Creative Evolution

I have thinking about this world ever since I popped out of my mother’s womb in 1951.I was born and raised as a child, guided along by my Catholic mother and my hard-working father, a lapsed Baptist. Mama sent me to a Catholic school. It was good; I did well, serving as student council president before graduating in 1969. In 1970, I went to the other end of Baton Rouge, moved into a dorm room in north stadium at LSU. In the introductory philosophy class, Dr. Henderson lectured about Rene Descartes famous statement, “I think, therefore I am”. (I mentioned that lecture in chapter 9 of my novel, King of Soul.) A year or two later, the Moody Blues followed up on that principle with an extension: “Of course you are, my practical star!” Anyway no matter what you can, or cannot, figure out. . .Life is good!

Today, May 24, 2026, Memorial Day Sunday, I was reading the Bible. We read in Genesis that Cain killed his brother Abel, and so the Lord punished him. Cain wandered out into the wild parts of the earth, but he got scared. He cried out to the Creator with the fearful complaint that whoever would find him would kill him. The Creator, YWHW, revealing his merciful nature, put a mark on Cain that made it clear to other earth inhabitants that they should not mess with Cain. “Then Cain went out from the presence of the Lord, and settled in the Land of Nod, east of Eden. Cain had relations with his wife, and she conceived, and gave birth to Enoch. After that, several more generations brought forth another character named Enoch, who has lately been the subject of much attention, because he wrote a book. I can relate. Having written and published four books myself. But as I was saying, ruminating on digression. . . several thousands of years rolled by. . . Along comes a smart fellow, Charles Darwin. Watching animals on Galapagos, his scientific mind noticed patterns in the animal kingdom; and so he presented his theory of natural selection, better known as the theory of evolution. Ever since Darwin, our human race has witnessed a whirlwind of theories, discussions, controversies about the origin of the human race. But here’s the good news! I’m here to tell ya that it’s all good. I’ve got this question figured out. There’s no argument between the religion folk and the scientific folk. There is really no controversy between Genesis and Darwin’s evolution. Adam and Eve, Cain and Abel. . . they were a special project that Creator YWHW set up in the garden of Eden. But because Adam and Eve had free will , they blew it. Meanwhile, back at the evolutionary ranch, east of Eden, there was another divine project going. on. The truth includes both/and:Creation and Evolution.! Cain was a son of God, created in YWHW’s special Eden project. But when he was banished from Eden, he entered into the natural world, the animal kingdom in which natural selection and genetic genesis was the determinant. The genetic code was, you might say, the new sheriff in town, but the Lord, who wrote the code, was still Lord of all heaven and earth. So. . . Meanwhile, back at the evolutionary ranch, east of Eden, there was another divine project going. on, with a different set of rules. In Genesis, chapter 6, we find this: “Now it came about, when men began to multiply on the face of the land, and daughters were born to them, that the sons of God saw that the daughters of men were beautiful; and they took wives for themselves. . . Cain was a son of God, created in YWHW’s special Eden project. And even though he screwed up the Lord’s special project, the Lord set him free in this world anyway. As for history, and the descent of man through it. . , the truth is plain to see. The Lord of Creation had two projects going. One was the Eden project, which didn’t work out. The other was the animal kingdom, with homo erectus at the forefront, manifesting a special status as “crown of creation.” . . . or the crown of evolution. . . whichever perspective floats your analytical boat. . . It’s both/and, y’all! So where did Cain find his wife? In the land of Nod, where evolutionary natural selection was the divine order of the day, the order of the earth evolutionary age. The special project in Eden had not worked out according to plan, because YWYH God took a chance on free will. But a few thousand years later, the Lord’s second special project did work out well. That was project in which Creator YWHW sent his only son, Jesus Christ, into this world, to teach us how to live. . . (see Sermon on the Mount, Matthew chapter 5&ff). . . and to demonstrate that human life, properly lived, in spite of our fallen condition, can be corrected with a Christian attitude and Faith. Thereby, eternal life does indeed transcend death! It’s all good, y’all. You just gotta believe: Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen. And if you believe that, I’ve got some real estate in heaven I’ll share with you. Maybe when we get there, we’ll meet Cain and Abel, and all the other folks, Adam and Eve, Moses, Peter, Paul and Mary, your mother, your father, sisters and brothers, your ancestors, your children, grandchildren and your old friends. . . all the good folk who ever lived. . . maybe even Charles Darwin if he got his evolutionary ducks in a row without it damaging his Faith. My friend Ben just made his journey there about four months ago. I look forward to seeing him again. King of Soul

Dronesy Starrish Night

Dronesy, dronesy lights They glow in glorious starrish light Streaking in their glorious dronesy might With programmed flight in spring’s first celebration night. The crowd is seated in the field below seated in their readiness down low as kids and cameras await the dronesy show it’s not like any show that ole folks know Now I understand what Vincent tried to show because he never saw these drones that glow Dronesy, starrish streaks; yes, we’re amazed Flaming thrusts that brightly blaze Swirling drones to brighten stadium haze Reflecting glorious technologic glow Putting on their perfect programmed show Now I understand, what this world is coming to what Vincent did foresee before this old world morphed to new For there’s. no way he could have known the starry show that droning glory’s honed

the buzzing glory of droning bees flashed up in their technologic ease You imagined it all as artists often do long before these drones came into view.

