THERE ARE UNSUNG HEROES AMONG US

I have met these heroes in hospitals, in offices – in my own apartment.
And they were good to me, perhaps better than I deserved.

zappadat- THE MOVEABLE FEAST

THERE ARE UNSUNG HEROES AMONG US, PEOPLE

WE DO NOT KNOW WHO SAVE OUR LIVES.

RED WOMAN enlarged detail

There are unsung heros among us,

people we hardly know who save our lives –

nurses in the hospital, some working at night,

pumping out the lungs of critical patients,

who do not remember these saviour

nurses in the morning.

*

I watched them working for two

hours, working on this man who was on the

very edge of death. And saving him.

You see, I was the patient in the other bed.

And I was watching closely

*

There are social workers who perform

selfless tasks, to those clients who are too

stupid, perhaps, to know they are in

need. These ladies, women and girls

(for each woman is all three)

give without ever being asked to give.

They do what their clients, for

whatever reason, are no longer capable

of doing.

*

They…

View original post 110 more words

THERE ARE UNSUNG HEROES AMONG US

 

THERE ARE UNSUNG HEROES AMONG US, PEOPLE

WE DO NOT KNOW WHO SAVE OUR LIVES.

 

 

 

 

 

 

RED WOMAN enlarged detail

There are unsung heros among us,

people we hardly know who save our lives –

nurses in the hospital, some working at night,

pumping out the lungs of critical patients,

who do not remember these saviour

nurses in the morning.

*

I watched them working for two

hours, working on this man who was on the

very edge of death. And saving him.

You see, I was the patient in the other bed.

And I was watching closely

*

There are social workers who perform

selfless tasks, to those clients who are too

stupid, perhaps, to know they are in

need. These ladies, women and girls

(for each woman is all three)

give without ever being asked to give.

They do what their clients, for

whatever reason, are no longer capable

of doing.

*

They do these thankless and sometimes

quite dirty tasks.

*

I am astounded by their generosity.

I am made humble by their gifts. I don’t

know how to thank these gals. And there

are some men, too, who work in the

same spirit.

*

I want to say a public thank you to these ladies

touched with grace, these unsung heroes who

attended me and so many others anonymously.

*

I have nothing appropriate to give in return,

no diamonds, no cars, no rubies… I have nothing at all

to give:

except these words..

*

Thank you, with all my heart.

From me and all the rest of us.

 

W.G. MILNE

 

WHICH MOMMY’S THERE NOW?

WHICH MOMMY’S THERE NOW?………….HANK HAS TROUBLE ADJUSTING

________________________________

WHICH MOMMY’S THERE NOW?……… HANK HAS TROUBLE ADJUSTING

                         Hank finds a small book with Chinese
designs on the outside. It’s a diary. It has a little
lock on it…   it’s a pink colour. The kind of
liittle diary book school girls use, when they are
keeping a diary.
Then at the end of the school night,
they turn the key in the little lock to lock the
pages shut, the lock that keeps her secrets
from mommy and daddy and both her nasty
uncles…
Hank turns the key in the lock. He
sniffs the pages. They’re a little bit
perfumed, just as a schoolgirl would like.
Hank turns to the first page and starts
to read accounts of his former life…

HANK’S DIARY:

             I had a big fight at work. Then I quit.
I might have to travel up to Wait-A-Bit and take that
job. At least I’ll have some peace and quiet.
            It has to be a quiet little newspaper: 

             “THE RAVEN SCREED!”

            What kind of a name is that? Sounds odd,
worse than odd, it sounds weird. But how weird
can it get in the heart of the country?
            Ah, peace! That’s what I need. Put my
feet up and watch the river flow. A little
bucolic beauty, quiet and peace. Peace and
quiet. Might go out at lunch time and
pick some wildflowers… Maybe even
take up photography… get a second floor
window with a view.
           Sit in a cafe after work. Maybe fall in
love with the waitress. I mean, how bad can it
be?

IT CAN’T GET WORSE THAN THIS!”

           
              
        Hank snorts when he reads this. 

        Frank hears him from across the bunker.

