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.

Travelers' Rest

Well I was a weary traveler; I had nowhere to go; and I looked around this old world. And I saw all the waste; and I saw all the haste; and I wondered why; and I studied philosophy. But I turned to an old scripture; and it showed me what was; and it showed me what is to be. Like a beacon in a troubled sea. . . we will be, for you and for me. . . and He showed me the plan. . . and He showed me who I am. . . and now I’m doing all that I can. And I raise my hands in the morning, and I do a day’s work while I dream. . . and I raise my hands in the evening, and I sing out those dreams loud and clean: Alleluia, Alleluia, Alleluia: Christ is risen; and He shall reign forever; and he shall reign forever. . . and ever. . . and ever. . .

Listen: http://www.micahrowland.com/carey/Traveler's Rest.mp3