All of the shining mad ones
With their heresies of reality
And other visions and other voices
Are not diminished
By the multitude of choices
That is their truth
Upon each waking day

They are woken by the howl
From beyond the first ear
And into the deeper mind
Where there is other language
And blinding colours of emotion
For madness has the purity of pain
That martyrs can only long for

                                           By Phil Roberts

As a trickle of water from the heights of a mountain or the depths of the earth, so began my life. It started from a singular lonely place and moved forward slowly. Drip by drip until it formed a small stream. Then the path narrowed and it became faster until it began to rush forward. Into a widening river until it again slowed on it's journey to the sea. Into the sea my life goes, where all that I am is lost and forgotten among the masses of people and the passing of time. Like the water of the river that flows into the sea, I to shall be drawn up and start again my journey. Into a different path and a new life.

When the rain falls on the earth, God is crying for his children. Sometimes his tears sweep over and wash away things. Some things are wicked and some are not. In the heartbroken state, the tears fall from heaven. Then when there are no more tears to be cried, the rain will stop and a dry spell will come. In that time, we ask why we suffer, but in truth our sorrowful ways has caused God to have no more tears, and the rain that gives life to cease, so we are the cause of our own fates.

Rusted cars in over grown fields, and abandoned cotton mills. Creeks that run cold and deep under old rustic bridges. Dirt roads and open fields that seem to run forever and go no where. Cottonwood trees and Magnolias, that fill the air with fragrance and dampness after the rain. Children chasing each other in a game of tag beneath a Willow tree. The smell of fried chicken and fresh bread at Sunday supper. Time moving slow as the sun sets over history. A land not in a hurry to change. This is the place of my birth, this is my Southern legacy.

A Tawny Owl in peerless voice , resonating within lonely , hazy Moorland .. The very breath of Scotland whispers , drawn upon Highland reserves , her intrepid Moon tints a solitary Rise , painted by the hand of St. Gabriel , under the protection of Heavens dominion ..