Just Deportees

In the wake of the dishrag Supreme Court’s capitulation with trump’s mass deportations, which deprive immigrants of their human rights and their Constitutional rights. . . consider this old Woody Guthrie song from the 1960’s, sung here by his son Arlo: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kVwp1NTacpo&list=RD_zWgfzGq5g0&index=7

Goodbye to my Juan, goodbye, Rosalita,
Adios mis amigos, Jesus y Maria; You won't have your names when you ride the big airplane,
All they will call you will be "deportees" Some of us are illegal, and some are not wanted,
Our work contract's out and we have to move on;
Six hundred miles to that Mexican border,
They chase us like outlaws, like rustlers, like thieves. Is this the best way we can grow our big orchards? 
Is this the best way we can grow our good fruit? 
To fall like dry leaves to rot on my topsoil
And be called by no name except "deportees"? King of Soul

Harmony and Invention

But the contest of harmony and invention was playing out far beyond the scripted staffs of musical history, and presenting consequences more grave than the mere listening pleasure of audiences. Still to be found in the world today was the ongoing contest of order against chaos. Here's the ever-present duel between right and wrong; there's the Establishment beating back dissidents, with frequent sightings of the powers that be as they take advantage of the powerless who want to be. And we shan't neglect to mention the plight of them who think they should be running the show, being perpetually put down by them that are in charge of it. And here we learn we do have words that must be said; yet we have words that should never be spoken; but someone will pronounce those words sooner or later. Yes, we do encounter in this life lines in the sand that daren't be crossed, and prohibitions that beg to be violated; we find rules that must be broken, and sometimes we encounter the terrible contests of convention vs. contention.

(Excerpt from chapter 19 novel of King of Soul) King of Soul

Memorial

excerpt from final chapter of novel, Smoke "How could this place have been a battlefield for a world war?" The old Frenchman cast his eyes on the passing landscape, and seemed to join Philip in this musing. He answered slowly, "War is a terrible thing, an ugly thing. I did not fight in the war; I had already served my military duty, long before the Archduke was assassinated in Sarajevo and the whole damn world flew apart, like shrapnel. But I had many friends who fought here, and back there, where we just came from in my France, back there at the Somme, the Marne, Amiens. Our soldiers drove the Germans back across their fortified lines, the Hindenberg line they called it. By summer of 1918 the Germans were in full retreat, although it took them a hell of a long time, and rivers of spilt blood, to admit it. And so it all ended here. Those trenches, over there in France, that had been held and occupied for two hellish years by both armies, those muddy hellholes were finally left behind, vacated, and afterward . . . filled up again with the soil of France and Flanders and Belgium, and green grass was planted where warfare had formerly blasted its way out of the dark human soul and the dark humus of lowland dirt and now we see that grass, trimmed, manicured and growing so tidily around those rows of white crosses out there, most of them with some soldier's name carved on them, many just unknown, anonymous, and how could this have happened? You might as well ask how could. . . a grain of sand get stuck in an oyster? And how could that oyster, in retaliation against that rough, alien irritant, then generate a pearl - such a beautiful thing, lustrous and white - coming forth in response to a small, alien presence that had taken up unwelcomed residence inside the creature's own domain? The answer, my friend, is floating in the sea, blowing in the wind, growing green and strong from soil that once ran red with men's blood."

King of Soul

Time

Looking back, way, way back, in time . . . way, way back. . . we find words written that unfold a very long history; it that began in the Middle East, in Mesopotamia, Babylonia, India, Egypt. Hebrew scribes and prophets preserved their long story in a volume that we call the Bible. Therein we read about the travels of a man named Abraham, who left the land of his birth and found a better place to live.  The history of the world has trudged through Time. . . across the earth, eastward to China, India and beyond; westward to Egypt, Ethiopia, Canaan, Israel, Greece, Rome, Europe, Britain, America and back around again, west so far that it became east again.

In 1968, Judy Collins wrote and recorded a song that posed the question that no man nor women can truly answer: "Who knows where the Time goes?" The Bible book of Ecclesiastes declares: "There is an appointed Time for everything, and there is a Time for every event under heaven." What does that imply about destiny, or fate, or predestination? I don't know. So continuing my quest, I recall that In 1972 or thereabouts, Jackson Browne sang a song that included these words: "The future hides and the past just slides, and England lies between, floating in a silver mist, so cold and so clean." Songwriter Browne followed up that lyric with a bold leap across time and space, across an ocean and a continent: . . . and California's crying, like an angry child will, who has asked for love, and is unanswered still." All along the way, perhaps there is some wise man who is keeping an eye on the Time, as we pass through it. . .  whatever and whenever it is.

