181-The End Of An Era

109- The Moose Jaw- The Ending to White Dreams ( Young Adult Version Of The Lure Of The Mountain King, Uncle Albert's Mountain}

There have been many endings over the years. Leaving the mountain alone has always been my favorite, but as the the years have progressed I have experimented with Tom and Sara being together in some form. Since I had always wanted this to be a young adult work my first go at togetherness was for simplicity. I published it in May of 2022 but then deleted it. I once again offer it up in it's simplicity. Which one is better is for you the reader to decide.

                                                     The Moose Jaw

 

 

       Sara was sitting at the end of the bar. She was unconsciously twisting the end of her auburn hair, between her thumb and forefinger. Her head buried in a novel, reading short stories and good writing was her favorite pastime. There were only a handful of customers this afternoon. The season had ended and business would be slow until autumn winds brought another winter to the Rocky Mountains. A new song drifted over the sound system. The front door slowly opened and a black Stetson appeared. Sara felt her body involuntarily shiver. She quickly buried her head back into her book,

     “When are you going to wake up?” Sara said to herself. “You can’t hide from the world forever.”

She stared blankly at the pages. Lifting her hands she turned them upright, they were covered with black smudge marks from the print. She realized that was exactly what she was doing. Hiding from Tom and hiding from herself. Year after year she sat with her books. She listened to others talk of their adventures. Standing at the bar mixing their drinks and collecting their spare change. Spare change to make her ends meet. Always buried in another book, she thought she would probably grow old and grey with a book in her hands.

     “Hi,” he said cautiously. He was hoping it would go well. She had this incredible knack for avoiding him.

     “Hi,” she smiled radiantly. Sara’s eyes softened as they met his. She jumped off her chair and ran to him. She grasped his hand and held tightly to his big fingers.

     ”I’m sorry this all happened. I was wrong to try and force you into something you weren’t ready for. If nothing else you taught me the value of freedom and the courage to spend it"

Tom looked deeply into her eyes.

     “No, I’m sorry, I’m sorry I can’t settle in one place. My first reaction to life is to bolt when things get tough, to run away instead of fighting. I want to be with you, without you I’ll probably always be a drifter. You are the only stability I’ve ever known.”

He saw the same spark that was there the first time they had met. It had never left, even when he thought it would never return.

     “Listen, I can’t explain my feelings, when I’m near you. I’m trying to find the words to explain how much I care. It’s just that I’ve got this crazy dream. Maybe I can make a difference. Maybe I can -----.”

She gently put her fingers to his lips.

     “I’ll make you a deal. No more talk of commitment. You give me a taste of real freedom.”

He loosened the straps of his knapsack and slid his arm around her waist. He slapped his hand on the bar.

     “There’s this little saloon in Targhee called ‘Wild Bills’,” he scratched the stubble on his chin. “You could work on the mountain with me and learn to ski or tend bar there.”

     “Only if you shave,” she laughed wrapping her arms tightly around his neck.

Tom gently pulled her closer. He felt the warmth of her body next to his. He knew it was right. He would give her everything possible for him to give. Sara was the serenity he found among the jagged peaks. It was meant to last forever. The balance between man and nature in the mountains is fragile and extremely delicate. Life hangs precariously by a taught golden string, stretched sometimes almost to the breaking point. A balance that was as tender and tight as that between a man and a woman. Tom always pushed toward the edge. Someday he would push too far. He would regret many things in his life. He would never regret giving his love to Sara.

     “No promises.”

     “No promise,” he agreed.

She tore off her apron, and threw it behind the bar. She grabbed her blue knapsack and stuffed her book into it. Pulling on her ski jacket, she flipped her hair outside. It would be an exciting change for her. They started for the entrance.

     “Hey Sara, How about another?” one of the customers yelled.

She turned gracefully, her hair flowing in a wide arc. It gently came to rest, tight under her chin. Tom waited his throat dry. He watched every move she made.

Sara glanced back at him. She carefully studied his features cautiously for a sign, any answer. Tom said nothing.

Sara turned and reached for Tom’s hand. They walked out the door.

     “What’s Targhee like?” she said.

     “I’ll show you,” he replied.

The Ring Song, Jaya Sia Ram, Krishjna Das, Flow Of Grace

180-Is a Trilogy a Precursor for a Trinity?

