Sonnets To Jenny…

On the Sound Box: Nick Drakes’, “Time Of No Reply”

“If we have chosen the position in life in which we can most of all work for mankind, no burdens can bow us down, because they are sacrifices for the benefit of all; then we shall experience no petty, limited, selfish joy, but our happiness will belong to millions, our deeds will live on quietly but perpetually at work, and over our ashes will be shed the hot tears of noble people.”

[Marx, On the Choice of a Profession]

– All of our Love to Jules. (Girl, we are with ya!)–

Good friends are moving… Our Deda and Randy along with daughter Bailey are moving south to Medford. Randy has been teaching Pathology at OSHU for the last 7 years, and Deda has been working as a therapist giving physical therapy for kids with CP and other special needs. Bailey is looking forward to the journey south, and being in a new school. She is a promising young artist, heading into 7th grade.

Randy and I made a dump run with old furniture today… We were driving through Portland in the Land Cruiser that he sold me a few years back. We talked about a thousand things, almost in a rush, but yet in that relaxed way that Randy has… It was a great little journey, kinda bittersweet.. Mary and I are heading up to their house early on Tuesday to help a bit as they get their stuff packed and moved.

We love them and will miss them, good hearts and good friends that they are.

PK stopped by, he has just 2 weeks or so before he graduates from the local school of Oriental Medicine. He is pretty excited, but looking forward to a breather before he sits The Board in October. We loves him, we do. Instead of Burning Man, we will be at his graduation ceremonies this September 1st. I am starting to think of ideas for his web page, something not toooo over the top.

I hope this entry finds you well with yourself and the world. Here is to the change that we have all been a part of. Lets bring about the world that we have dreamed about throughout the ages of our sleeping.

One Love,


On the Menu

The Links

The Spirit Of A Buried Man

The Poetry of Karl Marx


The Links:

Mammoths may roam again after 27,000 years

Greenland melt ‘speeding up’

Give a man six inches and he’ll want a …

French cops hunt mysterious ‘panther’

Return of the Bible Code Bozos


Tales From Poland…


A POOR scholar was going by the highway into a town, and found under the walls of the gate the body of a dead man, unburied, trodden by the feet of the passers-by. He had not much in his purse, but willingly gave enough to bury him, that he might not be spat upon and have sticks thrown at him. He performed his devotions over the fresh heaped-up grave, and went on into the world to wander. In an oak wood sleep overpowered him, and when he awoke, he espied with wonderment a bag full of gold. He thanked the unseen beneficent hand, and came to the bank of a large river, where it was necessary to be ferried over. The two ferrymen, observing the bag full of gold, took him into the boat, and just at an eddy took from him the gold and threw him into the water. As the waves carried him away insensible, he by accident clutched a plank, and by its aid floated successfully to the shore. It was not a plank, but the spirit of the buried man, who addressed him in these words: ‘You honoured my remains by burial; I thank you for it. In token of gratitude I will teach you how you can transform yourself into a crow, into a hare, and into a deer.’ Then he taught him the spell. The scholar, when acquainted with the spell, could with ease transform himself into a crow, into a hare, and into a deer. He wandered far, he wandered wide, till he wandered to the court of a mighty king, where he remained as an archer in attendance at the court. This king had a beautiful daughter, but she dwelt on an inaccessible island, surrounded on all sides by the sea. She dwelt in a castle of copper, and possessed a sword such that he who brandished it could conquer the largest army. Enemies had invaded the territory of the king; he needed and desired the victorious sword. But how to obtain it, when nobody had up to that time succeeded in getting on to the lonely island? He therefore made proclamation that whoever should bring the victorious sword from the princess should obtain her hand, and, moreover, should sit upon the throne after him. No one was venturesome enough to attempt it, till the wandering scholar, then an archer attached to the court, stood before the king announcing his readiness to go, and requesting a letter, that on receipt of that token the princess might give up the weapon to him. All men were astonished, and the king entrusted him with a letter to his daughter. He went into the forest, without knowing in the least that another archer attached to the court was dogging his steps. He first transformed himself into a hare, then into a deer, and darted off with haste and speed; he traversed no small distance, till he stood on the shore of the sea. He then transformed himself into a crow, flew across the water of the sea, and didn’t rest till he was on the island. He went into the castle of copper, delivered to the beautiful princess the letter from her father, and requested her to give him the victorious sword. The beautiful princess looked at the archer. He captured her heart at once. She asked inquisitively how he had been able to get to her castle, which was on all sides surrounded by water and knew no human footsteps. Thereupon the archer replied that he knew secret spells by which he could transform himself into a deer, a hare, and a crow. The beautiful princess, therefore, requested the archer to transform himself into a deer before her eyes. When he made himself into a graceful deer, and began to fawn and bound, the princess secretly pulled a tuft of fur from his back. When he transformed himself again into a hare, and bounded with pricked up ears, the princess secretly, pulled a little fur off his back. When he changed himself into a crow and began to fly about in the room, the princess secretly pulled a few feathers from the bird’s wings. She immediately wrote a letter to her father and delivered up the victorious sword. The young scholar flew across the sea in the form of a crow, then ran a great distance in that of a deer, till in the neighbourhood of the wood he bounded as a hare. The treacherous archer was already there in ambush, saw when he changed himself into a hare, and recognised him at once. He drew his bow, let fly the arrow, and killed the hare. He took from him the letter and carried off the sword, went to the castle, delivered to the king the letter and the sword of victory, and demanded at once the fulfilment of the promise that had been made. The king, transported with joy, promised him immediately his daughter’s hand, mounted his horse, and rode boldly against his enemies with the sword. Scarcely had he espied their standards, when he brandished the sword mightily several times, and that towards the four quarters of the world. At every wave of the sword large masses of enemies fell dead on the spot, and others, seized with panic, fled like hares. The king returned joyful with victory, and sent for his beautiful daughter, to give her to wife to the archer who brought the sword. A banquet was prepared. The musicians were already striking up, the whole castle was brilliantly lighted; but the princess sat sorrowful beside the assassin-archer. She knew at once that he was in nowise the man whom she saw in the castle on the island, but she dared not ask her father where the other handsome archer was; she only wept much and secretly: her heart beat for the other.

