Imagination on a Magic Moonlight Night

As a young lad, I grew up on a farm in rural southern Michigan. Our farmhouse stood on the north side of a country road. We lived in that house from the time I was five years old until the summer I turned fifteen. During those childhood and early teen years, my brother and I shared a bedroom in the southwest part of the upstairs of that house. I still remember the Davy Crockett wallpaper that was on the walls of that room.

Our bedroom had a window which faced south, and out of which we could look across the road to the neighbor's fields. The general geographic nature of those fields was the long ridge of a hill about 100 yards or so off of the road, and running more or less parallel to the road. Along the top of that ridge was a fence row. It was the fence row that provided the stage for the magic that I saw there, and of which I now share with you.

The other necessary ingredient of the magic I wish to speak of, was those clear nights, preferably during the time from late spring to early fall when the window would be open, when the moon was full or nearly so; those nights when the moonlight shines so bright that things stand out quite clearly, especially in open spaces such as our neighbor's fields.

On those magical nights I would lay in my bed and look out the window across to the ridge where I would see the magic happen. It was on those nights when a low solitary tree in the fence row on the ridge of that hill would magically come alive; the moonlight bringing it alive as its outline could be clearly seen against the backdrop of the night sky behind it.

I would look out the window and gaze at the image of the outline of that low tree up on the far hill. In its shape I saw an Arab riding over the crest of the hill on his magnificent Arabian horse; Lawrence of Arabia riding across the desert sands.

Another image that would sometimes come to mind is that of the tragic highwayman riding across the English countryside.

And still of a winter’s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding—
Riding—riding—
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

In the course of life's changes, we moved from that house. Though the hill with its ridge is still where it always has been, the fence row and that solitary low tree are long gone. Those nights when I looked out that window and watched the magic of the moonlight on the ridge are a lifetime ago, but still cherished and not forgotten.

The Work of Writing

The Work of Writing

Anyone who has ever tried to do serious writing knows it is not easy. I've had occasion to reflect on that truth in the past few weeks as I have sat at the laptop, working on a couple of stories.

If I have a serious hobby at all, it is writing. At one point in my life I entertained the idea of writing the next great American novel. In assessing my desire to write, I came to a point where I realized that if I was to ever do any good writing, I needed to practice. I needed to sit down and write. I still have the notebook containing the pages pounded out out on the old mechanical typewriter that had been in my possession since high school days. Then came the PC, and now the laptop.

I remember someone saying that if you wanted to write, write about the things you know; the things that come from your own life experiences. So it is I have written a number of short memoirs; recalling incidents and happenings from my life. I have tried my hand at poetry and on the left of this page you will find a link to my poetry blog. I've also written a few more lengthy essay type pieces which are found here on the Billy Goat Blog. And yes, blogging itself provides opportunity for practicing the art of writing.

None of what I have written has ever been formally published, but has been self-published in some forum or other on the internet. Irrational as it may be, my greatest fear is the fear of what some editor might do to the things I have written. The stories, essays, and poetry are my life, the revelation of some intimate corners of my soul, and as such are sacred ground.

There have been only a few times that I have tried my hand at writing an original fiction piece. The two projects in the works at this time are both fictional. My inspiration for trying my hand at fiction came about a year or so go when I re-read Ray Bradbury's "I Sing the Body Electric and Other Stories" along with "The Martian Chronicles".

Through his writings, Bradbury taught me that what makes fiction work is in how it pictures the human condition. What made his stories memorable were not the mechanics of projecting the advanced science of science fiction, as interesting as that may be, but the human condition that remained the same in Sci-Fi, historical novels, or any other kind of genre, fictional or real life.

And so I write. I wrestle with words and sentence structure and paragraphing. You struggle with writing in a way so that the story the reader is reading is the story you are telling. You go over what you wrote, asking yourself if a first time reader is getting the same message you think you are telling. It is classic communications class 101 all over again. Life demands its priorities. You have to work a paying job, and there are family responsibilities, and the opportunities to spend any lengthy time on a writing project is limited.

As a writer, I do not "make up" a story. A writer does not create the story; the writer tells the story that he or she discovers is already there. It is not always clear how the story is going to develop. The basic story line is there, but as you fill in the details, you find the development is not going where you thought it was.

Other stories intersect the story you are telling. The one story I am working on could lend itself to a trilogy, but I'm not sure it has been given to me to tell the other two intersecting stories.

In writing, one story develops in a relatively straight forward somewhat logical manner. The other story develops in bits and pieces that are not in any logical chronological order.

How many times through the years I have thought about writing, and than sat down to read a favorite established author, and conclude that in comparison to that author I don't know how to write at all.

But I keep practicing. I keep writing. And if any of my writing is ever formally published or not, I would still write. I would tell the stories, and leave them for my children's children.

I do not want to write for the "Christian market". If I can't write a story that touches all kinds of people, Christian or otherwise, I would rather not write at all. Yes, a Christian view of life gives philosophical foundation for my writing, but I loathe and resist a pop Christian cultural concept of Christian writing. I resist being bound to that mediocrity. True Christian writing should be much, much better then that.

