High Holy Place

A scene from my novel, Glass half-Full

Beneath a cold, clear, azure sky the city of Jerusalem lay stretched upon the mountains and valleys like a fuzzy glove upon God’s hand. People from all over the world had gathered here to unearth evidence of God at work among the people of the earth. Some sought a temple that no longer exists. Some sought a mosque where a prophet entered heaven. Some trod upon the cobblestones of ancient, holy real estate, pleading for reconciliation, seeking atonement for the human condition. A man wandered beyond the dome, past the blocked-up eastern gate; curving around northward, he noticed a large open area beside the mosque. Was this where the former temple had stood? What a beautiful mosque. Could not the owners of this hill sell the adjoining, vacant acre or two to those pilgrims who, standing daily at the wall below, were wailing for their wonderful temple? Why not make a deal? Such a deal. Cousin to Cousin. Temple and Mosque, Mosque and Temple…Mosque Shsmosque, Temple Shmemple. Such a deal. Everybody happy. You pray your way; I pray mine. Aliyah Yerushalim

To Be or Not To be

To be, or not to be: that is the question: Whether ’tis nobler in this nation to pardon the slings and arrows of outrageous insurrection?

Or to take action against a slew of magamaniacs, and by. opposing convict them? To give in; to pretend that trump is noble, and pretend that he is of that same noble character that was demonstrated by the 44 presidents before him: ’tis a fantasy foolishly to be wished. To concede; perchance to give in; aye, there’s the rub. For in that concession what further crimes will come. This president’s wrong; such a destructive man, who fires bombs to send Iranian citizens to their eternal Shiite home, while requiring our patriots to go in harm’s way and elude their drones. . . and all this without a Congressional declaration of war, as if he were building trumptower casinos on the Jersey shore and bilking the contractors along the way. We the People stand helplessly by, caught in the spell of magamania, while the little Fox steals the vines. We scroll idly by, whistling dixie in the dark, blatantly ignoring Amendment XIV, Section 3, which disqualifies the chief insurrectioneer from re-occupying our oval office.

When we will have shuffled off this oval occupant, we must appoint a new president, one whom we can respect, who makes not so much calamity; for we must not tolerate such slings and arrows of outrageous fortunes that are now being made, while requiring our boys to face the drones and moans of outrageous warfare, whilst our Constitution is ignored and our Rule of Law is quashed. Glass half-Full

Paris 1937

an excerpt from my novel, Smoke; the year is 1937 “This city is on the edge of Germany,” she said. “But the border is hundreds of miles away.” “Paris is closer than you think, to Berlin.” Philip considered this. Then he pointed beyond the Russian edifice, to the west, and said, “Over there, between us and where the sun will set, is Versailles, where the treaty was agreed to and signed after the war. The treaty should ensure peace and security, n’est que ce pas?” “That doesn’t mean a thing to Adolf Hitler.” Her eyes, stern with the memory of where they had just come from, were cast down upon the Seine. “Germans know. That treaty means nothing to the Nazis.” “Do they? Do Germans know?” “Some of them do, though they will not say it. There is a lot they will not say. We have neighbors in Munich who will not say that they have done business with my father for many years. Instead, they pretend to not know us. These last few months when we were at home, near the shop, when I would walk on the streets, I felt at times that I must have some horrible sign on my head, something like a mark of shame, a big. . . yellow patch of . . . verboten, or something . . . Even people my own age would act as if they had never known me. What makes people do such things? What compels them to change their attitude toward others whom they have known all their lives, people they grew up with?” “They must be scared as hell of the Nazis.” “Nazi police; they call them Gestapo.” Lili’s expression turned sour. She had been casually surveying the busy scene of pedestrians and pavilions around them, but suddenly her gaze fixed upon the German pavilion. Philip turned to look at it. “That monument over there—the obscene monolith with the swastika on top of it—it upsets me,” she explained, speaking deliberately, precisely. “I can understand that, Lili, since your brother is still in prison there.” “I don’t want to be here, Philip. Is there somewhere else we can go?”

Carey Rowland

Death then Life

Back in Urdor, Virginia, Moses Reece lay, unresponsive, in a hospital bed at Wessex County Medical Center. The dragon had stretched forth its murderous will and snatched the passing pilgrim from beneath a canopy at the Belmont Hotel, in that same torturous instant that it had so rapturously hurled Aleph Leng into the next dimension. But Moses was still hanging on for dear life, as if on a precipice. For seven days he had lain there. Behind him was a life well-lived; before him…a half-full vision of heaven. Beside him stood his son, Alexander, and his daughter, Diana. Alexander was watchingthrough teary eyes; Diana was praying. He had no way to speak to them. They could not know that he was looking into the abyss; they could not know that he was rejecting it. They could not know that he was seeing, on the dark side, the unknown pane of infamous death’s door…two paths diverging. This was Moses’ view from the precipice: two paths, diverging. http://www.micahrowland.com/carey/Traveler’s Rest.mp3 Glass half-Full Carey Rowland

Mainely Memories

Strolling along the Maine shore reminded me of a great song, back in the day, Judy Collins singing “Farewell to Tawathie”. So the muse prompted this exploration of Maine, which flowed into Mainely memories: Farewell to Bar Harbor; Adieu to Maine shore, and the dear land of Acadia; I bid you farewell. I’m bound back to Boston, and ready to ride in hopes to find inspiration, and memories to tell. The cold coast of Maine is rocky and bare.