 What is the relationship of a trilogy to a trinity? The obvious grouping of three is too simple of an explanation. If you examine the trilogy(noun a group of three related novels, plays, films, operas, or albums."J.R.R. Tolkien's epic fantasy trilogy, The Lord of the Rings") you would wonder as a group of writing what the time line is for the origin of the material. If you were to say write a novel at a young age, followed by a later work and then by a significantly later work you could make an argument that would support it as being a trinity in origin. trin·i·ty/ˈtrinədē/, noun, the Christian Godhead as one God in three persons: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Now it may seem sacrilegious to compare your youth, middle age and wisdom of old age to that of a religious trinity but you can see the truth in the analogy of the learned wisdom. What you would have written in the naivety of youth, and the greater wisdom of old age would be vastly different. Hence the analogy to a religious trinity.

179- Merry Christmas

 Pete, her friend Boney and Al wish you a Merry Christmas!

178-Dharma Talk

(Pete with her Good Friend Dharma)

The Lord is with me and I am with Him. That is His promise in the Bhagavad Gita: “He who perceives Me everywhere and beholds everything in Me never loses sight of Me, nor do I ever lose sight of him.” Paramahansa Yogananda 

You are not alone, isolated or without companionship in your darkest hours. When the night closes in around you and the world, your life, your work, your boss, your existence is in disharmony. Remember that your father is always with you. He may be in the company of a friend or a companion, a co worker, the barista, the attendant. He is always in the ether near you. All you have to do is open your heart and your mind to receive him. It is so easy in a world today, full of Maya to dismiss his presence and essence and to fall into despair. Resist the temptation to be a Western Setting Sun Person. You must ascribe to being an Eastern Rising Sun Warrior. Take back your life and your control! Do not be in the whim and wind of a deluded society out of touch with the true essence of being. To be a Warrior you must summon courage, conviction and fortitude. Where will I find these things you ask? Like Dorothy in the Wizard Of Oz, it is already within you. Your father bestowed your grace upon you as child of this world. When you were young you looked to the Heavens and the Stars and dreamed of the Great Deeds and Heroic Exploits you would perform. Where have your dreams and aspirations gone? Gone with the struggles of Daily Living! Do not be a Person of short vision. One again rise up and cultivate your Greatness. It has never left you. What has left you is your belief in yourself to accomplish the goals you set out to achieve. Meditate, read Great Works of Literature. Find a way to go the extra mile! A Great Quote from My Guru Parmahansa Yogananda, (Be A Smile Millionaire.) Joy is infectious!

Question Of Balance- The Moody Blues

177-For The Middle East Conflict

 Upon the Ocean’s Breezes

 

 Listen!

 The ocean breezes are beckoning across the Isle Ellis.

They are calling extraordinary artisans accustomed to nature listening.

Apres’ her lady’s commissioning to let our collective lights shine

brighter than the torch lit for Liberty,

let our collective voices be raised

for all of Humanity,

crying from the ocean’s depths of Peasantries,

combating the silence of indifference,

armed with swords of insignificance,

to stem the rising tides of American Armageddons.

Turning back the raging seas

of Radical Extremism’s blasphemies

spewing from the cauldrons

tended by the World’s Aristocracies,

beckoning across the sea of mediocrity.

 

 

 

                              From the Belly of the Beast

Once,

I stood strong and tall

atop America’s highest mountain peak.

Turning I faced Mecca toward the East,

to my eyes came this vision of a holocaust

that brought me to my knees.

Touching the very depths of my soul.

I saw the American Armada’s storming the seven seas.

Hear my voice ring, for truth and freedom for the children!

To every nation’s mountain peaks,

 from the depths of the belly of the beast!

176-Exploring The Art Of Collaboration

My collaboration began when I was attending writing classes  with the Poet and writer Lyn Lifshin at Union College in Schenectady, New York in the early 1980’s. To keep living expenses down I rented an apartment in Niskayuna, New York from my musician friend. We would often sit on the porch evenings and he would play music and I would write poetry. (Although I learned to endure the late evening renditions of Peter Gabriel's, Red Rain to all hours. ) It was only natural that we began collaborating together, not only did we collaborate on songs, but we have been fortunate enough to finish a book of short stories and a novel. Our short story The Lure of the Mountain King was awarded an honorable mention in the 57^th Writer’s Digest Contest in the General Fiction Category. We have over the years drifted apart but I have lately dusted off our early collaborations and began submitting the work. Hope you enjoy the completed Ballad. (Check Out My Stories and The Lure Of The Mountain King Novel.)