So I write, and as long as I am able, will continue to write. And just maybe, God helping me, I might possibly write something that actually has some literary value for the ages.

Shalom...

(Here is a link to a list of my writings that are published on Scribd. )

Images of War: The Fall of Troy

We rush to no uncertain death, and hold
Our way into the city's midst. Black night
Hovers around us with her hollow shade.
Who can describe the carnage of that night?
Down falls the ancient city, having ruled
So many years: and everywhere struck down
Lay many an unresisting corpse along
The streets and through the houses, and beside
The sacred thresholds of the deities.
Not only do the Trojans suffer death.
Courage returns even to our vanquished hearts,
And in their turn the conquering Greeks are slain.
And everywhere are the sounds of bitter grief,
And terror everywhere, and shapes of death.

~ The Aeneid, Book 2, Virgil

This Candle...

"This candle too gives little light,
And does not make the darkness bright.
But keep it lit and you will find:
Far better this than being blind.
One little flame when all is night,
Proves there is such a thing as light.
One answered prayer when all is gone,
Will give you hope to wait for dawn."

~ John Piper "Job"

Christus Apollo (Excerpt)

In some far universal Deep
Did He tred Space
And visit worlds beyond our blood-warm dreaming?
Did He come down on lonely shore by sea
Not unlike Galilee
And are there Mangers on far worlds that know His light?
And Virgins?
Sweet pronouncements?
Annumciations? Visitations from angelic hosts?
nd, shivring vast light among ten billion lights,
Was there some Star much like the star at Bethlehem
That struck the sight with awe and revelation
Upon a cold and most strange morn?

On worlds gone wandering and lost from this
Did Wise Men gather in the dawn
In cloudy steams of Beast
Within a place of straw now quickened to a Shrine
To look upon a stranger Child than ours?

How many stars of Bethlehem burnt bright
Beyond Orion or Centauri's arc?
How many miracles of birth all innocent
Have blessed those worlds?

Excerpt from "Christus Apollo", I Sing The Body Electric by Ray Bradbury (1969)

"No One Else"

I look for you in the middle of the night
Savior and guardian of my soul
From highest heaven You hear my call
And in my trouble You comfort and hold me
I long for You when I cannot hear Your voice
And my heart is dry as the dust
Oh Lord, be near me if I should fall
And show me how to believe and to trust
You alone

There is no one else beside you
In the darkest night
In the wilderness
There is no one else beside you
At Your feet I cry
In Your arms I rest

I hope in You and Your promise to return
With angels and dark clouds of thunder
When death and evil and sorrow flee away
And all creation will bow and proclaim
You alone

There is no one else beside You
You will fill the sky
When You come again
There is no one else beside You
Heaven's only light
Burning without end

Fernando Ortega

It was about ten years ago. I was driving down the road and in a fit of frustration turned the radio dial to one of the local Christian radio stations. This song was playing. It was a time when we were in the midst of dealing with some very serious matters at the church we were then attending. It was in the midst of all the questioning, seeking, frustration, and burden of that situation, this song came into my life.

As I listened, I was practically in tears. Whatever happened, there would always be hope; hope in God and His promises alone. In the end He alone was all that mattered; no one else and nothing else but Him alone... "No One Else.."

~ The Billy Goat ~

Sheer Joy

We will race through the streets of gold,
Running for the sheer joy and delight.
We will romp and play in the meadows of grass in the garden of God,
Playing tag among the trees of life by the river of the water of life.
We will laugh for joy, being little children once again;
Un-wearied in our play.

Quiet times there will be too.
Just sitting and contemplating the glory of all,
Communing in soul and spirit
With looks of the heart, understanding one another
In perfect peace and communion.

In seeing our delight and joy,
Our peace and happiness,
His smile will be upon us;
We, His children in whom He delights and joys.
We will love Him perfectly with heart and soul,
And the imperfect love we have here for one another
Will be perfected there forever;
A joy unspeakable and full of glory.

( May 13, 2000, copyright (c) May 2000 all rights reserved.)

Ghosts

They haunt the edges of memory;
Images floating through the mind,
Far back from long ago.
Some no longer breath.
If others do,
I do not know.

They lived and breathed
In my life at one time;
Passing acquaintances,
For a brief or longer moment
Our lives were once in-twined.

Then our separate ways we went,
By death or living providence;
Only memory to remain;
The ghosts of my life
Floating through my mind.

(Copyright © July 2009. All rights reserved.)

things unpublished

I had published a poem here, but for several different reasons was not comfortable about having exposed it for public reading. That's a little frustrating. I think it is a good poem, but there were some nuances that could to easily be misconstrued and twisted. For now this particular poem will remain unpublished...

Peace...

~ The Billy Goat ~

Rambling Words Upon A Page

[The following was a sort of "creative stream of consciousness" exercise. As such it is something of a departure from the normal run of things I post here.]

Words chasing words; following after one another, flying here and there seeking to make some meaning out of meaningless blather and bluster.
...............................