         “Is he laughing?” Franks wonders, “What 
at?” Frank thinks to himself. He hasn’t been
laughing much lately. In fact, Hank has been
on the verge of dementia the whole last two weeks…

        Frank watches Hank: “He’s not laughing, he’s crying!”

             “What are you laughing at?” Frank calls
across the room. Hank’s bed is now ten
feet down the tunnel he’s been furiously digging
on and off for at least a month now.

           “Oh, nothing. Just a journal I was keeping
in the city…”

             Frank is quiet. He knows he’ll get
to see the “Journal” sooner or later. He’s
happy to WAIT-A-BIT! Har! Har!
             A storm’s been blowing the better
part of five days now. The snow’s four feet
high over their porthole… half a foot
of ice on top of that.
             “He’ll tell me all he knows in five
more days.” Then Frank laughs, thinking about
Uncle Henry – the hanging judge – Wilcox. He
had some dandy expressions!
              For example: “A man can say all he
knows in ten minutes. If he talks any longer,
he’s exaggerating!’
              And this: 

“LOVE IS A WARM RUSH OF BLOOD TO THE BALLS!”

              The look of glee he used to have on his
face as he said this! Henry had to laugh. “I never 
thought I’d miss that son-of-a-bitch!”
               “I don’t really miss much about him…
the thing I miss is his laugh!” Frank thinks and
stares at the rods of rebar showing through the mud
wall…

               Hank looks up watches Frank. Frank
is staring at the wall… reminiscing.
               “He looks like a camel when he does
that!” Hank thinks but says nothing, “A camel
gazing off into the distance across the desert
sands!”

             DIARY (continued)
  
         
             “I’ll sit on the porch, smoke a pipe
and watch the sunset. I’ll hear the sound of silence…
Silence is golden.
              “Sit out there as the sky slowly darkens,
and the majesty of the stars come out to play…
I’ll relax and breath the sweet air. Maybe have a sip
of sweet water… and listen to the call of the loon…”
                
               Hank is starting to panic. “Saying,’
Things can’t get worse than this!’ this is a 
very unlucky thing to say. I didn’t really
mean it. Oh God! I take it back… That’s
not what I meant. I meant something else…
I just couldn’t express myself
properly!”
                Hank has learned a thing or
two about the Trickster God from his
native neighbours.
                 At Artie’s bar, sitting together,
they tell stories of what the Trickster
has done… Horrible stories about house burnings,
cars sinking in the muskeg… a serious man,
a Presberstyrian (sp?) who burns his ass on the fire.
             The men are laughing when they
tell Trickster stories. They’re laughing, but not
that hard. There’s clearly a respect, even
a fear of the Trickster God.
             At first he thought the Trickster stories
were silly.  “There is no God!” he laughed,
“There’s no such thing as the Trickster!
Everybody knows this! Where’d you guys
get your education?”
             That remark did not go over well.
Hank was sober enough to see this. The
native men smiled along with him, but their
eyes had grown hard.
               A lot of these guys had been taken
away from their families when they were children,
taken away to Regional Schools. They were
taught their whole way of life was wrong
and evil. And  a lot of these men had been interfered
with sexually… by priests who should have been
looking in the mirror when they spoke about
‘evil’
        . No the ‘where’d you get your education?’
remark had not gone over well. But that wasn’t
the real problem – it wasn’t the reason everybody
had left within ten minutes of Hank’s
comments.
        The men had left because only a fool
makes fun of the Trickster God. And only
an idiot would drink with such a man.

         Hank noticed that for the next couple
of months, these men kept their distance.

          Frank heard the story afterwards.
And he understood completely what the problem
was. After all, he was the mayor of the town.
Everybody talked to him.
          Frank didn’t tell Hank how bad his
faux pas was. He’d explain it to him later,
much later.
          “Hank has enough problems already.”
Frank thought.
        Frank had seen it all before – various tourists
going through descending moments of horror
and terror. Already he sometimes heard Hank 
whimpering at night. 
         Hank was having difficulty accepting
the reality of his situation. As the John Rock
song, “In this Hotel” goes:

                  And there were no buses here
                   And the train had slipped a gear
                    And the highway is not near!

           No, Hank was already having the night terrors.
Frank could already hear Hank weeping and whining
and praying in a whisper late at night. He didn’t
need to hear anything more about the Trickster
God just now… …
           And he didn’t even know about the weasels yet!
           