But I digress. . . Meanwhile, back at the ranch, in '72 I think it was, in California. . . a folk-rock group there, the Byrds, released their first big hit song, Turn Turn Turn, which borrowed words from that ancient source, the Book of Ecclesiastes in the Bible: "There is a time for every event under heaven. . ." a time to throw stones, and a time to gather stones together. . . a time to love, a time to hate; a time for war and a time for peace" And then the Byrds added, referring to our war in Vietnam, " " a time for peace; I swear it's not too late!" Eventually that message got through to our people running the show in Washington. So we pulled out of Vietnam. But, looking back on all of it, in my life, I think Jim Croce's musing on Time was the most profound. In that fateful year 1972, Jim Croce wrote and sang these thoughts about time, and love, into his song, "Time in a Bottle": If I could save time in a bottle, the first thing that I'd like to do, is save every day 'til eternity passes away, just to spend them with you." . . . because Love is, after all is said and done, and even before it's all said and done, the most important - the most potent -  entity in this mystery that we call Life, as it unfurls through the pages of Time. Love is the real deal; it's the best; it makes all difference in the world. The Beatles really nailed it, back in the day, when they sang: "Love is all you need" Bottom line: LOVE is the greatest, the most important, the most potent element you will find in this Life. . . far more relevant, far more precious than Time. So, while we still can, make the best of your TIME on this earth and LOVE your family, your friends, your neighbors, your. . . everyone you meet or encounter in this LIFE, which only goes so far in Time. The End.  Glass half-Full

Boomer's Choice

Well, the boys came marching home from Germany and France and the bomb had made a blast in in Hiroshima. (‘50’s) We were driving brand new cars; we were waving stars and bars and everywhere was another factory. Back in 1953, cruising with Dwight E., Elvis sang the white-boy blues, McCarthy looking under every bush. In the home of the brave and the free, rolling on prosperity and all the kids were going off to school. (‘60’s) Ten years down the road, another dream had come and gone and the power of one gun had made itself known. Back in 1964 big Lyndon opened the door for civil rights and a bloody Asian war. young men on porkchop hill, young women on the pill. At home they said don’t kill; get a psychedelic thrill.

(70’s) But the dreams of a woodstock nation were just an imagination when the boys came trudging home in ’73. So it’s hey hey ho is there anybody home and its hie hie hey, seeking light in the night of day: the dreams of a woodstock nation were just an imagination when the boys came trudging home in ’73. Well, it just don’t pay to sob; guess I’ll get myself a job selling leisure suits, maybe real estate. I’m not moving very fast, just waiting in line for gas and Johnny Carson gives me all my news. Back in 1976, overcoming dirty tricks, some were moving back to the sticks; some were looking for a fix. (‘80’s)Ayatollahs on the rise, sulfur dioxide in the skies and the system makes the man that’s got his own. They say an elephant won’t forget; let’s play another set. There’s always another ghost on pac-man’s tail. Don’t let this boom go stale. Let’s find an airline for sale or pop another tape in the VCR. Back in 1989, we’re living on borrowed time getting lost in subtle sin eating oat bran at the gym. But there’s an empty place inside, and I was wondering why these vanities don’t suit. I’m going back to the gospel truth. And it’s hey hey ho is there anybody home and it’s hie hie hey, seeking light in the night of day; There’s an empty place inside and I was wondering why. These vanities don’t suit; I’m going back to the gospel truth. (Y2K)Put on your Sarejevo, Mogadishu, Kalishnikov and Columbine shoes, for the way is treacherous with ruts and rocks. Yeah, we figured our digits out before that Y2K could spoil our rout, but that 9/11 call was in the cards. Did you consider the question of heaven before the wreck of ’07? Will you hear the trumpet call from the Ancient of Days. Our way is littered with freaks and fads from Baghdad through our mouse pads as the reaper swings his steely scythe across our wicked ways. And it’s hey hey ho; is there anybody home? And it’s hie hie hey, seeking light of day? It’s a dangerous place outside and I was wondering why. This world don’t give a hoot; I’m going back to the gospel truth. Listen to Boomer’s Choice copyright 2008, to be continued. . . King of Soul

Once Upon a Time

Once upon a time, in the time of one person’s life. . . mine, I stumbled around and found that I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. So I took a drive, and when I arrived, I had landed in a place that I had expected to find, but in a circumstance that challenged me beyond the mere comprehension o my mind. There is far more to this life than what meets the eye, although the eyes, when directed to any particular event or circumstance, may expose a spectrum of existence that is not normally available to the sensibility of a mere man . . .

And so, having been given the opportunity to respond to an encounter with the Eternal One, the burning bush, the One who Is, Was and Will always be, the One who submitted himself to death so that He could demonstrate that life goes on beyond death. . .

. . . while driving through Colorado in 1977, in my travel along the mountain road, I stopped to take a break. Wandering a little ways up the mountainside, I paused to set my hand to the guitar that was slung upon my back, and this is what came out of the sound hole of the guitar, and out of the soul of this human being. Follow me, for a few minutes, into that sound hole, into that vortex of Time that ultimately leads to Eternity. . . Listen to this: http://www.micahrowland.com/carey/Follow the Way.mp3 King of Soul

The Times and Rhymes

All along the American towers in these tariff-tangled hours from the yawky-talky Big Apple Times, All the News gets print in lines: Out beneath the prairie stars tariffs put the hurt on Tony’s used cars.