The death star shot its beam of destruction into the un-suspecting planet killing all, destroying all, leaving nothing but debris, rocks and boulders barren of life tumbling through space. In that blast, the gravitational balance of the star system was suddenly unhinged. The effect of that un-hinging rippled through the galaxy and beyond untill the whole universe was gyrating violently as it began to collapse in on itself, becoming a universal cosmic black hole. On the death star, the dark lord stood astonished and dismayed. He was still pondering the gravity of his mis-calculations as he watched his body disintegrating into the oblivion said mis-calculations had wrought.
.........................................

The goat stared coldly at the troll as it vaunted itself in its own pomposity astride the bridge. The cold stare reflected the steel resolve, determination and hatred the goat had towards the troll and all the troll stood for and all the evil the troll had done. The goat did not wait for the troll to advance. Head lowered, he launched into a deliberate and ferocious charge. The troll roared in anger. The goat paused not a whit, and in the force of the charge hit the troll square in the gut and with a up thrust of the head tossed the vile beast of a bully over the side of the bridge into the deep, swiftly flowing current below.
..........................................

The bugle sounded the call to arms over the vast bivouac of the dead. The earth trembled and shook as those who had long rested from the toil and fury of battle were roused to arms. Up they came from there resting places. Some in revolutionary dress quickly begen to fall into place behind the white wigged man astride the horse . Officers came riding up beside him and in one voice cried, "General Washington! Your orders Sir!.

And others came. Soldiers of the 1812, and the Mexican War. The Blue with Grant at their head, and the Gray behind General Lee. Grant and Lee rode up together, side by side and cried, “General Washington Sir! What are your orders Sir?” Pershing came with the doughboys of 1918 out of the stillness of Flanders Field and the Argonne Forest. Marines from the Pacific theater of WW2, Army units roused from their sleep near Normandy's beach. All assembled.

Washington then drew his sword. With that sword he pointed to the enemy swarming down over the land. As one, all the mass of the Brigades of the Dead moved into battle array and formation. The color bearer came to the front holding aloft the Stars and Stripes at which sight all in the Army of the Dead found tears swelling in their eyes; tears quickly replaced by steel determination and cold resolve.

General Washington, with Grant and Lee and all the other Generals of all the other wars beside him, lifted his sword aloft once more. Then with a sweep of his arm, he again pointed and the charge began.
....................................

"Yes, my son?"... "No. Now is not the time."... "Patience my son. The time will come soon enough... Patience" .... "Watch and listen... When it comes, you will know."
.................................

Words swirl and spiral. Whisking about were 'er they will...... What do you mean by this word "word"? What story doth this word "word" tell?
..................................

The barren wilderness stretched out before him, stark, dry, and seemingly lifeless. He knew better of course. Life was there, and could be found if you knew where and how to look. But you would only find it if you treated the land with respect. You must pay attention, be observant, and think clearly. He knew that more then a few men had perished in this place. Even if he was careful and observant and was able to keep thinking coherently, the odds were not exactly in his favor, but there was a chance, and that chance was better then the alternative. He looked about getting his bearings. Fixing his eyes on a distant landmark, he set out...
................................................

Where will the words go? Oh where, Oh where will they go? Words! Words! Flighty as birds, Oh where, Oh where will they go? In the ear and out. In the eye and about. Hither there, everywhere, Oh where will the words go?

Copywrite © 2009. All rights reserved.

The Bridge

To where do the bridges go?
The ones in my dreams
That arc high into the sky
To a far off place I can see
Only indistinctly,
But a place that beckons to me.

When I go on those bridges,
Up those high arcs
That defy design.
Only so far can I go.
Vision fades. I awake.
What is over there
I do not know,
But in those dreams
To that place I must go.
To where do the bridges go?

© Oct. 3, A.D. 2008

The Story

 

Creation

In the beginning all was well
With the world new and fresh.
Unspoiled by death’s rot,
Untainted by evil’s breath.

Harmony in all creation
Dwelling in peace and joy
Existing in praise and song
And holy adoration.


Fall

Pride the first sin
Of the fallen arch-angel,
With hate and malice he brings
Into this perfect creation.

Fatal choice our parents make,
Those created in His image.
Now death shadows the earth.
Death infects their lineage.


Redemption

Early promise made;
A proto-evangel.
A bitten heel;
A crushed head;
A promise of redemption.

A perfect Lamb of God;
A sacrifice for sinners..
A cross, an empty tomb,
Resurrection and ascension.


Consummation

Seven seals
Seven trumpets,
Seven vials of wrath.
Vengeance is Mine says the Lord.
Judgment comes at last.

A New Heavens;
A New Earth;
A New creation singing.
Tears are wiped away;
Joy is everlasting.

 

(Revised September 27, AD 2008)

Theology Constrained

How can we fully know You?
Though what we know is truth,
Being glimpses You let us see of You.
Beyond our finite measure,
Unbound by feeble mind of man,
Reasoning and logic fail
The whole of You to unveil.

In eternal glory
When freed from curse and sin,
We finite still will be
In light of Your infinity,
As we bow in humility
With reverent awe and love.

Now dimly through a glass we see,
One day we’ll see more perfectly,
Yet in all of eternity
We’ll never fathom all of Thee
For You alone are God.

Copyright © March 10, AD 2003,
All rights reserved.

` The Billy Goat ~