                                            (C) 2014 by W.G. Milnecropped-self-logo-threescreenshot-from-2013-12-08-2156392














(C)2014 by W.G.Milne
     Re: this story, not the
      Blogger format.






             

BAD ADVICE FROM A GOOD FELLA — GREAT HANGOVER CURE!

 

 

A business partner once walked in to my office +

workspace + cockpit for the Mindship…and he said

to me: “LOOKS LIKE A MADMAN LIVES HERE!”

Well, I must have hired the same interior decorator

over the weekend. Because this place looks exactly

the same right now. And it’s not even the

same place!

*

It looks like Beirut after a bad weekend

and everybody got bombed!

*

O.K. That’s a bad joke, but it does look like

an anti-personnel  device was pitched through

my window. And I’ve been trying to clean this

place up. Everything I do just makes the rubble

worse.

*

GREAT HANGOVER CURE

 

Fuck it! I’m going to have a drink – a fine

concoction I devised with cheap fortified wine,

half a litre of ice, one lime, and just four or five

drops of Jamaican red pepper extract.

After a major swig of this plastic bottle,

your vision clears, your ass starts to burn,

your ears start to ring, and you’ll have

to do some fast cross-field running to reach

the bathroom in time.

*

Bert used to say, “I’ve got a little something

I mixed up. It’ll either cure you or kill you. I usually

give it to animals, but I think you need it.”

Oh yeah, before you drink down the

whole bottle with one swig – it’s best to eat

several cloves of raw garlic.

If this cure doesn’t move you, you’re

dead from the ass both ways.

*

If this is the case, my advice is to funnel

about 3 ounces of clear full strength white

Wray and Nephew Jamaican rum into the bottle

Drink another

litre of the concoction with the 190 proof

white rum added… If this doesn’t change

how you feel instantly or in at the most 15 minutes,

well then you don’t live on this plane of

existence.

*

Or you’re dead entirely and you just

don’t know it yet.

*

I have just had my first half litre of this mix

and my eyes have cleared entirely. I’m sitting

straight up in my chair. My spine is erect.

And I’m starting to receive telepathic messages

from across the ocean.

*

I’m not saying the cure will do the

same thing for you exactly…

You might implode

and find you have the consciousness of an ant.

But I doubt it.

I’m sitting down in my Captain’s chair.

In the cockpit for the Mindship. I’m surveying

all my instruments. I have almost achieved takeoff

velocity, but I’m just going to sit and relax here.

*

This place still looks like a bomb went off,

but I don’t give a shit.

*

The cure, it works!

*

MADMAN IN THE MOON b

 “MADMAN IN THE MOON”

by Krista Geden

 

 

(C)2016 by W.G. Milne

THE POETIC PROCESS -RHYME IN THE RHYTHMIC FLOW

288d2-paintingswgm-stguillaumephotogrid_1403319398438_1

THE POETIC PROCESS

__________________

 

 

Let’s talk about rhyme.

*

The most recent insight I have had about

rhyme came when I was playing jazz with some of

the best instrumental talents of Canada, who’d come

into the Zanzibar tavern in the afternoons

to get up on stage and play.

*

It’s appropriate to play jazz in a Strip Club.

I’m not certain, but I’m pretty sure that the word

“jazz” derives from the word, “jizz”. Hot music

has always been associated with sex. So it was

fun playing sets between the acts of the strippers.

It all became a flow experience, the music, the many-

coloured lights playing on the bodies of the

women dancing, the smells of food cooking downstairs

and the glint of the sun coming in off the chrome

of cars passing on Yonge Street.

The sour aftertaste of beer spills, my vodka and

tonics and the bitter taste of a stimulant

as it hits my nostril…  Joe, the silent but

efficient bartender working behind the long bar. The

gleaming of sun from the front window – just a narrow

slat of a sunbar making a golden stripe on the red

rug.

Listening to the notes, sometimes discordant

sometimes in sweet harmony. It all seemed like

a poem to me. The rhyme of sounds

came in a variety of unexpected rhythms.

And this is the way to use rhyme in a poem –

sometimes unexpected, a play with words,

in the flow of words, rhymes sometimes dicordant,

some words merely suggesting a rhyme with

another word that sounds a little like it.