No warmth nor dryness is easily found there; and the breeze of that country’s the ancient Wabanaki air. . . Farewell to Ed Muskie and the Clean Air Act. The Civil Rights Act of ’64 and MLK day in ’68 linger in the memories of my g-generation’s air. As Secretary of State Ed negotiated the release of 52 hostages after the Iranians had imprisoned them in our American embassy in Iran, after 444 days of captivity, I gathered some friends to record a song, pleading for peace. . . We gotta song to sing

From Acadian to Cajun

Back in the olden days of American history, there was a southern region, Louisiana, that had been settled by French people. When Napoleon was in charge of France, there were regions of the New World where the French were calling the shots. One of them was Louisiana, a vast region, named after a French king, extending northward from New Orleans to St. Paul and beyond. There was another French region, way up north, in what is now the state of Maine; but the original name was: Acadia. Today I am learning about the British expulsion of the French from that region . . . and the historical identity of those refugees who later fled to Louisiana, the state where I was born, and where I heard, all throughout my young life, about the “ ‘Cajuns” who were so numerous in my hometown. It just so happens that I am, today, as a visitor, a tourist, in Acadia, on a beach near Bar Harbor, Maine. And I am learning about the history of this place. I am learning that the Brits came in, back in the 1700’s, and took control of the region; they ran the French people out.

Most of the French folk who were banished from Acadia fled down to Louisiana, because Napolean was in control of that area, in the deep south, the mouth of the Mississippi River, in the region where was born and spent my early life. Later, much later, I was born into that world, in July 1951, in Baton Rouge, the capitol city ofLouisiana. My mother was of French heritage, as were many natives of Louisiana. My father’s ancestors, Scotch/Irish had traveled from the piney woods of Mississippi. Papa was a of southern Baptist heritage; mama was a Catholic of French pedigree. South Louisiana is a decidedly French region, historically blended from the French settlers who had sailed from France to New Orleans, back in the day, during the early stages of our United States. But most of the citizens of French south Louisiana are what we call Cajuns, who, in modern times, speak American English, but with a cajun accent, which is a unique dialect of French that was brought to south Louisiana by the Acadians who had been banished from the Acadia region of Nova Scotia, back in the day. Today, April 21, 2026, I am a tourist, touring the Acadia region of Maine. And I am wondering about my “Cajun” connection. . . reading Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s epic poem, “Evangeline”, and wondering about the “cajuns” with whom I grew up, back in the day, in Baton Rouge. Yet I still do not know how to sort out the historical mysteries between “Acadia” and “Cajun.” But Just now, sitting in Geddy’s pizza pub in Bar Harbor, Maine, I see a very real obsession/connection. I enjoy their servings of lobster; and I see a profound resemblance to their serving the Maine lobsters in Acadia. . . and the Cajun’s serving of crawfish, down in south Louisiana. And I am pondering this connection between “Acadian” and “Cajun.” It seems to me they morphed from big lobsters in Maine to little lobsters in south Louisiana. Glass Chimera

Glass Chimera

“Well, out with it, my boy.” Simon laughed good-naturedly. “Was there, ah, a message, something special?” “A, uh, computer chip.” Simon’s eyes narrowed. He was amused. “Very small, eh?” “Right. Very small.” “And were you able to read the contents of it?” asked Simon, as if this happened every day. “I did read it.” “And what did it say?” “Hell if I know,” blurted Mick, and looked out the window, taking the last gulp of his drink. Simon laughed, totally at ease. “The chip contained, perhaps, a message that you don’t know how to interpret?” Mick looked back at the spiffy Brit, and laughed, relaxing again. “That’s right. That’s exactly right.” “Well, my boy, what did it say exactly? Maybe I can help you understand the meaning of it. I’ve done this before you know.” Mick sighed. He didn’t want to repeat the message, with its mysterious numbers and letters. Reaching in his shirt pocket, he produced the little paper with Italian printed on it. On the back he had written the message that had been retrieved from a glass horse’s gonads. He slid it across the table to Simon, who picked it up and looked at it, with an expression of mock seriousness on his face, an expression which then metamorphosed into a faint smile. “These are genetic codes.” “Genetic codes?” “Locations on the human genome, in the DNA chain.” Simon smiled, as if this is common knowledge that people sent through glass horse sculptures every day of the week. “Okay. . .and?” “The second one refers to human growth hormone. The other three, I’ll have to look up.” Simon looked directly into Mick’s puzzled eyes. “Does this mean anything to you?” “Uh, no, not really.”

Glass Chimera