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Emily’s Tale, A Folk Tale for the Soul:

Emily is the fair Princess of Sha’la who one day finds herself tightly bound by her ever-lengthening, multi-colored tail. Along with Duchess Vanity and Duke Self-Love, Emily embarks on a journey of awakening, of deceit and betrayal, of right understanding, and ultimately, the transformation of her spirit. Written by Buzz Williams and illustrate with the beautifully detailed drawings of Clara Urbahn, it is a story for the Seekers of Truth, both young and old. Copies of Emily's Tale are available to purchase for $25.

Emily’s Tale, Paperback Workbook:

A pocket size paperback edition of "Emily's Tale", designed for use in workgroups. The workbook is available for $6.



TerminalBoogieBookCover1Terminal Boogie (Excerpt):

I can’t play the guitar in a chair with arms. I can play the guitar in a chair with one arm, though it depends on how I sit. I wasn’t sitting in a chair at all. I was on the floor down by the dog food and this big water bowl. I say water bowl but actually it was more like a tub. The dog food was strewn around, centered mostly on the cookie pan. I’m pretty sure that’s what it was. Tin, with crusty black stuff around the edges that had to have been baked on there somehow. But I couldn’t swear to it.

I’m sitting there on the floor in the kitchen of this house I’ve never been in before.

I don’t actually have my guitar with me. It’s outside locked in the front of my truck along with a spare pint and a six pack of long-neck Budweisers. Actually five Buds because I have one of them hanging out of the hand that’s resting on my knee. The right knee. The left knee is holding up my left elbow which is down stream, so to speak from the cigarette in the fingers on the hand that’s not occupied by the beer.

People are swirling around, ebb-tiding from room to room. Some of them close enough to crunch clots of Purina Dog Chow. I’m wondering about this dog. Dog, as in one dog or are there several? What kind of dog gets fed like this, with a wash tub for a water bowl.

A mystical looking brunette floats up and I ask her about the dog food and the wash tub. “What kind of dog does this guy have?” I ask her, gazing at the general area of her lone-star belt buckle. “Dogs,” she laughs and says, “There ain’t no dogs here, that there’s for the coons.” “Coons,” I say, a little bit worried, but not minding that she sees it on me. “Coons,” I call out to her retreating back side. “How big and how many?” “Big,” she says and laughing she disappears.

Woa, I think. Let’s see if you can get up I ask myself encouragingly. I brace my feet against the linoleum and ease my back up the wall little by little. Big coons I’m thinking. Big coons and who knows how many. I don’t care ‘cause I’m out of here. Don’t want to get caught between hungry raccoons and a half gone bag of Red Checked Purina Dog Chow.


Guitar Music

Lay down, flaming angel,
This earthly coffin, formed of wood
Cries desire-
and a red scarf flutters
in accord.

Sparks and ash in hot swarms
speak of sex
and august.

Angry riotous jazz demands
the skin’s compliance
in this sloppy humid work.

Peel back this tree
and a guitar is crafted
in the lord sun’s pain.

Tears from streaming eyes
cool me,
cool me.

Volcano’s sputter and
I wonder where I’ve been.

Lay down, flaming angel,

And carry me home.


If I could freeze you in time
I would have you safe, away
up north, a great blue block of ice
barricaded from me by strong winds
and ocean currents tasting of
the Bering sea.
And I would keep you there- away,
if I could freeze you in time;

But you would overcome my wish
and move sliding down
the life blood
tropical side of my being-

And without a thought, pour down
hail stones around me
and fill my nights sky
with rolling thunder.

So I will not freeze you in time
Rather my small sorrows than
swarms of fire
from some vicious
summer storm

February 14

Hands, dipped in magic
dripping love and slippery light

Pan, pantheistic Piper.
Song singer
Cloven foot - cleft lip
A sniff and a lick
Through the ferns
and gone

With hands dipped in magic,
dripping love and slippery light..

The Lesson

It was usually on the steps of his front stoop. I’d catch a bus down to Dupont circle then walk off on one of the spokes that spun out into the maze. It’s a narrow street, 1965, like Africa and the deep south. Lawn chairs and soft drink cases sit on their ends. Old people with ankles hanging over the tops of their shoes and skinny men with dangerous mustaches. Children on bicycles and teenagers standing solid in the middle of the sidewalk.

It’s midafternoon and I’m strolling along grinning like a possum trying to avoid incontinence. A fool, cool at all costs.

I’ve got a guitar in a hard case in my left hand. In my right is a bottle of Jack Daniels that I’ve gripped by the neck. I’m on my way to see Ed Morris. His buddies call him smilin’ Ed but that’s because he hardly ever does.

He’s married to a red-headed white woman, a socialist I’m lead to believe. I’m not sure either one of us knows what he means by that. Anyway, once in a while this pale skinned red head appears and serves Ed and his cronies some ginger ale or root beer in a glass. Not me though.

Somehow, I’ve made it to the stoop again and friggin’ Ed’s little show begins.

“Sit down Bu,” he says. “You know Skeeter and Jackson,” and he introduces me to our audience for the tenth time in as many weeks.

Ed cackles and says, “this boy wants to play the blues” and they all break up, laughin and slapping each others legs.