 

 Gordon Grey Music

Joseph Elijo

 

 

The Ballad Of Tom Dillon

A blinding blizzard beckons me
in to Steamboat Springs.
I arrive on the last greyhound from Vail.
My pockets full of snowflakes
a lonesome geyser’s Steamboat whistle wails
always hiding, never tears to a cowboy’s eye.
Lord don’t let me be forsaken
the Baron’s have already taken
America by rail.

My darling I grow weary
often lost without a home
but you know I’ll keep on searchin
these mountain trails alone.
I wander through green valleys
across the prairies
past the village’s
farms and fields
out beyond the concrete illusions
where the Rocky Mountains pierce
the aqua skies.

I find solace in the seclusion
of another winter’s season
another mountain to ski
as long as he will lay
fresh powder down for me.

While you seek your fortune
or search the world for fame
be careful what you wish for
because when darkness falls upon you
you’ll be wailing out his name.

Ski through barren aspens
see the forests through the pines
sitting on my golden perch
am I crying out in vain?

Sometimes you awake to find
you get what you need
other times you take what you can get
it is from the children 
they take everything.

Now I found that I possess this light
from these mountains that I bring.
My gift is in my words
and for the children
I’ll let them ring.

Go and tell everyone,
silence is a snowflake falling
until they hear me calling
to all the children I will sing.
Never take the last of anything.

These days I’m a city
pretty girl painted
street wizard inside my poems.
My freedom
most men will never know
never having been wary
of wooden box stables
fabled to contain rainbows.
Someday, when their hair turns grey
their youth will have faded away
with the colors that lost their shine.

The all American Gazebo Band

plays behind the new red white and corporate blue
flag that flies against the changing hues.
Another rock opera story
of old glory, and a town without its name.
Somewhere in time, the poet’s rhyme
makes a cosmic connection.
Then the Seer Sayers arrive on Stages
and History endures the ages.

As a simple man who dreams
beyond the Apple Tree Lane
he sees a sunrise within her eyes.
Then the hobo dude
plays Howard Hughes
attempting to fill Dylan’s shoes
to find out why they came.
But in disgrace, he falls from grace
to understand success
is not what they claim.

Listen Children

to a Thorn Bird shrilly singing

this truth you’ve heard
from a poet and his strings.

 

The name of Steamboat Springs is thought to have originated around the early 1800s when French trappers thought they heard the chugging sound of a steamboat’s steam engine. The sound turned out to be a natural mineral spring, to be named the Steamboat Spring.

In 1909, the railroad arrived, which sparked a boom for the commercial industry in Steamboat Springs. Ranching was the primary industry of the valley and the cattle ranchers turned the new railroad depot into one of the largest cattle shipping centers of the West. Consequently, the construction of the railroad silenced the Steamboat Spring’s chugging noise forever.

City of Steamboat Springs Website

 

 

 

Trading Trinkets, Tall Tales, Telling Lies

 

Downtown any town’s Main street

this town, down

passed a shellacked shiny brass handled

carved crescent moon wooden door of

“The Ancient Mariner”

across the street from an old fashioned Bijou

sequenced white bulb Marquee

Flashing, “Fiddler on the Roof.”

 

Butted by a brand new brown concrete, steel, Lake Placid Hilton

descending down two flights

of green canopied wooden stairs.

 

“The Artist’s Café”

lapped white waves of Mirror Lake

reflecting the lights of “The Cottage”

and the excitement of the 1980 Winter Olympics

across from the Lake Placid Club

its walls filled with the owner’s original art

bustling buxom waitresses.

 

Comrade Ivan leaping to his feet

touching my pins from Solitude and Brighton

would I care to trade for his shiny Soviet bears

slapping him on the back saying,

“certainly mine were worth a bit more, perhaps

one, possibly two martini’s.”

 

Telling tales till they became martooni’s

 

The bustling waitress asking,

“Was I, could I be, an Olympic Athlete?”

Me smiling devilishly saying,

“Why, yes,

would she,

care to come to my room.

to view my gold medals from Europe.

 

 

                                             To Winter My Revenge

 

I had once

so long ago it seems

enjoyed the cool aroma

tasted the nectar sweet

of personal destiny achieved

 

These Words!

 

So at last I come to understand

after all these travels

all these achievements

that most men only dream…

 

I’ve been wasting the years

trying to go back

rolling the bitter ugly taste

over and over

my tired palette

 

“Reliving is not Life”

 

I am… To tell this tale

… to pound one nail

… to Winter My Revenge. 

Red Rain, Peter Gabriel