There isn’t a more divisive, more fearsome word in all of our language.

There are those, who at their very core, their most
malignant essence of being, are hateful, hurtful people. Being political, be it liberal or conservative, is a cover for their hate, a cover for who they are as people. Some people, too many people just hate everything.

Their was a time when I believed that hate resulted from fear, from a lack of education or perhaps attributable to lack of experience, environment or upbringing. I no longer believe none of that. Now I believe hate derives from hating ones self with such vigor, that there is no happiness to be found except in exporting that hate to others, friends, families and yes, strangers. To do as much damage as they can with their words or actions gives pleasure, and validates their own, miserable, pitiful existence. Listen carefully, observe their behavior, you will find no words of encouragement, no sensible answer of compromise or compassion. Watch their behavior, their actions are self gratifying, toward their personal agenda, toward their  gnarled and twisted spiritual path. They will not help you without benefit.hate promo

We will never admit it here in America, but we have become that very thing we detest. A nation of haters. Hate has become a commodity to be valued and sold, a marketing strategy used to ply ones opinions against another for the entertainment of the American populace. Indeed, an entire vibrant industry has grown to spew not only hate, but the propagation of hate.

To call the likes of Limbaugh, Beck, Hannity, Ingraham, Savage and many other personalities, Republican, Conservative or even political in their approach is disingenuous at best. Their words are seldom true, usually void of fact and aimed squarely at the propagation of hate. They want you to hate, what they hate! They all have made vast sums of money in the hate they manage to spew, eviscerating people and policies on a daily basis. They care little for the damage they do, little for their path of destruction, and with each hateful moment, they smile in the knowledge of their success because this is who they are. Hateful people. Hateful people who are articulate and passionate, and have been given a voice to further a cause that has everything to do with hate and little to do with fact, much less reality.

The damage they have done is inconceivable. We now live in a society where it is acceptable to voice our hate, and to act out on our hate. That fact is not only coherently visible in right wing discussions, but evident on Fox news as well. Clearly, an agenda is being pushed, and it isn’t political. As much as they all want you to believe their voice is based in the political process, it is not.

Their voice is toward the belittlement of others, and of hate.

They have made it OK to say, I hate you. They have made it ok to act out on that hate. As much as we want to deny it, blame it on mental illness or on a person being disfranchised, the truth is, Hate is marketed and sold like any other commodity. People have come to practice hate, in all its little manifestations, in all the screwey, acceptable little ways, to spread their own form of hate, because it’s now acceptable to do so. They have learned from the best.

I have seen it at work!


I’m late. It’s in my genes, to be late. Some things never change. Some things always change, even when they stay the same.

I was laid back in my gravity chair, the milky way a comfortable blanket with the snap, pop and crackle of my fire at my feet. I searched the heavens, looking for nothing. Looking for everything. Searching for something I knew I would never find.

Bullfrogs throated deep luscious croaks from the water’s edge, a mosquito feasted, and the heat of the fire licked at my bare feet.

Lazily grasped in the cusp of my hand, a medallion tethered around my neck. Strange, hardened and full of symbols, the gold harkened to an old scrap of paper that sat in my lap. Both full of mysterious origins and unknown meanings.

Together, the aged paper and the old medallion meant something, perhaps pointing to answers I have been looking for, perhaps they were meant to lead me astray. Perhaps they were meaningless. Perhaps, God himself was having fun.

A breeze swept across my parcel of land, setting the sumac and birches to sway, the fire licked a bit closer to bare skin. Across the way, I watched a large dark, foreboding mass exit from the tree line.

I watched. The bear hesitated. A deer, full velvet rack emerged, and silently came my way. The bear, huffed behind.Image1

I took in the power of nature without the realization that I was, always had been part of that power. If there’s a lesson civilized, and intelligent souls need to learn, is that our civilized ways, and learned beliefs don’t separate our lives from the power of nature. Those things might diminish our natural relationships, but they do not cleave us from who we are, who we were.

So ingrained with the fascination of new company, I didn’t bother to bring my old tattered gravity chair to a setting position until both deer and bear had made their way to my fire. The deer, wet and rank, sought me out as I lie under the great blanket, his moist nostrils taking in the smell of my feet, up my flannels, to my waist. He turned his head momentarily when he caught a breath of cheap tequila and golden beer, and then nudged his warm face against mine, lying with mine, becoming a part of my existence for a moment, and then in the second of time, bounded off into the woods behind.

The bear made no such gestures of introduction. Awkwardly watching its companion, that animal remained behind the fire, and now that the four-legged creature was gone, the bear raised up, thrusting i20140928_003201ts large dark body to the sky, obliterating the milky way.

And with a large, deep throated grumble that turned to a rumbling growl, the animal tore the beautiful night asunder. Releasing the night sky back to my fire smoked eyes, I heard the bear behind me, chasing it’s strange friend into the night with low huffs and grunts matching the sound of huge paws sinking into the hard soft grass.

I wondered. A thread, less, a wisp, of cloud threaded the stars.  A shooting star from the south, overhead to the north, dissolved. A plane traversing the boundaries.

A crack of thunder! I reeled, realizing the night was fading. Not into day, but into a starless night, a cloud fueled rage of water and wind. The transition was abrupt, as if I had nodded off. My fire raged larger as if I had fed the flames to protect me form the cold wet reality. I know longer bothered to question the sense of reality as I lie back, my face pelted by rain, my body rocked with the wind, where overhead the sumac, birches and maples rocked.

I barely saw her wave from across the way, but she was there. Tall, slender, naked and blond with her large almond eyes. A dream I could have easily thought as I moved from one world to the next.

The first morning sun took me in amazement as I struggled out of the chair amidst the embers of a fire that had seen better days. Cool and crisp, the air had a moist feel, a wet smell, yet dryness permeated everywhere. I managed to stand up, over the dead fire, and noticed the prints in the fireburnt sand around the fire pit.

I smiled. Some dreams are more than others. I turned to my old, weather beaten camper, and became transfixed.

Some daring thief arrived in the black night and with a wide brush, laid waste to my little home in brightly hued colors of glyphs, symbols and maps. I smiled, walked once around the perimeter taking it all in, then walked inside and made a pot of coffee.


Upon A Stone

on-the-rocks-1192354-640x960Given grace that I could  rest
my head along this road,
I would not.

Given chance to shed a tear
along this winding journey,
I would not.

Given a moment to ponder
along this meandering path,
I would not.

Given the will to pause
along my way
I would not.

For upon trails end,
I will rest, I will cry,
ponder and live again.

Given grace to question
while I sojurn,
I would ask,
ask of whom?

For in all my steps
not one for me,
each for another,
even one for thee.

In my travels
I have found
there never comes
that time to be

Yet comes a time
before me now
where all such things
that come and go

Cry out to rest, to pause,
to ponder.

So upon a stone
aside a road,
a well traveled path,
my soul does set
eternally waiting

for death’s sunset.