I watched some crows this very eve,
Play upon a blustery, early November breeze.
Wave upon wave of those corvid beasts,
Now going west, now going east.
Now rising up, now darting down,
Now racing east,
Now tacking west.
No sailor on the seven seas
Can tack so well as one of these.

Now up, now down
Now left, then down.
One flies north
Another south, then darts east.
Yet flock drifts by despite these feats.
Another joins in synchronous dance
Then up, then down, then back again
Waving together till parting perchance.
Then each alone, up,
Then down, then back again.

Some stall for several ***** and blows,
Remaining still to trees below,
Then a feather's twitch
Banks into the wind

And soar, ...... soar, ..... soar,
Soar away.

Down a ***** only birds can know
Racing faster than the wind
Above the trees below.

*It seems so wasteful, this fighting of the wind,
Futile and vain as a skein does not.
It's not hunting, I think, nor ***,
Except perhaps for showing off.
But I suspect play at play.
Jonathon Seagull's desire, it seems
Infects these playful playing memes.

Perhaps I see play where there is no play,
Projecting wishes onto senses.
But corvids do play, it seems.
Do you too so seem?
Perhaps they even dream.

This summer I saw mountains
   Thrusting out of the sea,
   And mountains mellowed with age,
   Rounded, softer, quietly returning to the sea.

I saw Redwoods: massive
   Majestic, alive,
   And marveled as I held seeds
   From which they thrive.

I wondered at hands that could be so old
   As those that carved the living stone
  In rocks by the sea;

I stood in awe hundreds of feet
   Beneath blankets of branches
   Of ancient trees.

I listened as mountainous streams
   Sang songs of the sources
   Of life-giving waters.

I saw flowers too many to name
   Running up and down grassy hillsides,
   In and out of pine-scented forests,
   Along rivers,
   Through meadows,
   Etc.
   Etc.
   Etc.*

But why am I telling you this?
   Because, of course,
   I must prove I am free,
   That I can see beauty
   all around me.
But it seems
   The less I feel free,
   The less beauty I see, and
   The louder I shout, “I am free, I am free”,
   The more I scream, “I see, I see”.
It’s all a game,
   You see;
   you see.

I just try to follow the rules.

                                                        ­        August 1, 1970
                                                            ­  *(edited 10/11/2014)

Come in, come in my friends,
Let us talk of gods and men.
But I must warn:
I ride the dragon Confucius cannot tame.
We soar on winds the Buddha cannot calm.
I frolic free on Jesus’ throne;
Secured in stone of my Olympus home,
Whose whence and why I can not know.

So come in, come in my friends
Let us talk of gods and men.*
If you come to teach and learn,
Come in, come in.
Let us share our common yearn.

Else go away so as not to waste my time with God.

                                                           ­             August, 2011

As the wars wore on, the bodies were counted.
Generals and privates, ideals undaunted.
Faces with eyes unable to see,
Turning away, fearing to flee.
       And the drums rolled on
       Boom      Boom      Boom

Wrinkled old men cursing the wars,
Squatting on knees unbearably sore.
Starving young children, bellies distended
Praying for peace when all wars have ended.
       And the drums rolled on
       Boom      Boom      Boom

Windows and doors broken and boarded.
Vision of riches jealously hoarded.
Windows and doors bordered in gold.
Words of obscure meaning by liars are sold.
       And the drums rolled on
       Boom      Boom      Boom

Proud tall trees, symbols of might
Stripped of their beauty, alone in the night.
Spiders in holes, hermits in caves
Escaping the wars.
But who will they save?
       And the drums rolled on
       Boom      Boom      Boom

Plague in the cities, stench from the rot,
Kills all the honest, feeds who are not.
Churches and parks forgotten and lonely.
Beauty and love, uselessly homely.
       And the drums rolled on
       Boom      Boom      Boom

Dancing in graveyards, singing of wealth
Satan’s disciples bring only dark death.
Rising from evil, blackening the sun,
Clouds of the wars that can never be won.
       And the drums rolled on
       Boom      Boom      Boom

Black hooded monks ringing the bells,
Tell of the death, the hatred, the hell.
The four horses speed on, their hoofs tear the ground;
Their riders are grim -- their destiny bound.
       *And the bell tolled once.
               Gong
               and                       stopped.

For those who wish to change the world
    for the better,
It is well to remember the relations
    between right and wrong.
For if you wish to add a right
    you must also add a wrong;
And if you wish to take away a wrong
    you must also take away a right.
For their relationship is such that
    one does not exist without the other.