Its a flow and a dance… It’s a sudden JOKE; it’s a

resolution.

The rhythm always must come round to the starting point –

then fall away into the multi-coloured lightning

cymbal flash of night.

Darker still towards the stairs in the back.

Learning rhyme is an art. And its an

art that you never finish learning. You

can’t really talk about rhyme without

rhythm. Because rhythm determines

when the rhyme will come.

Just like in jazz, two harmonic notes

sounding together – fall away into something

else – silence, the ringing of a bell — darkness,

darkness… then slowly light emerges out

of the black hole in the poet’s mind, twisting,

circling up like a spiral, like DNA – a drumbeat

sounds, and then come the horns – bells and

horns drive away doubt.

You step forth into certainty, certainty

of the dawn rising in the mind of our artist,

circling round, a spiral out of the darkness,

up, up, up into the cool of the blues.

Most reggae songs start with the sound of the

horns… and then comes the rhythm,

sharply defined.

*

I can’t differentiate between music

and painting and poetry – the structures

of all three seem strangely as one to

me – in the darkness of the mind,

I see all three spiralling together,

weaving together like the strands

of D.N.A., like the thread of the Fates,

like the involving ties of love –

all one roar of the river.

*

*

The river is within. And

my form of meditation, of dreaming

while awake I call “RIVER-WATCHING

SITTING”. You let the river of your

thoughts, emotions, memories and

feelings, pictoral visions – let the

river flow by within you – you don’t

attempt to achieve silence – you don’t

repress, you let the vision river go,

you do not grasp

or hold.

Eventually the river will clear

and you will see yourself in its

reflection.

*

It’s all one process,

as far as I am concerned:

it’s all one

undulation, tension and release.

And the clarity of watching this

river flow by, down down into the

past within you.

This way the clear-eyed

watcher learns about him-herself,

always the river within coursing past.

And there is no need to grasp,

no need to try to possess.

Because the river comes round

within you.

*

*

LET YOUR CONSCIOUS MIND REMEMBER TO FORGET,

BECAUSE YOUR UNCONSCIOUS MIND

WON’T FORGET TO REMEMBER.

*

*

Ten thousand paths to dawn at the peak of the silver mountain.

 

 

 

(C) 2016 by W.G.Milne

HOW WILL I FIND A TITLE FOR THIS?… …THE POETIC PROCESS

 

 

 

I’ve been working on a long poem for years now,

but there were stumbling blocks – because of my

poetic theory – which was to echo the waves of the

sea, rising & falling, ebb and flow tide…My theory

didn’t allow for any characters, any narrative.

A flux of rhythm and rhyme was my goal. And I

achieved that.

The problem was, no one wanted to read it.

It was necessary to work a story in as well as

poetic themes.

I needed an omniscient observer in my poem, but I couldn’t

figure out who it could be. The man of many ways

had been used. Tireisias had been used…What to do?

I had to change my thinking… and line up my symbols

like ducks in a row in my understanding. It took a long

time. I must be stupid, I thought.

*

My psychiatrist informed me I was a long way from

being stupid. They had done several I.Q, tests on me because

they didin’t believe the results of the first test.

Dr Ben informed me that when Einstein lived in

row housing – he had to paint his door red so he could

find his way home.

*

I’m not sure how that helped me. But let me say,

an epic poem such as the one I’d been writing for decades,

a poem has to grow organically and it will reveal

itself when it is ready. The poet has to grow at the same

time and make himself ready to see, ready to receive

the divine message that he hopes to express.

The poet must empty out a space within himself,

so that when Grace touches him, he has a place

where Grace can come. He has a place, or no-place,

where inspiration may reside.

He must become an empty vessel in order

absorb the lines, in order to encompass the emerging

reality of the poem – to allow the symbols & characters to dance

with one another in his ‘dreaming while awake’.

*

I can’t explain the process. All I can do is

point a finger at the moon. All I can say is

it happens… how… is mysterious. But the poet

must be patient. He must be ready to wait,

and somehow dream while he waits.

Some of the poem the poet does himself.

Some of it is given to him. Even as Grace is given

to the pilgrim monk.

