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ECHO HILL STUDIOS
ARTIST: ANN KAHL


I I I





Lost Chance

Jamiekins is three, you know.
She sprinkles silver dust and makes a path that no one ever danced before.
Dogs and cats and things as practical as that can hardly keep from smiling.
I saw a moth sit on her head just now.
They danced as one, and I almost became one, too, just watching them, but then I turned away.
There always seem to be so much to do.
Jamie's three, you know.



History

With awe, I've gleaned from the historians
Some insight into what the past has been.
I've reverently read the works of Gibbon and Durant
And marvelled at the vast array of basic facts extant,
And proudly shown off to my friends the plethora of knowledge,
Concluding with the words, "That's history."

Today while I was deep inside the thoughts of wiser men,
And foggy in the panelled gloom of study,
The door burst open wide and sunlight burst inside my mind.
While unaccustomed eyes became a lover to the truth,
As detail upon detail brought to me a ragged youth.

My son stood there with arms stretched out as far as he could say,
"Hey, Mom! You really should have seen the one that got away!"
With reverence for scholar now dissolving into love and empathy,
I gazed upon my boy and gently thought,"That's his story."





Storybooks

A storybook is such an honest thing,
Which never tries to make a claim to truth.
While history books are strident in presenting how it's been.
Forgetting that what's out for France may be for England in.
And that the human memory is holier than thou,
And all the holes must be filled up for past to equal now.

History books get lost sometimes, so word of mouth must make the changes.
These get written down, and thus recorded as the mind deranges.
Accepted in this garbled form,
"Truth" taught to you and taught to me,
Is to our children being taught, you see.

Storybooks get lost sometimes
And memory cannot recall.
So word of mouth must make the changes.
Herein lies the truth of all;
While history is just a way of spelling,
The truth of every story is in the telling.



Lament of a Student of Life

Mind vastly empty, as I find you so.
(I call you "mind", a misnomer perhaps.)
You're me and I am you, and yet
I find myself attendant on that part of us which we call memory.
I wait, and watch, and notice finally,
That in and out it goes in fleeting thought;
All relative events, which happened long ago,
Or near ago.
And space is now before, and now behind.
The myriad of objects seem no less of stuff.

That I may be attendant on so great a god as Life,
I need but stand or walk and watch and listen with attendant eye and ear,
And joy becomes my willing slave, and God am I.

In you, dear friend, I trust. Not deity or country.
You. My fellow man. I pray you be attendant with me.
Among us joyous sounds and sights of life are ours to see and hear.

Mind vastly empty, as I find you so.
So much "somehow" never came, and so much "somehow" cannot go.
And what enigma stands to be
Attendant upon me?





Philosophy-Theosophy

Philosophy, theosophy
In many, many books.
World's Great Religions can, translated
Be another's looks.

Not deeply, but most simply,
On the surface face of man,
Are painted all the works of art.
"Dick threw the ball, Jane ran."

We all are taught to give respect
To hate: the Bengal's lancer.
As man must pose the question,
Man himself must be the answer.


(continued)




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