Yours truly, poems of Rowland

A Circle Unbroken

I’ll never forget, back in the day, when I was a student at LSU, a couple of friends, good ole boys from Slidell, Bruce and Bob, who turned me on to that historic record album, “Will the Circle Be Unbroken?” a collection of music and songs from our American heritage, performed and sung by the nitty gritty dirt band.

Their musical mission seemed to be to bring some classic American folk music back into the consciousness of our “turned on-tripped out” generation. The Nitty Gritty Dirt band guys were accompanied by some old-timers, including Mother Maybelle Carter and Doc Watson. The most vivid audible memory of that album was the voice of Doc Watson, a blind master of guitar flat-pickin, accompanied by his son, Merle. Little did I know at that time that the providential leading of an Almighty Lord would establish my life’s most productive and most satisfying years in a mountainside homestead in the same county where Doc Watson had lived, Watauga County, North Carolina. The county seat is Boone, where on the corner of King and Depot streets, you’ll see this parkbench with a bronze sculpture of Doc, accompanied, for a brief moment in time, by yours truly.

David Holt, an historian of American folk music, later conducted interviews, with video, of Doc in his home, near Deep Gap, where he and Rosalee had raised Merle. In those 1977 interviews, Doc would talk about their life in the Blue Ridge, their homestead and heritage. He would often mention his wife Rosalee. Maybe you could say. . . the circle was not unbroken between my appreciation of Doc’s legacy and the fulfillment of my own destiny. Back in my day, before i had moved to Boone, the Lord had enabled me to record two record albums. Something for Everyone Songs of Rowland was recorded in Nashville, in 1977, thanks to Tom Behrens. Later, in 1978, I recorded a Christian testimonial album, Revelation 5:9, in Asheville. Thanks to Eddie Swann and friends. I greatly appreciate the ensemble of musicians who helped me record those songs, old and new, on Revelation 5:9. One of those friends was David Holt, who happened to be living across Garren Creek Road from me at that time. I greatly appreciate his old-style frailing banjo in that session, with a little help from me friends, an ensemble of local musicians, including Dan Lewis on harmonica, on that old hymn from Appalachian history, Life’s Railway to Heaven. Life's Railway to Heaven Years after that recording, after Pat and I had moved to Boone, I was singing some of those songs at the Watauga County fairgrounds, North Carolina state fair. Doc’s widow, Rosalee, was listening, seated in the audience. After my set, she spoke to me kindly, commending me on my songs. As I said earlier, I’ll never forget the sound of voice when I first heard him in 1972. And I’ll never forget Rosalee’s appreciation of my song, later. As Bob Hope and Bing Crosby used to sing, long before I was born: “Thanks for the memories.” That will be my greeting to Doc, Rosalee and Merle, when I meet them in that heavenly circle in which will never be forever unbroken! King of Soul

Cleaning the Mess

an excerpt from chapter 19 of Glass half-Full

Marcus opened a can of turpentine. He tipped it slightly so that its upper contents would spill onto a rag that lay on the parking lot next to his car. With the rag partially soaked, he began rubbing on the driver’s-side door. Someone had painted a black swastika on it while he was working late. His cell phone rang. He opened it, looked at the mini-screen, saw “Grille,” which stoodfor Jesse James Gang Grille. In the last few days, however, whenever hewould see “Grille” displayed as the caller ID, it registered in his mind as “Girl,” meaning Bridget, because she would often call from there. “Hi.” “Marcus, have you heard about the explosion?” “No, where?” “At the Belmont Hotel, about 20 minutes ago. That’s where the FEF convention is. “Aleph told me he would be going there tonight. Has anybody been down there to see what’s happening?” “Kaneesha left here right after we heard it, but she hasn’t returned. I don’t think anybody’s getting in there for awhile. The police have got the whole block barricaded.” “I want to find out if anything has happened to Aleph. Don’t you think he would have left there by now?” “The TV News says the police aren’t letting anyone in or out except rescue workers.” “I’m headed over there in a few minutes, as soon as I get the car-door cleaned up. Someone painted a swastika on it.” Glass half-Full

Purloined Poetry

Once upon a time, I knew a fiddler up on a roof. . . Under the canopy of memory. . . I don’t remember growing older. When did they? and a secret chord that David pleased that pleased the Lord Though I have walked through the shadow of death, I did fear no evil. for Jesus’ resurrection has reassured me. . . So even though some things went wrong, I stand before the Lord of song, with mostly on my tongue: Alleluia! On the other hand. . . All lies and jest, still a man hears what he wants to hear and disregards the rest. Let it be, let it be, the wistful words of wisdom… the several things that I’ve done all right and it’s singing songs Ole man River; he don’t say nothing; he just keep rollin’ along. He just keep rollin’. . . way back. . . way back. through the Mississippi darkness, rolling down to the sea. . . We came to Big Muddy and we forded that flood on the Tennessee mare and the Tennessee stud. Like a circle in a spiral, like a wheel within a wheel. . . looking out from that crummy hotel room in Washington square. . . I could have told you, Vincent, this world was never meant for. . . Where have all the flowers gone, anyway, long time passing? Let the Life go by; I don’t care as long as I. . . can be on the street where we live.

I’ve looked at life from both sides now, and still somehow, it’s life’s infusions I recall. . . at age 74. . . I am I said and no one heard, not even the chair. But hey! It’s all good, y’all. I’m here to tell ya. . . so Jah say And even though some things went wrong, I stand before the Lord of so song with nothing on my tongue but Allelluia. Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no . . . .whatever happens.