The poor scholar, in the hare’s skin, lay slain under the oak, lay there a whole year, till one night he felt himself awakened from a mighty sleep, and before him stood the well-known spirit, whose body he had buried. He told him what had happened to him, brought him back to life, and said: ‘To-morrow is the princess’s wedding; hasten, therefore, to the castle without a moment’s delay; she will recognise you; the archer, too, who killed you treacherously, will recognise you.’ The young man sprang up promptly, went to the castle with throbbing heart, and entered the grand saloon, where numerous guests were eating and drinking. The beautiful princess recognised him at once, shrieked with joy, and fainted; and the assassin-archer, the moment he set eyes on him, turned pale and green from fear. Then the young man related the treason and murderous act of the archer, and in order to prove his words, turned himself in presence of all the assembled company into a graceful deer, and began to fawn upon the princess. She placed the tuft of fur pulled off him in the castle on the back of the deer, and the fur immediately grew into its place. Again he transformed himself into a hare, and similarly the piece of fur pulled off, which the princess had kept, grew into its place immediately on contact. All looked on in astonishment till the young man changed himself into a crow. The princess brought out the feathers which she had pulled from its wings in the castle, and the feathers immediately grew into their places. Then the old king commanded the assassin-archer to be put to death. Four horses were led out, all wild and unbroken. He was bound to them by his hands and feet, the horses were started off by the whip, and at one bound they tore the assassin-archer to pieces. The young man obtained the hand of the young and charming princess. The whole castle was in a brilliant blaze of light, they drank, they ate with mirth; and the princess did not weep, for she possessed the husband that she wished for.


Jenny Von Westphalen

I have always maintained that every poet is a revolutionary, but not every revolutionary is a poet… Here you will find, that one man was both. His works resound through time, and though some may discount him, he changed the world out of his sense of love and concern for others. He lived a passionate life, and yet his greatest passion was his life companion and wife. This is dedicated to his wild love, Jenny Von Westphalen, who loved him, and cherished him, following him across Europe as he changed the world…


The Poetry of Karl Marx…

The Pale Maiden

A Ballad

The maiden stands so pale,

So silent, withdrawn,

Her sweet angelic soul

Is misery-torn.

Therein can shine no ray,

The waves tumble over;

There, love and pain both play,

Each cheating the other.

Gentle was she, demure,

Devoted to Heaven,

An image ever pure

The Graces had woven.

Then came a noble knight,

A grand charger he rode;

And in his eyes so bright

A sea of love flowed.

Love smote deep in her breast,

But he galloped away,

For battle-triumph athirst;

Naught made him stay.

All peace of mind is flown,

The Heavens have sunk.

The heart, now sorrow’s throne,

Is yearning-drunk.

And when the day is past,

She kneels on the floor,

Before the holy Christ

A-praying once more.

But then upon that form

Another encroaches,

To take her heart by storm,

‘Gainst her self reproaches.