*

TEN THOUSAND PATHS TO DAWN AT THE PEAK OF

THE SILVER MOUNTAIN.

*

I made that one up myself. With a lot of other people

who have attempted to write on the same subject in

the past. We are all monks looking to see

the secret meaning, the meaning of the eternal.

But nobody sees the obvious. What is right before

our face is too difficult to absorb. An old Tibetan

saying goes like this:

*

“THE SECRET BOOK COULD BE LEFT OPEN ON THE

KING’S HIGHWAY, AND NO ONE WOULD READ IT.”

*

That fits right in with another one of my favourite sayings.

I didn’t make this one up:

*

“THE GREAT WAY IS EASY FOR HE WHO HAS NO

PREFERENCES.”

The Sixth Patriarch

*

I got off the subject again, but who cares!

What is the subject?   Who makes the rules? We do!

*

*

How will I find a title for this?

 

 

(C)2016 by W.G. Milne

 

GUILT, SHAME, RAGE? THE CURE IS THE FLOW EXPERIENCEE

 

Jpeg

Jpeg

 

           We all feel it. Even if you’ve done nothing to deserve it,

you feel it – if you’re past the age of two. The judeo-Christian

belief system made  sure of that. And the puritan ethic

didn’t help.

 

Now  the guys in the photo above right, they don’t feel guilt or shame. They’re

too busy swatting flies. And  they’d live in the bush til  the

end of time – if u gave

them,    each one of them, a 40 ounce bottle of rye whiskey each and   every  day,

then they’d never leave the bush… and they’d never feel an iota of guilt

or shame. And they wouldn’t give a damn about the flies.

Whoops!

 

Lost the thread.

 

          Some years back, I started painting. I started by using oils.

The results I achieved/ received  were so primitive as to be almost

embarrassing … But I loved them.  So I was happy. I loved working

with raw colour. And I loved swirling the blended oils

around the canvass – until I could see what the  colours

wanted, hear what the oils were whispering

to me.

Painting is a flow experience – rather like

the experience of the mystic – the mystic must feel out,

sense, intuit what the spirit of a place is saying  to him.

So  must the   painter in a different way – he relates the

inner world of his imagination to the spur of the colours

before him. Or perhaps better put, the colours urge

his emotions to concretize the vision of his imagination.

 

Whew! What a mouthful! Colours stir the emotions;

emotions stir the imagination… … Who knows?

I express  my

emotions through colours.

Colours express the inner  self.

External depictions not required.

 

Enough said.

 

 

Escape the linear nature of words?

 

Not exactly…       words can dance, too.

Words can flow through rhythm and

rhyme.

A wild, tormented and impassioned imagination

also helps. Being rejected and mad in love,

wild with desire – burning

with  a need for speed, a need to climb the nearest

church   steeple and ring the bells, bathed in the

flowing light of the full moon…

 

All of these I find helpful in learning the mystery

and the meter of  the dance of  the words.

 

(C) 2016 by W. G. Milne

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

___

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A WRITER’S NOTEBOOK – HONOUR TO SAM POWELL

HONOUR TO SAM POWELL,

THE CONFLUENCE OF EVENTS.

zappadat- THE MOVEABLE FEAST

( I’m doing the ” WRITER’S NOTEBOOK” because

I discovered I have several hundred drafts I can’t remember writing.

These are thoughts, stories and articles that I either hadn’t finished… Or I thought

were too wild to publish.)

Except for my words honouring Sam Powell.

*

The world is interconnected in more ways than we imagine.

When the time is right for an event, people who are connected, even slightly,

(in Zen they call it connected by karma)

fall in together and start to move and contribute.

They might not know why they are joining the Event,

but likely they do. Unconscious urges compel us. The tide and

the seasons and the stars all swirl together into one

magnetic , spiritual impulse. The timing can be

mysterious.

Or the “leader” may start the ball rolling, after all

he or she is the impetus of the event. But what is the

leader’s impetus?  What is…

View original post 498 more words

A WRITER’S NOTEBOOK – HONOUR TO SAM POWELL

 

( I’m doing the ” WRITER’S NOTEBOOK” because

I discovered I have several hundred drafts I can’t remember writing.