A Life Journey

From Roncevaux pass across the channel, around Brittania, up to isle of Mann, a strain of Euro mankind turned westward. A young man sailed for the new world, through the harbor where the tired, the weary and the huddled masses were yearning to be free. Round and round, down and down, through mountains, southward,the people and the young man trod; they floated, by wagon and by train,through rain, down to the sunny South. At the father of American waters the Carey ancestors floated down the Euphrates of the new world, to Ur of those called to the delta, to the bayou, almost to great Gulf. And there, Pilgrim was born, in Ur of the new world, the land of many waters, where he was raised in the Roman way of worship, with host and chalice, balanced out with a sprig or two of Baptist faith, lingering in the pages of time, and he grew up and he traipsed the halls of acadamia, searching for paradise lost, comprehending the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune that flesh is heir to. And after he had grown some, he took to himself an orange, and he noticed the veins in the leaf, and the light and the balance. Then he was in that stage of life when a man must discover his own path, and so he turned eastward, to the panhandle of health and wealth, the peninsula of sunshine. He prospered; he figured out a thing or two, but after a season or three, he gravitated to the land of the high country, over themountain and through the Appalachian woods to the buncombe of liberated free youth, guided homeward by the face of an a an angel. . . drawing him to a destiny yet to be determined. . . he knew not what.

As Roland had sounded his horn at Ronceveau in ancient times the young man sounded his songs out upon the mountains of destiny, the turntables of time, contemplating the little big horn and the windows of the world, among other things. It was all good; but trouble, tribulation and vows unvowed compelled him back westward . . . to the land of open spaces, to Waco, and no more whacko whipso strangeo. And so he had an encounter with the One who broke the seals of time and destiny, the ancient seals of creation, destruction and new creation.

Then later. . . after an unsettled runaround in the wild west, he returned to his adopted high country home, he met the woman of his destiny, and they settled into the good, prolific life on the old trail where Boone had found the way westward, back in the day, where spring’s new hope, born of leaves decaying, settles into the ancient Appalachian forests of time.

Glass half-Full

Deep South 1964

from chapter 5 of King of Soul But Liberty and Justice for All is not something that just happens. As compatriots with liberation and deliverance, liberty and justice emerge triumphant from the very embattlements of human history. Where their zealous advocates manage to grab some foothold in the landscape of human struggle, freedom is fleeting not far behind. Noble aspirations are all summoned up when the careless slayings of men demand value more sacred, more holy, than the mere clashing of weapons and the expiration of breathing bodies. In our present exploration’s story, the bad news is: there is an inevitable outflow—the shedding of blood—which propels violence to ever higher levels of atrocity. The good news is: where there’s shedding of blood, Soul is not far beneath. In the summer of 1964, all of these elements of human struggle converged in an unprecedented way. Way down south, in the piney woods and sweltering fields of Mississippi, a new activist strain of blood-red camellia was taking root in that freshly-tilled civil rights black delta loam. As God had heard the cry of Abel’s blood arising from Edenic soil, he heard now the beckoning of enshrouded laborers, those dead and these living. Their muted cries called forth liberation; they demanded deliverance. So while black folk of the deep South were struggling to register their right to vote as Americans, a vast brigade of like-minded souls from other regions caught a whiff of their newly-planted liberty, and so the new brigades took it upon themselves to go down to Mississippi and lend a hand.

Go down, Moses, was the call. Go down, collective Moses. There were many who heard that call; there was even a man named Moses, Bob Moses from Harlem. He, and others who stood with him against discrimination, planted themselves in Mississippi at the crossroads of injustice and opportunity. Down here in the verdant lap of Dixie where the honeysuckles twine sweetly and the slaves had mourned bitterly, a battalion of wayfaring strangers from far and near came to cultivate the new growth offreedom. They were filling a void in the whole of the human soul. Robbed of freedom, the Soul of Man wails out a distress call; then in regions afar, theSoul of Man hears, and resonates with action. Deep calls unto deep. https://www.amazon.com/King-Soul-Louis-Carey-Rowland/dp/1545075115 Glass half-Full

London 1937

My novel, Smoke, published in 2011, begins a story set in 1937. The first scenes take place in London, May 12, Coronation day for King George VI, grandfather of the present King Charles. For the love of a woman can change the course of the world. As Helen’s face had launched a thousand Greek ships, so the affections of an American divorcée had turned the tide of royal authority from one brother to another. From one duke to another. Made ostensibly of sterner, though stammering, stuff than his older liege, Albert--soon to be called George VI--would, in only a few short hours ascend those few hallowed steps in Westminster to sit upon the throne of Edward, James, Henry and all those other regents who had ever commanded the armies or fleets of British empire. The people of England were expectant, exultant. No mean Mr. Mustard here. No, they were ready to receive a new king, now that the whole affair of Edward’s abdication had resolved itself into the ashtray of history. And all the more so, since the role of the regents was now largely ceremonial, having little effectual responsibility except to maintain that proverbial stiff upper lip with a vigilant eye upon the horizon where an eternal sun was perpetually setting, but never, of course, on the British Empire. God save the King, but it would be Mr. Baldwin, or Mr. Chamberlain, Mr. Churchill, orsome such privileged commoner who would ultimately compel English hearts and guts to bear sacrificial defence of their storied shores.