“To me your love is given

For Time unending.

To show your soul to Heaven

Is merely pretending.”

She trembles in her terror

Icy and stark,

She rushes out in horror,

Into the dark.

She wrings her lily-white hands,

The tear-drops start.

“Thus fire the bosom brands

And longing, the heart.

“Thus Heaven I’ve forfeited,

I know it full well.

My soul, once true to God,

Is chosen for Hell.

He was so tall, alas,

Of stature divine.

His eyes so fathomless,

So noble, so fine.

“He never bestowed on me

His glances at all;

Lets me pine hopelessly

Till the end of the Soul.

“Another his arm may press,

May share his pleasure;

Unwitting, he gives me distress

Beyond all measure.

“With my soul willingly,

With my hopes I’d part,

Would he but look towards me

And open his heart.

“How cold must the Heavens be

Where he doesn’t shine,

A land full of misery

And burning with pain.

“But here the surging flood

May deliver me, cooling

The hot fire of heart’s blood,

The bosom’s feeling.”

She leaps with all her might

Into the spray.

Into the cold dark night

She’s carried away.

Her heart, that burning brand,

Is quenched forever;

Her look, that luminous land,

Is clouded over.

Her lips, so sweet and tender,

Are pale and colourless;

Her form, aethereal, slender,

Drifts into nothingness.

And not a withered leaf

Falls from the bough;

Heaven and Earth are deaf,

Won’t wake her now.

By mountain, valley, on

The quiet waves race,

To dash her skeleton

On a rocky place.

The Knight so tall and proud

Embraces his new love,

The cithern sings about

The joys of True Love!


Sonnets to Jenny


Take all, take all these songs from me

That Love at your feet humbly lays,

Where, in the Lyre’s full melody,

Soul freely nears in shining rays.

Oh! if Song’s echo potent be

To stir to longing with sweet lays,

To make the pulse throb passionately

That your proud heart sublimely sways,

Then shall I witness from afar

How Victory bears you light along,

Then shall I fight, more bold by far,

Then shall my music soar the higher;

Transformed, more free shall ring my song,

And in sweet woe shall weep my Lyre.


To me, no Fame terrestrial

That travels far through land and nation

To hold them thrillingly in thrall

With its far-flung reverberation

Is worth your eyes, when shining full,

Your heart, when warm with exultation,

Or two deep-welling tears that fall,

Wrung from your eyes by song’s emotion.

Gladly I’d breathe my Soul away

In the Lyre’s deep melodious sighs,

And would a very Master die,

Could I the exalted goal attain,

Could I but win the fairest prize —

To soothe in you both joy and pain.


Ah! Now these pages forth may fly,

Approach you, trembling, once again,

My spirits lowered utterly

By foolish fears and parting’s pain.

My self-deluding fancies stray

Along the boldest paths in vain;

I cannot win what is most High,

And soon no more hope shall remain.

When I return from distant places

To that dear home, filled with desire,

A spouse holds you in his embraces,

And clasps you proudly, Fairest One.

Then o’er me rolls the lightning’s fire

Of misery and oblivion.


Forgive that, boldly risking scorn

The Soul’s deep yearning to confess,

The singer’s lips must hotly burn

To waft the flames of his distress.

Can I against myself then turn

And lose myself, dumb, comfortless,

The very name of singer spurn,

Not love you, having seen your face?

So high the Soul’s illusions aspire,

O’er me you stand magnificent;

’tis but your tears that I desire,

And that my songs you only enjoyed

To lend them grace and ornament;

Then may they flee into the Void!


The Awakening


When your beaming eye breaks

Enraptured and trembling,

Like straying string music

That brooded, that slumbered,

Bound to the lyre,

Up through the veil

Of holiest night,

Then from above glitter

Eternal stars

Lovingly inwards.


Trembling, you sink

With heaving breast,

You see unending

Eternal worlds

Above you, below you,

Unattainable, endless,

Floating in dance-trains

Of restless eternity;

An atom, you fall

Through the Universe.


Your awakening

Is an endless rising,

Your rising

An endless falling.


When the rippling flame

Of your soul strikes

In its own depths,

Back into the breast,

There emerges unbounded,

Uplifted by spirits,

Borne by sweet-swelling

Magical tones,

The secret of soul

Rising out of the soul’s

Daemonic abyss.


Your sinking down

Is an endless rising,

Your endless rising

Is with trembling lips-

The Aether-reddened,

Flaming, eternal

Lovekiss of the Godhead.


The Entry for Karl…

Discover more from

Subscribe now to keep reading and get access to the full archive.

Continue reading