There is no rhyme or reason.

The mind it can be tricked…

None will have peace of mind…

With a heart that seeks conflict.

It was cool air in the morning.

All green and fresh, no sound.

Except for birds and breaking light.

And all that’s happening on the ground.

I am still yet I am moving.

In my head, there are these things.

It’s more a past, but I see future.

Invisible threads where this all swings.

I’ve been home, and there’s a moral.

Of the story, often goes…

If there’s a sail on your dory.

Enjoy the break when that wind blows.

Dennis Mantin

The others have risen… No longer to be ignored!

We are linked by our humanity. Our secrets not really secret at all.

We are irrevocably involved and responsible for one another.

The Global Village has removed the barriers and harmony if it ever existed; is now the passionate involvement of the individual in the business of others…

Before the global village and its computerized electric marvel was the industrial revolution that fostered a depression sandwiched between 2 world wars; and before that… peasantry, and one can only imagine the horrors of that without the internet or Netflix!

The future of the future is the present if you are looking in the rear view mirror.

Now we know most of life’s mysteries and I long for the ignorance of that peasant in Van Gogh’s fields.

First there was the Father, Son and Holy Spirit under the spell of peasantry and all the horrors with those fears.

Later, much later, came Joseph Campbell, Jordan Peterson and lately, finally I found Marshall Mcluhan…

By fluke or grand design I met the artists Fischl and Fournier and the humanity that they brought.

And still I listen.

She said she was a dancer. I said I didn’t care. I didn’t use my big boy words. Just a cold and distant stare.

Then I saw her smile. I said I kinda like your shoes. She’s been hanging around awhile. Now I have that dancers blues.

Neurosis is a punishment for intelligence.

A holy place is never empty.

History books are less than kind.

To tears and sorrows left behind.

Stewed and reaped and so refined

And outta sight and outta mind.

A different myth there to find.

A heavy heart of pages lined.

Subtle scribes so undefined.

Into dirt they often grind.

Dennis Mantin

It’s about order and wisdom and about of course, of course.

Don’t tell me about all you know and then put the cart before the horse.

Its ancient and outdated, antiquity for sure, for sure.

Its like when you give advice and I wonder why it is you’re poor.

Dennis Mantin