The story begins as the American businessman, Philip, accompanied by his friend, Nathan, a Londoner, are looking into a shop window, when suddenly an old man takes hold of Nathan’s arm and promptly collapses on the pavement, dead. Then the London bobby shows up. . . The policeman asked Nathan if there was anything else he had noticed about the deceased. “He handed this to me,” said Nathan, “even as he was falling to the ground.” It was a folded white paper, with this handwritten message largely scrawled in black ink: Wallris-- John Bull’s ransom will smoke out the black shirts tomorrow. If not, your bridge could burn. Chapman .. . . while a crowd of people stood and stared. They’d seen his face before. Nobody was really sure if he was from the House of Lords. https://www.amazon.com/Smoke-L-Carey-Rowland/dp/1495330834 Glass half-Full

Tree Fallen

Fallen tree down on the ground, did your demise send out a crashing sound? I know the Lord who created you. I know the Lord who laid you in my view.

How many years did you stand, tall and strong, before it all went wrong? How many seasons came and went before to forest floor you’re sent? I wander slowly in these woods, shaded by all these leafy hoods. Clear blue sky, in the heavens high, did you send wind to make trees fly? Flying downward to the ground, did this tree make a crashing sound? How many years did this stand tall, before the crashing, fatal fall?

Losing leaves, bleeding sap, this mighty tree laid down to take a nap. Timber, timber, standing tall, did you cry out in God’s fateful call? Oh mighty tree, oh mighty tree, methinks you’re a lot like me. Someday I shall fall down like you, when I then join the heavenly crew. Glass half-Full

Deep South 1964

an excerpt from King of Soul But Liberty and Justice for All is not something that just happens. As compatriots with liberation and deliverance, liberty and justice emerge triumphant from the very embattlements of human history. Where their zealous advocates manage to grab some foothold in the landscape of human struggle, freedom is fleeting not far behind. Noble aspirations are all summoned up when the careless slayings of men demand value more sacred, more holy, than the mere clashing of weapons and the expiration ofbreathing bodies. In our present exploration’s story, the bad news is: there is an inevitable outflow—the shedding of blood—which propels violence to ever higher levels of atrocity. The good news is: where there’s shedding of blood, Soul is not far beneath. In the summer of 1964, all of these elements of human struggle converged in an unprecedented way. Way down south, in the piney woods and sweltering fields of Mississippi, a new activist strain of blood-red camellia was taking root in that freshly-tilled civil rights black delta loam. As God had heard the cry of Abel’s blood arising from Edenic soil, he heard now the beckoning of enshrouded laborers, those dead and these living. Their muted cries called forth liberation; they demanded deliverance. So while black folk of the deep South were struggling to register their nright to vote as Americans, a vast brigade of like-minded souls from other nregions caught a whiff of their newly-planted liberty, and so the new brigades took it upon themselves to go down to Mississippi and lend a hand. Go down, Moses, was the call. Go down, collective Moses.

King of Soul

When in the course of American events it becomes necessary for the people to dissolve the political bands which had previously connected them with insurrectionists magamaniacs, and to assume, among the powers and the rights afforded us in our Constitution, the separate and corrective station to which Nature and our Bill of Rights entitle us, a decent respect for the opinions of mankindrequires that we should declare the violations of our Rule of Law that impel us toto the corrective action.

We hold these principles, mentioned here, to be memorable in the minds of ourfellow-citizens, that we are all challenged by our Constitution and our judicial precedents to conduct ourselves in a manner that is law-abiding, peaceful and productive toward the general welfare of our citizens and our institutions. The securing of our rights to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, requires us to institute governments, on the federal, state and local levels, deriving their powers from the consent of the people who str governing and being governed. And when any holder of public office becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to remove him, thus rebuilding a lawful foundation on Constitutional principles, and re-organizing powers that are appropriate for obtaining Safety and Security. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that governments long established should not be changed with magamania intentions. Therefore. . . a long train of abuses and usurpations compels US the People to expel the chief offender for the sake of the preservation and continuance of our Democratic Republic. To advance our grievances and our intent to remove the offender who now occupies the oval office, let the Facts be submitted to a candid world: 1. He has refused to govern by Rule of Law, choosing rather to rule by his social media posts and the blind obedience of his foxy-woxy sycophants, who appear to have no consciousness of Constitutional authority or Rule of Law.

2. He has recruited proud boys, oath-bleepers and three percent of the foxes who steal the vines of Law and order. . . to mount an insurrectionagainst our Congress, with the intent to obstruct their Constitutional duties and subvert the counting of Electoral ballots so that he might continue, illegally, to occupy the office of the presidency, January 6, 2021.

