Freedom to Think

Childhood's End



Powered all by dearth of wounds

the hearth grows coals glowed ember.

Disparate paths from childhood's leave

like leaves fall each November.

Man steps out one to make two

even Adolf marries you know who.

Veiled in threat we seek the joy

that in children is but a rightful toy.


Nurture nature and repel all borders

spoonfuls of chaos with ancient orders.

Growing so old riding tools well drilled

though some don't work quite as billed.

Yesterday, tomorrow, today, mixed and fertile

prompting reaction from your own personal reptile.


Whistling a tune learned at age two

tis a simple melody well fitted to you.

And me and them and all you meet

the whistling is the same, just you change seat.


How does that wisdom deal and dole out the day?

How does mind window what you may say?

How does your lizard walk you on your way?

How do your hopes meet your needs when you pray?

Is love the stitching and binding you fear?

If that it is then behoove bring it near.


Time grows mature and the statutes are fading

fears tools and wisdoms just so much braiding.

Slanting sun in a western sky

distant herding buffalo inching by.

Don't say farewell

without learning this verse.

Don't doubt your life

start now, don't rehearse...


David Jackman, yawning, stretching, and waking up

Tis just my thinking

Journeys of Jackman ..The wanderings, musings, learning and thoughts from one man who woke up


I guess this is my Ode to the age old achronym W.I.G.O. What Is Going On?

Kubla Khan

By Samuel Taylor Coleridge


In Xanadu did Kubla Khan

A stately pleasure-dome decree:

Where Alph, the sacred river, ran

Through caverns measureless to man

Down to a sunless sea.

So twice five miles of fertile ground

With walls and towers were girdled round;

And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,

Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;

And here were forests ancient as the hills,

Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.


But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted

Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!

A savage place! as holy and enchanted

As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted

By woman wailing for her demon-lover!

And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,

As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,

A mighty fountain momently was forced:

Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst

Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,

Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher’s flail:

And mid these dancing rocks at once and ever

It flung up momently the sacred river.

Five miles meandering with a mazy motion

Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,

Then reached the caverns measureless to man,

And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean;

And ’mid this tumult Kubla heard from far

Ancestral voices prophesying war!

The shadow of the dome of pleasure

Floated midway on the waves;

Where was heard the mingled measure

From the fountain and the caves.

It was a miracle of rare device,

A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!


A damsel with a dulcimer

In a vision once I saw:

It was an Abyssinian maid

And on her dulcimer she played,

Singing of Mount Abora.

Could I revive within me

Her symphony and song,

To such a deep delight ’twould win me,

That with music loud and long,

I would build that dome in air,

That sunny dome! those caves of ice!

And all who heard should see them there,

And all should cry, Beware! Beware!

His flashing eyes, his floating hair!

Weave a circle round him thrice,

And close your eyes with holy dread

For he on honey-dew hath fed,

And drunk the milk of Paradise

I am uncertain when I first read Samuel Taylor Coleridge's opium dream to Genghis Khan's grandson's summer palace at Xanadu, but tis a real poem and here to remind me of my humility as I learn. I can still feel the thrill and mystery and alien touch of frightening depth in the language and utter majesty