I read them as a child.  Sentimental for a far off time
Softened by the long passage  areseen thru the mists
Longing for a lost innocence.  Now that time of my
Youth is as far a way as the time of Riley's old farm
Tales was from him-and it kind of seems they rest in
A place where we are forever young that we loved-
But never quite knew how much until they are gone
Calling forth tears to make glisten all our memories


A tribute to James Whitcomb Riley, The "Indiana Bard"

The philosophers have told us
Know thy self.. But how.? Always you
Have known Knowing and not Knowing
Ask yourself what is the difference. Can
It  too  be known  now you are approaching
The Heart of the mystery-where you will find
The Way that is the Mystery of knowing your
Self. and is the Mystery that exists but cannot
Be solved but lives on without denying death but
Is their coincidence each an affirmation of the
Other. The Mystery lives and it is the Love of
Truth and the Truth of Love and it is always
One  and iis both known and not known.  On
Earth as it is n heaven.  But how can that Be?

In general I have found that it is best
To make the best of things until the
Best of things is made for you too

Have faith and let the truth always be
With you...It is a gift from our Creator

The sovereignty of now so quickly passes
Gone on to the stillness of the time before
Where in  peace reigns in the silence sung
All is one  All is one; and  so unfathomable

I hear the children playing; their laughter most of all. and
Why am I here alone in my bedroom listening.  I too am young
I should be with them but I am not.  So long ago I  hear their cries
Their song so beautiful as the sun goes down and I in my room
Alone -so long ago a witteness still to this memory of my youth

Here everything Blends
Everything separates
It is wonderful and it is
Terrible...
The blinding sun, the pitch of
Night.
Nothing and everything:
Mortal time and eternity
I am and I am not
I am that I am
Thus my Father spoke to me

The eloquence of the broken is
Incredibly eloquent; Hard men
Do cry when the truth is spoken
Time is once we were young; now
We are young still;  that is why we
Cry.  Then and now are One but are
Broken into past and present and our
Heart in two; our soul is given words
That pulse from our wounds like blood

For Barbara remembering you on one starry night; and
||PBS story about young people  going to Casa Susanna