3. Having no summons from any state Governor, as is required by our Constitution, he has called out soldiers to attack, and even to kill citizens in three of our United States, because they were making lawful use of their Constitutional Rights of Freedom of Assembly and Freedom of Speech. 4. Having no declaration of war from Congress, as would have been required by our Constitution, he took it upon himself to kill and terrorize citizens of a foreign nation, imposing a murderous war on Iran, and thereby disrupting international trade routes, and igniting monetary inflation that imposes hardship on US the People of the United States, all because he wanted to start a war. We therefore, the citizens of the United States of America call upon our Representatives and our Senators to remove the offending oval office occupant, so that we may continue in maintaining a government of the People, by the People and for the People, instead of being led by a self-obsessed powermonger who understands no principles of government of the people, by the people and for the people of these, our United States of America. Glass half-Full

North star for middle America, Chicago. . . the first time I visited there was on a road trip back in summer of ’71, between Ohio and Wisconsin, parking my old ’63 Olds Skylark in a parking lot at the Circle campus of University of Illinois. I had taken a break from selling dictionaries door to door, for the Southwestern Company of Nashville. down in Oak Hill, Ohio, for the Southwestern Company of Nashville. I parked the car and left it there for a few days so I could visit friends who were working in a summer ccamp in Wisconsin. Metropolitan Chicago represents the great middle of our nation. In my lifetime, I can remember the 1968 Democratic convention, where young people, college students from all over, gathered to protest against the draft, and against racial discrimination. The mayor of Chicago didn’t like what the protesters were doing.

But that was a long time ago. Today I’m in Evanston, just up the lakeshore from Chicago, traipsing on the campus of Northwestern University, founded in the early 1800’s, a fascinating place… founded as the first great university in the middle of our country. Wandering around now on campus, I see there is no shortage of the liberal perspective in the middle of the country. Here’s a flyer I found on a bulletin board.

Now I’m no leftie. I am a Christian, centrist. I notice that my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, taught, in His sermon on the mount, that we should be peacemakers, we should feed people who are hungry, provide shelter for those who are homeless, and welcome strangers. And just now, I notice that our former president, Barack Obama, has made some comments that serve well to gravitate our attention back to that Christian message, and away from the magamania that has captured the oval office and its current occupant. Here’s a church sign in Chicago that gets it right, or left or whatever you call helping people instead of rejecting them.

King of Soul

Oh Canada!

Back in the day, Gordon sang. . .” So they looked to the future and what did they see? They saw an iron road running from the sea. . . up the St. Lawrence, all the way to Gasp’e, swinging our hammers and drawing our pay. Look away, said they, all across this mighty land, from the eastern shore to the western strand” . . . Along came Joni, singing . . .”On the back of a cartoon coaster, in a blue TV screen light, I drew a map of Canada. . . Oh, Canada!” And Neil, 1970, singing about the trouble being generated across the border, in America, and on the side of the world, Vietnam, in the 1960’s. . . “Blue blue windows behind the stars, yellow moon on the rise. . . big birds flying across the skies, throwing shadows on our eyes.” In 2026, donald trump has been trying to pull the wool over Mark Carney’s eyes, trying to cover the Canadian Prime Minister’s vision with maga madness, trying to pull his maralago tricks on the Canadian PM, as if he could fool a leader who had, as Mark Carney told the Europeans recently, “ran the Bank of Canada during the financial crisis, and ran the bank of England during Brexit” The present occupant of the oval was trying to throw his weight around to get Mark Carney to tow the line for trump’s bull***t hegemony. But now the Canadian leader has forced into a captive position in which donald has received a message, something like. . . do not pass go; do not collect 200 dollars, American or otherwise. . . Instead, Mark Carney went to the Europeans and explained. “Canada did not impose the first tariff, the second tariff, the third, the fourth 5th, the sixth or seventh tariffs. Every single tariff in this confrontation was initiated by U.S. . . . . .Canada supplies to the US 60% of its crude oil, 98% of electricity on the borders, 73% potash for agricultural fertilizer, 87% of softwood lumber, 67% of our nickel for defense and 100% of the fresh water to the Great Lakes.

When a journalist asked, “Can Canada win this?”. . . speaking of trump’s bully tactics for controlling Canada, Mark Carney answered. “We already have.” As for the bully across the border, the king of maralago. . . this American writer says: Read ‘em and weep, donald! You’ve been outdrawn in the shootout at the Brussels corral. Do not pass Go; do not collect anything! Paraphrasing Gordon Lightfoot’s song from back in the day. . . “So Mark looked to the future and what did he see? A Canadian nation, glorious and free! Oh Canada, glorious and free! Glass half-Full

Murder Most Foul 1963

an excerpt from chapter 4, King of Soul.

Mississippi, 1963: If ghosts could speak, they would probably confirm what Uncle Cannon was saying. As he sat on the lowered gate of his black Ford pickup truck, with one leg on the ground and the other swinging beneath the tailgate, the old Mississippian spoke some of his thoughts about the state of affairs in the state of Mississippi. His friend, Geehaw Kent stood listening. “The murder of Medgar Evers was a tragedy: he was a young man,” Cannon said. “He had slogged his way across Europe, along with thousands of other Allied soldiers, to arrive triumphantly in Germany and then knock the hell out of the Nazi war machine. So he contributed to that great collective effort through which we won the big war. But then he came back to Mississippi and was told—what the hell—to go to the back of the bus.” “So, at the end of his homeward journey, Medgar entered, almost involuntarily, into another great war, but it was a war of a different kind. It was an old war that had been started by old men. That is to say: men who we think of as old because they had lived and died in the prior era, and yet some of them were still living—men who, in days past, had retained, even cultivated, the prejudices and the limitations of their ancestors. “Last year, only six months before Kennedy was killed, Medgar Evers was shot dead in his own front yard in Jackson Mississippi. He had just come from speaking to some brothers and sisters at New Jerusalem church.” “Now, this summer, you know we had bunches of them starry-eyed college students from up north come down here and try and help the Negras get the vote. Over in Meridian, a few of them were trying to get the blacks organized to boycott a store that wouldn’t hire some of them same blacks who shopped there every day, every week, all year long for years and years. Then about two months ago, three of them students disappeared. Kinda mysterious, don’t you think?” https://www.amazon.com/King-Soul-Louis-Carey-Rowland/dp/1545075115 Listen: Underground Railroad Rides Again

