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The Passing

The Passing 

My life peels away from me, leaving my soul bare against the harsh wind. Icy cold, it cuts me like daggers forged from each of my sins.

I’m in a void.

The landscape around me is an ocean of parched earth. Empty and endless. No North, South, East or West. Nowhere to go and yet,

I walk.

There’s a light ahead. It fills the sky and instinctively I know it has no origin. Warmth flows from it and embraces me. I’m compelled to move forward but with each step I struggle against the bitter wind.

Across the great emptiness joy appears and attaches itself to me through the light. Tingling sensations rise to a crescendo inside me, shooting out the top of my head in a shower of white sparks.

I smile with my whole self.

Hours pass in seconds and the shore of this strange land soon stretches out before me. The ocean I’d been walking upon ends in waves of light that wash up on a pristine beach.

It’s nighttime here.

In the distance shadows await me, but not darkness.

As I approach I begin to hear familiar voices. Individually and in chorus, I’m welcomed by everyone I have ever known with the love we’d always shared. Intense joy explodes inside every cell of my body.

I’m in Heaven.

Here I Am

Here I Am

Here I am.

Sitting, waiting, agonizing

About worlds I create, people I hate, things I ate.

Watching the wheels go ’round,

Watching my wrinkles grow to frowns.

Where am I going?

How do I get there?

Is it possible to get there at all?

Stop thinking, stop imagining, stop focusing

On the minutia and


It will come, it will come, it will come.

I will be where I need to be, when I need to be there.

I already am.

I am here in this moment,

Living this life, traveling this road.

I am here.


Rasta Beats


Press play then return to read on…


A voice; far off and tight…

“A rasta man…”

Others join in.

A bell.

Shaky voice; full of years…

People singing together,

Individually distinct.


They sing pain…

I feel it.

They sing family…

I feel it.

They sing home…



I feel it.

“They (Wingless Angels) play deliberately at just slightly under heart rate. The drumming goes deeper than your bones. It’s marrow music.”

– Keith Richards; producer for Mindless Records.

The music you’re listening to is called Niyabinghi (also binghi). It’s a style of chant that sprang from the Rastafarian resistance celebrations and went on to inspire popular ska, rocksteady, and reggae music. Comprised of three kinds of drums called “harps”; a single akete or “repeater”, a middle-pitched funde, and a bass striking loudly on the first beat and softly on the third of four counts, they create a smooth, comforting rhythm that is nearly hypnotic. The funde and bass keep regular rhythms, while the akete player improvises a conversation with his beats. Words, spoken or sung, during the chant are taken directly from Bible verses or well-known Christian hymns.

The African influence is easily heard in Niyabinghi but the style is considered to be a new sound that combines Jamaican traditions with a rediscovery of African drumming, rather than a direct continuation on traditional African rhythms. It is the religious music of Rasta followers and has been used by reggae’s legendary musician, Bob Marley.

I was introduced to Niyabinghi music through Keith Richards. Not in person–although that would be in the top five dream moments of my life–but rather through his promotion of a group called The Wingless Angels (that’s who you’re listening to now). He met them while living in Jamaica during the early 1970s and found the rhythms of the drumming to be a calming influence as he recuperated from a tour with the Rolling Stones.  For me, this meditative music helps me to reach the place where I can connect with the words that need to come out in a story. It slows me down and allows me to enter a world where I am free with the music of the Rastaman.

The Wingless Angels website:

Calling You, Muse

“Adele Bloch-Bauer”, 1907; Gustav Klimt

Calling You, Muse

Without form you bring me your energy.

Without voice you bring me your words.

We’re here together and we see the same show.

Let me say it,

Translate it,

Build it and break it.

Come back, Muse,

Come back.

Slow Down Clock

           Tick, tock; tick tock

           The clock never stops.

           Tick, tock; tick tock

           Chasing me ’round the block.

The Promise of What’s to Come

Life poured from the grey clouds above,

sending colors to bloom in the parched fields below.

Hot Flash

Hot Flash



Falling darkness

Constricting guilt and pain

Memories spark



Depression grips

Heartbeats trip

Expecting it


Wanting it

Squeezes me

Tight, tight, tight

Unbearably tight

Anger erupts

Heat rises

Radiating fire

Scorching from inside

Bursting through

Urge to run




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