Suday Espresso…

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Sun/Tax day… perking up with a cuppa, to do the dirty deed. Why is it that 50% of all our taxes go to weapons and destruction and the other 50% seems to go to welfare for corporations? Notice I said seems.
About to embark on the tax thingy. Maybe in the best of worlds, I would be able to choose where my hard earned monies go? Hmmmmmm?
Tom & Cheryl Charlesworth visited for a bit on Saturday night (flying up from Sedona for Barista classes), they are opening up an Italian desert thingie in Sedona Arizona with their friend Pam who was along as well. Nice evening.
I hope this finds you well and happy. Sunny here in P-town. Check out Radio Free EarthRites… Playing some great stuff today!

On The Menu:

America On Parade Links:

Peters’ Picks: Nostalgia: the orb – little fluffy clouds

Two Koans

Poetry: Joaquin Miller

Americana On Parade Links:

Outsourced prayer lines confuse callers

Disturbing on so many levels…

FDA: ‘Cocaine’ drink marketed unlawfully

Is the Solar Field religious?

Lonesome Highway to Another World?

Peters’ Picks: Nostalgia: the orb – little fluffy clouds

Big Sur River…

Two Koans:

No Water, No Moon
When the nun Chiyono studied Zen under Bukko of Engaku she was unable to attain the fruits of meditation for a long time.
At last one moonlit night she was carrying water in an old pail bound with bamboo. The bamboo broke and the bottom fell out of the pail, and at that moment Chiyono was set free!
In commemoration, she wrote a poem:
In this way and that I tried to save the old pail

Since the bamboo strip was weakening and about

to break

Until at last the bottom fell out.

No more water in the pail!

No more moon in the water!

Real Prosperity
A rich man asked Sengai to write something for the continued prosperity of his family so that it might be treasured from generation to generation.
Sengai obtained a large sheet of paper and wrote: “Father dies, son dies, grandson dies.”
The rich man became angry. “I asked you to write something for the happiness of my family! Why do you make such a joke as this?”
“No joke is intended,” explained Sengai. “If before you yourself die you son should die, this would grieve you greatly. If your grandson should pass away before your son, both of you would be broken-hearted. If your family, generation after generation, passes away in the order I have named, it will be the natural course of life. I call this real prosperity.”

Poetry: Joaquin Miller (1841-1913)

Midnight Pencillings
I am sitting alone in the moonlight,

In the moonlight soft and clear,

And a thousand thoughts steal o’er me,

While penciling, sitting here;

And the cricket is chirping, a chirping

And sings as I sit alone,

In the tall willow grass around me,

In a low and plaintive tone.
But fancy goes flitting and flying,

And I cannot keep it here,

Though the crickets are singing so plaintive,

And the moon shines never so clear.

Away in the hazy future—

Afar by the foaming sea

I am painting a cot in my fancy—

A cottage, and “Minnie” and me.
Now fancy grows dim in the distance—

So dim in the long since past,

That I scarce can take the fair picture

Of the playmates I spotted with last.

But away in the western wildwood

In the woodland wild and wier,

I relive in fancy my childhood

And sigh that I’m sitting here.
Yet I know ’tis wrong to be sighing

And seeking a future too fair,

Or to call up old hopes that are lying

A wreck in the sea of despair;

I know that the present has pleasures

That I ought to enjoy and embrace,

Lest I sigh for these days that are passing

When the future has taken their place.
Yet, as I sit in the moonlit meadow,

With no voice but nature’s near,

Save the chirp and the chime of the cricket

Falling plaintively on the ear,

I cannot control my fancy,

My thoughts are so wayward and wild,

That I ever will dream of the future,

Or wish I again were a child.


Ah! there be souls none understand;

Like clouds, they cannot touch the land.

Unanchored ships, they blow and blow,

Sail to and fro, and then go down

In unknown seas that none shall know,

Without one ripple of renown.

Call these not fools, the test of worth

Is not the hold you have of earth.

Ay, there be gentlest souls sea-blown

That know not any harbor known.

Now it may be the reason is,

They touch on fairer shores than this.

In men whom men condemn as ill

I find so much of goodness still,

In men whom men pronounce divine

I find so much of sin and blot,

I do not dare to draw a line

Between the two, where God has not.

The moon resumed all heaven now,

She shepherded the stars below

Along her wide, white steeps of snow,

Nor stooped nor rested, where or how.

She bared her full white breast, she dared

The sun e’er show his face again.

She seemed to know no change, she kept

Carousal constantly, nor slept,

Nor turned aside a breath, nor spared

The fearful meaning, the mad pain,

The weary eyes, the poor dazed brain,

That came at last to feel, to see

The dread, dead touch of lunacy.

How loud the silence! Oh, how loud!

How more than beautiful the shroud

Of dead Light in the moon-mad north

When great torch-tipping stars stand forth

Above the black, slow-moving pall

As at some fearful funeral!

The moon blares as mad trumpets blare

To marshaled warriors long and loud;

The cobalt blue knows not a cloud,

But oh, beware that moon, beware

Her ghostly, graveyard, moon-mad stare!

Beware white silence more than white!

Beware the five-horned starry rune;

Beware the groaning gorge below;

Beware the wide, white world of snow,

Where trees hang white as hooded nun–

No thing not white, not one, not one!

But most beware that mad white moon.

All day, all day, all night, all night

Nay, nay, not yet or night or day.

Just whiteness, whiteness, ghastly white,

Made doubly white by that mad moon

And strange stars jangled out of tune!

At last, he saw, or seemed to see,

Above, beyond, another world.

Far up the ice-hung path there curled

A red-veined cloud, a canopy

That topt the fearful ice-built peak

That seemed to prop the very porch

Of God’s house; then, as if a torch

Burned fierce, there flushed a fiery streak,

A flush, a blush, on heaven’s cheek!

The dogs sat down, men sat the sled

And watched the flush, the blush of red.

The little wooly dogs, they knew,

Yet scarcely knew what they were about.

They thrust their noses up and out,

They drank the Light, what else to do?

Their little feet, so worn, so true,

Could scarcely keep quiet for delight.

They knew, they knew, how much they knew

The mighty breaking up of night!

Their bright eyes sparkled with such joy

That they at last should see loved Light!

The tandem sudden broke all rule;

Swung back, each leaping like a boy

Let loose from some dark, ugly school–

Leaped up and tried to lick his hand–

Stood up as happy children stand.

How tenderly God’s finger set

His crimson flower on that height

Above the battered walls of night!

A little space it flourished yet,

And then His angel, His first-born,

Burst through, as on that primal morn!
The Little Sur River emptying into the Pacific…


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