Death in London 1937

The old fellow, quite dapper in a brown derby that shielded bright blue eyes over apale, fleshy face, double-chinned over a red bow-tie, seemed nevertheless to be slowly collapsing beneath the burden of his own weight. He clutched Nathan’s arm. “Young man,” he insisted, though weakly, “Would you be so kind...” He was faltering. His cataracted blue eyes closed slowly, then managed, laboriously, to open again. He looked up at Nathan’s expectant face. “...currency stabilization...on the gold standard...perils...bloody monetary experiments...reverse...a calamity...Here, my boy, take this, please.” The old man proffered a small notebook, which Nathan, puzzled, and attempting to support the fellow’s faltering constitution, managed to accept with his left hand. Then the old fellow collapsed. “Doctor! A doctor!” yelled Nathan, frantically. A thread of drool dripped from the old man’s open mouth as Nathan struggled to lay his limp body down gently on the sidewalk. At the nearby corner on Haymarket, the lights changed, and traffic commenced.

Nathan and Philip, speechless, knelt beside the stricken man, whose portly, suited body now lay motionless on the sidewalk. His eyes stared blankly upward into the morning mist. A crowd of people stood and stared. Smoke

First Ezekiel

Now it came about in the thirtieth year, on the fifth day of the fourth month, while I was by the river Chebar among the exiles, the heavens were opened and I saw visions of God. On the fifth of the month in the fifth year of King Jehoicachin’s exile, the word of the Lord came expressly to mEzekiel the priest, in the land of the Chaldeans by the river Chebar and there the hand of the LLord upon Ezekiel. As I looked, hehold, a storm wind was coming from the north, a great cloud with fire flashing forth continually and a bright light around it, and in the midst something like glowing metal in the midst of the fire. Within it there were figures reembling four living beings. And this was their appearanc: they had human form. Each of them had had human four faces and four wings. Their legs were straight and their feet were like a calf’s hoof, and they gleamed like burnished bronze. Under their wings on their four sides were human hands. ATheir wings on four sides were human hands. Their wings touched one another; their faces did not turn when they moved; each went straight forward. Each had a face of a man; all four had the face of a lion on the right and the face of a bull on the left; and all four had the face of an eagle. Their wings were spread out above; each had two touching another being, and two covering their bodies. And each went straight forward; wherever the spirit was about to go, without turning as they went. In the midst of the living beings there was somethingthat looked like burning coals of fire, like torches darting back and forth among the living beings. The fire was bright and lightning was from the fire. And the living beings ran to and from like bolts of lightning. Now as I looked at the the living beings, behold, there was one wheel on the earth beside the living beings, for each of the four of them.

The appearance of the wheels and their workmanship was like sparkling beryl, and all four of them had the same form, their appearance and workmanship being as if one wheel were within another. Whenever they moved, they moved in any of their four directions without turning as they moved. Their rims were lofty and awesome, with all four having eyes round about. Whenever they moved, the wheels moved with them. And whenever the living beings rose from the earth, the wheels rose also. Whenever the spirit was about to go, they would go in that direction. And the wheels rose close beside them; for the spirit of the living beings was in the wheels. Whenever those went, these; and whenever those rose from the earth, the wheels rose close beside them; for the spirit of the living beings was in the wheels. Now over the heads of the living beings there was something like an expanse, like the awesome gleam of crystal, spread out over their heads. Under their expanse their wings were stretched out straight, one toward the other; each one also had two wings covering its body on the one side and on the other. I also heard the sound of their wings like the sound of abundant waters. Smoke. .

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

At the Lincoln Memorial

a scene from my novel, Glass half-Full

They walked up the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. When they reached the top, Bridget was gazing, like most everyone else who ascends here, with rapt interest at the seated statue. But Marcus, holding Bridget’s hand, gently prodded her to keep moving, slowly to the left, through the myriad of ambling visitors.They came to an inner sanctum. Carved on the white marble wall infront of them were the words of the slain President’s Gettysburg address. Marcus stopped, taking in the enormity of it, both physically and philosophically. He was looking at the speech intently. Bridget was lookingat him. After a few moments: “Isn’t that amazing?“Yes.” She could see that he was thinking hard about something. The great chamber echoed a murmur of humankind.“Supreme irony.” The longing of a nation’s soul reverberated through the memorial… in the soundings of children, the whisperings of passersby. Deep within Marcus’ soul, something sacred was stirring, and she could see it coming forth. “The world will little note, nor long remember, what we say here, but can never forget what they did here.” He was reading aloud Lincoln’s words on the white wall. But for the echoes of a million people who had passed through this place, there was silence. After a moment, Bridget responded. “…and yet, there it is carved on the wall, for all to see: ‘the world will little note what we say here….’” “Right, Bridget. Isn’t it amazing?” Suddenly, amid the noise was a loud shouting. Marcus could hear where it was coming from. He moved quickly away, toward the noise, to see what was happening. Bridget felt the sudden coolness of air on her hand, in the absence of Marcus’ gentle grip. As soon as he emerged from behind the marble column, Marcus was puzzled by an incongruous, glistening wet flash of red upon the feet of Lincoln’s statue. What the hell? Instinctively, he ran over to it. He could stillhear a constant shouting; it was a ranting. Then his attention settled on the man who was yelling. He had a bucket in his hand, dripping with red paint. The rant went on, and suddenly Marcus was comprehending it: “…you sonofabitch see if you can get that off and then rub it on your white ass, your sorry white ass that destroyed what this country could have been you’re atraitor to your race.” This must be a dream, a very bad dream. Marcus was noticing the speaker’s bald head, goatee, his moving mouth spouting insult. Then Marcus was deciding to do something. It seemed to him that it was someone else speaking when he asked, loudly, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Glass half-Full