These are thoughts, stories and articles that I either hadn’t finished… Or I thought

were too wild to publish.)

Except for my words honouring Sam Powell.

 

 

*

 

The world is interconnected in more ways than we imagine.

When the time is right for an event, people who are connected, even slightly,

(in Zen they call it connected by karma)

fall in together and start to move and contribute.

They might not know why they are joining the Event,

but likely they do. Unconscious urges compel us. The tide and

the seasons and the stars all swirl together into one

magnetic , spiritual impulse. The timing can be

mysterious.

Or the “leader” may start the ball rolling, after all

he or she is the impetus of the event. But what is the

leader’s impetus?  What is his or her inspiration?

This  is entering the realm of the mystical, to answer

this question.

I won’t attempt to answer this question now,

or here.

The leader is  the focus of  tribe’s

aspirations. I use the word ‘tribe’ loosely. All of

a sudden they come in from the hills. They sense

the occurrence, as do I – the Event.

We’ve been waiting for so long. But now it may be

time.

 

Please forgive me if you do not think this way,

but I sense it is the movement of the Lord of the

Meeting Rivers. We pray for forgiveness. We pray

for consumation. We pray for strength. All we

have to do is stay alive long enough – to see

what is needed – to see what we need.

 

Nothing important and significant in our lives

is done by one person alone. Such things are done by a

community of people, a variety of folk working

together with courage, love and laughter. There

are many unsung heros in such situations. And

I like to sing such perople’s praises when I can.

Even a genius has major support from his or her

mate, lover, mother and father – even the rancour

of those who hate him is a support: this is rarely

understood.

There is an expression which applies:

 

AN ENEMY IS AS GOOD AS A BUDDHA”.

 

*

 

 

IN WRITING CAMP ISLAND WALKER, two lmpulses are

at work in the same time: (1.) My father’s story is told.

He comes out to us.

(2) My story will be told, as I understand his story, as I understand my  father,

as I finish the book – I reach  out to him.

It is like Odysseus and Telemachus, if you catch

my drift. The father returning home, and the son

heading out to find the father – these are major themes

of the Odyssey. Some classical scholar might suggest

that this thinking is grandiose – for me to see

things this way.

I’ve been accused of being grandiose before,

and often with good reason; but in this case

I am merely following Homer’s themes. His themes

apply to every man, and every man’s son.

This is why he is such a great writer.

 

 

*

 

I lost a friend last week, and so did many of the people of North Bay.

I was right in the process of e-mailing Sam Powell when I got a call

telling me Sammy was dead. He had gone to the farther shore. He had asked

me a  question about who had lived where just west of Jane  and Algonquin

about 80 years ago.

I   had some answers for  him.

Sam was interested in North Bay history. Now he is a significant

part  of the history of the City he loved.

God bless you Sam. I’m going to miss you and I know a lot

of other people will, too. North Bay will miss you.

I always  felt better when you were around.

 

Fare forward,   my  friend,

 

Bill Milne.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A WRITER’S NOTEBOOK

 

                                                                     Writer’s  Workshop

 

 

 

I love that small round table, the way the sun hits it, it’s well

used, scratched surface  that I don’t have to be careful of.

For me writing is a ritual, an act of reverence

that is repeatedly enacted. The repetition has an almost

hypnotic effect… after a while the workshop calls to me,

and I approach it with the reverence of an old love.

 

*

 

To Rhyme or  Not To Rhyme

_____________________

 

Some people  say poems should rhyme. Ohers say they

should not rhyme. After Bukowski, non-rhyming poems

were in vogue. Then rap music appeared and everything

had to rhyme.

 

I am somewhere in between… I take a poem as it comes

to me, and I don’t use forceps in its delivery. I’ve

written plenty of non-rhyming poems. But if I’m

going to read poems in public, I’m sure to throw in

plenty of poems with rhyme in them.

 

If a poem were going to be read at your funeral,

if  someone was going to speak a eulogy at your death,

would you want that poem to rhyme?

 

I  can tell you what  I want. I want my eulogy

to rhyme.

*

I also want it to be at least 12 verses long. In

case I’m being buried prematurely:

I might have a chance to revive.

 

 

 

(C)2016 by W.G. Milne