Tariffs inflate cost of parts a lot out in Oklahoma used car lot the hardest time in 25 years of fixin’ engines and their gears cuz Tony’s used-car dealership is suffering trumpy tariff hardship with inventory getting low as tariffs rise and engines blow, while MAGAs come and rule of Law doth go driveling out the moxy Foxy show. Now along comes the Times today: with Timesly report on trumpy tariffs’ play As the reporter lays out his Times’y drama: update version of old Okie trauma as parts break down and engines blow; still cars must come while drivers go cuz in the great wide Western prairie wheels that roll do make life merry Yeah, trucks and tractors must go to seed and feed the American show. As folks with credit bad and savings small struggle to keep that car on the road at all Meanwhile back in GOPpy wonder tariffs cast auto/truck parts asunder. “My life falls apart if I can’t drive!” Trucks must roll so crops arrive. “We’ll get you rolling as fast as we can” said Tony to the Okie man. It’s the great American story of capital gains trumping glory just for show dont’cha know. Expect “some pain” before tariff gains trump had said to sooth the tariff pains. Meanwhile back at the ranch: there’s fallout from the maga tranche, as tariffs reign and supply chains break rich get rich with all they can take. But a business with no margin for options, now takes ole junkers as adoptions. In an update version of old ’30’s tales, Okie driver comes in Austin’s auto sales. “My life falls apart if I can’t drive.” It’s the American way, as we survive. Now I don’t know but I been told highways in Oklahoma littered with old truck parts, y’all. That’s the margin call I guess. What a mess! Meanwhile back at the MAGA ranch traders mount for another tranche while reporters write in Big Apple Times and little FOXes steal the vines. Glass half-Full

Figs Boson

As we strive to gather the produce of this life, as we search the universe to catch a glimpse of some Higgs-boson spark of creation. . . while we struggle to defeat the deteriorations of death, the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or heaven’s gate or hell’s bells and/or whatever else is out there to spoil our well-intended plans of mice and men. . . while toiling, as we traipse along these ancient paths of destiny and chance, we find ourselves blessed in the gathering of the figs that fall from trees that line our chosen paths of chance, dealing with stumbled-upon happenstances and destinies formerly traveled by the patriarchs and matriarchs of long, long ago, dog-paddling to outdo the undertow of high tides, low tides and the ides of March, April and now May, let us not forget those departed souls who, long ago, traipsed these paths and blazed out our trails for us, long before we were a gleam in daddy’s eye or a swelling in mommy’s belly. Yea, I say unto thee, ’tis not for us to wonder why, but rather to do or die. If we do well, we skip past hell; if we do wrong, we get gonged between the clattering cimbals of percussion, discussion, obfuscation and condemnation. And yea, I say unto thee: He and She who are faithful in the little things, the small change and the twists and turns that rearrange this life that we thought we had figured out. . . as the Lord was sayin’, He and She who are faithful in the little stuff turn out to be faithful in the stuff that really matters. . . when push comes to shove, when eagle meets dove and hate is conquered by love, when the drosses of mankind conspire to nail the greatest man of all Time to a cross. . . but then the Great Programmer who wrote the code, who structured the DNA, who turned night into day, when that Prime Designer used circumstances—whatever whits hit the fan— to demonstrate that fallen figs along the paths of life. . . and the boson-higgs that we may discern along the orbits of man’s great experimental whirligig—that those fallen figs and zippidy-doo boson higgs are nothing more than the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune that cousin Will dramatized back in the day. What goes around, y’all, comes around. . . in this great mandela, as Nelson Mandela had said . . . or some brave pioneering person in the land of the free and the home of the brave, who had been to the mountaintop and had seen the promised scene. . . when that person comes to mind, remember then, summer birds with wings of fire, come to witness spring’s new hope, born of leaves decaying; now push “Save.”

Glass half-Full

Daniel Eleven

“Those who have insight among the people will give understanding to many, yet they will fall by the sword and by flame, by captivity and by plunder for many days. Now when they fall they will be granted some help, and many who are not sincere will join with them in hypocrisy. Some of those who have insight will, in order to refine, purge and make them pure until the end time, because it is still to come at the appointed time. Then the king will do as he pleases, and he will exalt and magnify himself above every god and will speak monstrous things about God; and he will prosper until the indignation is finished, for that which is decreed will be done. He will show no regard for the gods of his fathers or for what women desire; nor will he show regard for any other good; for he will magnify himself above them all. But instead, he will honor a god of forces, or fortresses, a god whom his fathers did not know; he will honor his deity with gold, silver, costly stones and treasure” (which, in updated lingo we might call assets.)

I lifted these words from an ancient book, written by a wise man who had been captured and compelled to serve an ancient emperor. Any resemblance to persons or circumstances of our present era is, although intentional on my part, still a matter of interpertating the times in which we live. Any congruity between our present day and whatever was happening in the slings and arrows of history’s outrageous fortune is, we discern, duly noted. History does not repeat, but is does, as we poet types say, “rhyme.” Just sayin’. King of Soul