Flanders Fie;d

. . . in final chapter of my novel, Smoke, spoken by an old Frenchman. . “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.” Smoke

MAGA donald Has Bombed Out

“No kings” cried the maddened thousands, as American protests echoed through our nation. Yet still more magamaniac babble spewed from donald’s bellicose contagion They watched his mind go wacky and so weird; they saw his sanity erase, and they knew his Iran war was a genocidal disgrace. The pride is gone from donald’s proud boys; three-percenters down to none; oath-keeper antics now but maniacal toys.

And now the donald mounts his war, aimed at the Iranian people As Americans recoil in horror; magamania renders us feeble.

Oh somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright. The band is playing somewhere and somewhere hearts are light. Somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout But there’s no joy in America; might donald has bombed out. Glass half-Full

From Lennon to Lennox

When I was a teenager, the Beatles were a big deal for us baby boomers.John Lennon sang a song called “Imagine.” It went something like this: “Imagine there’s no heaven. . .no hell below us. . .above us only sky. . . no religion too. . . imagine all the people, living life in peace. . .. . . you may say that I’m a dreamer; but I’m not the only one. “ I was a dreamer too; but I was also a working man. I was working, helping to build a quarter-mile-long bridge, the Linn Cove viaduct. near Grandfather Mountain in the Blue Ridge of North Carolina.

One December morning, while our rodbuster crew were tying rebar in a huge work shed, our foreman, Rod (funny that: Rod, foreman of the rodbusting crew) came in aand told us that John Lennon had been shot dead in New York City. It was a moment I’ll never forget. . . not quite the JFK-in-Dallas memory of ’63, but close. My g-generation’s loss of our prophet, John Lennon was a terrible, tragedy. By the time of Lennon’s demise, I had been following a different prophet—actually a whole heavenly host of prophets—those found in the ancient book. In that literary collection of prhistorical and prophetic documentation, we learn of several more “Johns”. There was John the Baptist, thenn John the apostle who wrote a gospel account of Jesus’ life, death and Resurrection, and later, the book of Revelation. A fellow-traveler of John’s gospel-spreading project was the apostle Paul, who wrote, in his letter to the Romans: “When I was a child, I spoke as a child, think like a child, reason like a child; when I became a man, I did away with childish things.” For me, part of that “doing away with” included admitting that John Lennon’s dream of world peace and harmony was —as the saying goes—a “pipe dream”—especially if, in the pipe, the smoke was cannabis, as so many of us boomers were doing at that time, ’60’s, ‘70’s . . . but I digress. . . Now today, I was watching a youtube discussion between John Lennox

and David Perell, in which the Oxford scholar was explaining to the young interviewer the difference between gospel truth and everything else. They had gotten into some heavy topics. Lennox was talking about the human genome, DNA, a code that is 3.4 billion letters long; he was making the point that any code of such complexity, length and extremely long historical longevity could only have been written by God, theCreator of the universe.

In my life journey, roundabout 1977, I had decided to affirm John Lennox’ world view—the gospel one— by expositing the fact that his biblical explanation far surpasses the world view that I and John Lennon had, back in the day. I mean, John Lennon was a great musician and poet. Who knows? Maybe I’ll meet him in heaven. I’m not the judge of such things. I’m just one ole guy pecking away on a laptop, trying to figure it all out. Boomer’s Choice

Boomer Streaming

Back in the day, Don McLean sang: “there we were all in one place, a generation lost in space”. . . Then, recently, I heard Simon and Joan singing : “nor is it strange that the changes upon changes are more or less the same; after changes, we are more or less the same. and it all comes back to me now:

Kangaroo Howdy Doody then Elvis RayCharles . . . Kennedy said moon landing by ’69, but the answer’s blowin’ in the wind, saith Dylan, Baez, Peter Paul and Mary. . . . Then along comes Dr. Martin Luther King in Selma, but then the Birmingham jail. . . by ’n by as push comes to shove. . . March on Washington,Lincoln Memorial dream: “all God’s children” together . . . but that’s not the whole story. . . President John F. Kennedy dead in Dallas (Where were you when the news broke?) . . .when Walter Cronkite took off his glasses at one o’clock November 22, 1963. . .I heard the news in a seventh grade classroom, from our school principal, Sister Georgia. She said, “He had ‘em backed up against the wall.” . . . speaking about JFK v. Khruschev and the Soviets during in the Cuban missile crisis. But life goes on. . . Warren Commission Great Society LBJ and Civil Rights Act. . . Malcom X. . . Hard day’s night but Sinatra sang its a very good year . . . Eleanor Rigby, ballad of Green Berets, SixDayWar, Black Power, Thurgood Marshall but Dr. King assassinated in Memphis after being warned with a phone call from an “ugly voice” the night before. Then, as if that wasn’t bad enough, Robert F Kennedy shot in L.A. . . the the Chicago Democrats fiasco: boomer kids in Grant Park. . . but hey, turn on, tune in, drop out. . . then Leary-eyed in San Francisco, where crooners had left their heart, and hippies tripped in Haight Ashbury. . . meanwhile back at the motor city. . . along came Motown, Aretha, Smoky Robinson, Four Tops, Drifters. . . then in ’69 first troops out of Vietnam. . . celebration in Yasgur’s field, Woodstock, flower power, good luck with that! . . . three days, man! CSNY singing Joni’s song. . .then there’s Neil Armstrong’s “one small step for a man; one giant leap for mankind”, thanks to visionary JFK, back in the day. But just when you think you’ve finally got it made, bad news comes knockin’ at your college gate: Kent State “four dead in Ohio.” and later, Altamont. . .

. . . and Nixon bombing Laos, Cambodia. . . kinda like trump bombing the middle East. But I digress. I mean, hey! It’s not all bad. We’re like a fiddler on the roof, just trying to stay alive . . . . .and the Beegees agreed. Meanwhile back in DC, Nixon shut down the gold window . . . just before his dirty tricks backfired on him. . . unlicensed “plumbers” in the Watergate. Then, as if that weren’t bad enough, we’re waitin’ in line for gas, coast to coast, then the Pentagon papers, double digit inflation. . . Sam Ervin Senate Watergate committee. . . but the good news was: Sadat/Begin peace, good for a while. . . Even so, we seem to have lost our way, starting back in the day . . . dot.com fiasco and, and. . . where were you on 9/11? and as if that wasn’t bad enough. . . the MBS and CDO’s fiasco oon Wall Street in the 2008 crash. All ye baby boomers out there, my compatriots, we just have to view the world through faith-colored glasses . . . even though it all went wrong, we stand before the Lord of Song. . . (and of all history) with nothing on our tongues but Hallelujah! King of Soul

Revelation 5:9

And I saw, in the right hand of Him who sat on the throne, a book written,

within and on the backside, sealed up with seven seals. And I saw a strong angel proclaiming with a loud voice, “Who is worthy to open the book and to break its seals?” And no one in heaven or on the earth was able to open the book, nor to look thereon. And I wept much, because no man was found worthy to open the book, nor to look into it; And one of the elders said to me: Weep not! Behold: the Lion of the tribe of Judah, the root of David, has prevailed to open the book, and to break the seven seals thereof.” And I saw, in the midst of the throne and the four beasts, and in the midst of the elders, stood a Lamb, as it had been slain, having seven horns and seven eyes, which are the seven spirits of God sent forth into the earth. And he came and he took the book out of the right hand of Him who sat upon the throne, and when He had take the book, the four beasts and the four and twenty elders fell down before the Lamb, having every one of them harps, and golden vials full of odors, which are the prayers of saints. and they sang a new saying: thou art worthy to take the book and to break the seals; for you were slain, and redeemed, with your blood, men from every people group, and every language and nation. . . http://www.micahrowland.com/carey/Revelation 5_9.mp3 King of Soul

Life's Railway to Heaven

Life is like a mountain railway, with an engineer that's brave. We must make the run successful, from the cradle to the grave. Watch the curves, the hills the trestles, never falter; never fail. Keep your hand upon the throttle, and your eyes upon the rail.

Blessed Savior; thou wilt guide us, 'til we reach that blissful shore where the angels wait to join in God's praise, forevermore. As you roll along the trestle, over Jordan's swellin' tide you'll behold a Union depot into which your train will glide. There you'll meet the superintendent; God the Father; God the Son with a hearty, joyous plaudit: Weary pilgrim, welcome home. Blessed Savior' thou wilt guide us, till we reach that blissful shore where the angels wait to join us in God's praise forevermore! http://www.micahrowland.com/carey/Life's Railway to Heaven.mp3 King of Soul

Across Friday

Now I dont know but I been told that all the news says Methusalah was old. Now Enoch is new depending on your point of view. All the news that's fit to print doesn't come close to giving us a hint. All the babble online aint worth a dime but it fills up the time. Now time is on our side; yet when all's said and done this life is a pretty good ride. . . that leads us to who knows where. . . not only that but really when you get down to it nobody knows how the story ends, although the Torah enables us to know how it begins and Gospels give us a view of how who's dead comes alive again. And if you believe that I've got some real estate in eternity i'll share with you I mean... not that its mine to share, but I dare you to find a better narrative. . . and we all suspect there's been plenty of story-tellin' in the history of mankind, which is worth, well, maybe a dime. What we do know is we all got what's coming to us, whether its judgement or mercy, to be satisfied or thirsty. I mean, to be or not to be, that is the question, whether it be nobler to be by the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune made to suffer a sea of troubles, or . . . or by opposing, end them . Anyway, be that as it may. . . looking ahead to what is ahead, considering all who are living and those who are dead i think the best conclusion that a man could make, or a woman, for God's wake, is that on Good Friday Jesus was executed

 but on the third day after that he was resurrected. Now after a little bit of prayin' I'm just sayin' . . . Follow the Way.