss the familiar landscapes, favorite trees and turtles in the grass. My disposition became one of non-attachment as I learned to adapt my feelings to my attitudes.
It was always uncomfortable being the new kid at school. I did not make friends easily. It seemed the length of time that I needed to develop new friendships was always more than the year or so that my fathers jobs usually lasted. I was a wallflower, and spent much of my time on the playground standing back, watching the other children play. I was cute though, and the girls used to giggle and tease me about my "big brown eyes". At the same time however, some of the boys saw me as a threat, a weed blown in by the wind. They teamed up to tear the petals that bloomed and watch them shrivel on the hot pavement of the schoolyard.
The continuation of constant change became an area of stress for my parents also. They tried to keep their arguments from us children, but we sensed the tension between them by us. They did love us deeply, but their growing differences became consuming and overshadowed their attention toward us. I liked the excitement of exploring new places, yet deep inside I disliked my detachment and yearned for a real home and time to develop lasting friendships.
Outside, in a tree just right for climbing, I built solid platforms of sticks in the branches for my toy soldiers to rest on. In the house, my parents were unable to overcome their differences. The love that held them together was lost forever and they finally separated in a small town by the ocean's shore.
I dreamed of building a home of heavy logs, and living there till I was old, where I could watch the flowers grow back year after year. After my parents divorced, I traveled with my dad for a year or so then left him in order to seek out my fate at sixteen. The road was still lonely and long, and I continued to carry on my parent's tradition. The ties with my past kept drawing e back to the highway again and again. Finally, I moved to Bellingham to live with my sister and keep her company while she attended college. We lived together, and I began to develop a new attitude toward life. As the years passed, I realized that this place was becoming my home, and that I did not have to follow the patterns of my parents any longer. I began to see that I was not a transitory person. I had carried the imprint of my parents not only in my cells, but also in my feelings, attitudes and beliefs. As a result of this, I began to develop deeper friendships. I looked forward to spending long hours discussing life's fantasies and fears.
Coincidentally, many of the people I met were also transplants, other lost souls looking for a home. One of these friends eventually became my wife and others are still around for me to watch grow and change. I observed this ability to watch people grow and change over the years as a special and exciting experience. Now that I had found a comfortable spot for myself, I was able to see my parents finding their places and growing out their pasts. Each spring, my family and I venture outdoors to pull the weeds that have grown, to collect from the remnants the seeds that we will sow. We plant them deep where they will grow and nourish us.
Because of these experiences, I have become aware of the patterns that I had accepted as my own. I have truly begun to develop roots in the rich and fertile soil of my home, finally breaking through the patterns of my past. I have cultivated the soil, and started my own traditions for my children to follow or not, as their dreams lead them.


POETRY

I feel that poetry is one of the ways that we explore the deep areas of our feelings and emotions as we become more aware that there are such things.
My inspirations for writing poetry were mainly from Kahlil Gibran, Hermann Hesse, Jane Robert’s and Tony Seldin, also known as "The Vagabond Poet". Tony and I spent a lot of time together over several years when he came through town. My cat, Albert is named after a life sized bust of Albert Einstein that Tony used to take with him everywhere as he hitchhiked around the country on his Vagabond mission of spreading poetry, peace, love and freedom. He independently organized many fund raising poetry readings for the Amnesty International organization, and published a book of his work titled, "Alone With The Wind".
Today, Jan., 12, 2005 I received the news that Tony Seldin died July 11th, 2004 . I will remember all the good times we had together. Tony was a true angel that lightened the lives of all that he touched.


Some of the poems included on this page are very dark, so if you are looking for joyful upliftment you should look elsewhere. Most were written in the late 70's and early 80's.

Sleeping with Mother Earth
Mother,
Be my shelter.
In green leaves waving you see my smile.
In darkness my dreams
caress the music of your waters movement.
Silent shadows, fading shades of gray,
like tree and rocks surround me.
Listen now to the creatures singing
and dream of yourself
the roots and soil

This next poem I wrote after seeing the bodies of the Palestinian refugee camp massacres on TV
My Eyes
Beginning where time has no meaning
I pull the sunlight the life, into misty pools.
Where the world and the soul meet one another
behind fleshy shells in an ocean of illusion.
Automatically my world moves,
fluid filled sockets of my being,
life burning into the back of my brain.
Paper shutters against beams of fire..

Evening Paper
Evening paper troubled and gray,
with light appearing through clouds
to illuminate this evening, this paper.
White, black the day settles itself
as if to rest one more endless time.
Colors fading.
Red finally, finally turning gray again
as it's turning fades into the blackness.
My mind fades,
turns away to gather images
seen only behind my eyes.
Once white, once gray, once black.

This poem was inspired by a J.S. Bach Sarabande. (A Baroque slow dance)

Sarabande
A serenade's sweet lulling
emotion engulfs my
senses are brought forth by the
sunset creeping
behind the trees
a world far more delicate
pulls my attention from
behind my eyes
to the surface of the sand
in ripples that hide
tomorrow from yesterday and
today
like a friend gone away
to another land
another space
where now she sleeps
dreaming of the lulling of the wind
forming delicate ripples in the sand
of a world far more delicate
than imagined.
Another Love
I go on.
In you,
through you.
Beyond myself.
I look back,
you look ahead.
I go on.

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Two roads are present,
understanding the limitations of traveling only one,
can I travel both?
Paths diverging
endlessly forming new avenues of expression.
All paths separate yet,
all are joined.
You see,
from me all branches spring

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Songs singing themselves
like beautiful flowers blooming
somewhere inside just beneath our knowing.
The song is the flower
petals falling from a place
we seldom see.

Funny how the past repeats itself sometimes. Looking through some old stuff I see that this poem that I wrote years and years ago is again relevant. It has pretty subtle and personal symbolism. Generally intended to touch upon the unity that joins us all and how, what we cause others to experience, we will ourselves experience. Not as karma, but as consequence.
This was written in the early 80's after witnessing on TV the discovery of hundreds of bodies. People of all ages and genders that had been held in a prison camp, then murdered and buried in a mass grave. (I think Afghanistan)

I am an arm, you are an eye
It's hard to believe that they can't help but to think about it constantly.
It's hard to believe that their days are not twisted into knots of frustration and guilt. Their nights into knots of terror.
What could dreams bring when the ones who are dying hold images of you in their minds.
Do they think of themselves as the head of a festered sore?
Spreading hatred into the world.
A cancer which grows, pulling everything it touches into itself.
A sickness in my head, causing me to limp along a painful path, where I do not want to travel.
Leading me into endless dark caverns.
Final understanding.
Where the unborn march into where the body cannot live.
Where I feel death waiting showing me images of an illusionary world where the threat of death means life.
We are the body. We are the blood.
Imbued with all the healing energy of a body that thinks and feels.
I am an arm, you are an eye.
Feeling tears there, I am crying.
There is a wound in my heart, and a cloud in my mind.
I can heal myself. I tell myself that constantly.
The purer I am the faster I will travel.
So hard to let go, to realize that I am clinging to the fat which I have grown accustomed to.
I keep hanging on, not realizing that I am hanging on,
not seeing myself clearly,
not flowing in my veins,
not finding the source of my pain
even while I hear myself screaming.
What can I do but thank the Ones who have reminded me.
With words like bits of broken glass.
Shattered crystals, stones of light.
I filter the world and rearrange the pain into understanding.