“Hey now,” Ed says, “he’s got somethin’ in that bag there don’t he,” “What you go there Bu?”

“Why it’s brother Jack Daniels. Let me see Brother Jack there Bu. Look at this,” he sighs as he paws off the cap and has a taste. “Hm m m, Hm m m” and he smiles to himself. “Here Skeet,” he says and slings the thing to Skeeter who’s showing everybody all three teeth.

The bottle goes around and around but somehow it doesn’t get to me. Almost sometimes; but not quite.

“What you got in that box boy,” he says, knowing full well it’s my polished and shined-up, brand new beautiful Martin D-18. “Let me see that thing,” he says, and there goes my baby, my wife, my own true love, passed around hand to hand.

When they got done fiddling with her Ed says, “let me see now,” and he puts a thumb pick on his right hand. His left hand fools with the tuning pegs a little and a piece of glass bottle neck appears on his pinky.

“Let me see now,” he says, and wrapping his arm around my sweet girl he slips one long note down the neck of that guitar. He closes his eyes and moans a bit and the lesson begins.

Holy Night

The sky is full of holes, stars you see
Fiery hot spots
Where souls fall through
Blink your eye
There goes another

A flying swan, full of dreams
Goes to dust
While laughing gods
Betray their trust
And toothless gums
Soak black bread crusts

The sky is full of holes, stars you see
But it’s the fire beyond
For you and me.

The Young Widow's Lament

Go down, go down to the sea! Oh who said that? In ships- ships! Well, how else would they go down. I could go down myself- now, this moment. A spot in endless, endless time.

Old woman I scream out to the vicious foam, incessantly fingering its greasy touches upon the slippery rocks clustered in knife edged puzzles below my sopping feet.

Old green gray bitch with your toothless hunger, gumming and sucking away at my warm befuddled dream.

How dare you advance upon my life, then in cowardly track, withdraw to unfathomed depth. You salted, unslacked monster, how dare you leave me dry, now, and caught in this unbearable web you’ve thrown over me. Who gave you the right to take my life and leave me standing here in my cold quilts with my blue clawed hands clinched in futile fury.

Never, never sing to me again with your soft sands and drying deep green weeds that write the rhythms for armchair mariners. Never, never sing to me your lies that hide the bones of all the sweet boys, husbands you have clamped in your angry thighs.

I will drive nails in my ears before next I allow your sirens satisfaction into my misery. I will pierce my ears and I will read no more poetry and I will be buried alone in this good black dirt with this hot green sod laid down upon me and carved in stone over my head words that say, I will forever hate the sea.

Moon Child

Robert J. was sitting in his straight-backed chair over in the corner singing about rollin’ and tumbling. His hands were busy snapping at the steel stringed guitar he had perched on his boney knee. Little Sun was sucking air through his nasty harmonica and both of them were kicking scuff marks through the peanut shell and sawdust Big Richard throws down after sweeping out the joint every day around noon. Sometimes in the afternoon, depending on factors. Factors like occasional good luck with women like my mother or more often bad luck with the rot gut corn squeezings he sells behind his plank and barrel bar. Robert’s singing about hell hounds now, and Little Sun’s making his way through the crowd back toward me where I’ve been trying to stay out of sight. I knew it wasn’t going to work. I mean I knew one of them was going to see me flitting around just out of the light.

Little Sun’s nearly in range of saying something like, “hey little girl,” to me when he jerks kind’a quick to the side and he takes a step or two in my direction. Little steps though, stumbling maybe.

I notice his little steps and his shiny, lace up shoes at the same time it seems that I notice there are hands clapping like Sunday morning in the church choir. Hands clapping, sharp and loud; but I don’t hear any singing to go along with the hands clapping.

Little Sun is falling out to me like I’m a ladder and he’s going to find a way to climb right up out of this place. Using me I think, when I hear the clapping again and hot hornets are burning like fire snakes into my side.

Fire snakes are coming from Big Richard’s hand and Little Sun and I are going down, swimming in the sawdust and peanut shell sea.

I am down. I am down and I feel hornets burning and fire snakes are flying. Smoke and fire and ashes in Little Sun’s eyes and all over our lips and all down our cheeks.


My ancestors trickle down to me, speaking to me in my blood. “You are a man on this voyage, this journey to a world lined with footprints of your previous comings and goings.”

“Can you remember the agreement you made before you were born? Can you remember the pact you made with your creator for this time around?”

“We, the ancestors, were with you at that time and we are here with you now. So go forth in your life as you choose. Be in joy that your eyes open to the suns you’ve never seen until this day. Listen in ways that only you will ever understand. Speak that which moves through you to appear in this time, ancient in fresh surround.”

“Let us, your ancestors, live again in you and when we are rejoined, you will have brought to us all the wonder you could bear.”



Blow down the sky
And black limbs
lash the slippery backs
of rain sheets
Whirling, dervish dance


Cross the gray face
Twisted and created by
Quakers cruel contradictions
Whale killers-
God singers

Licking along the sand
Probing salted and burned bones
Of ancestral screams
to be cleaned
by the cat tongues
of winter winds

The Hanging Man

I am lead by druids to the tree.
I look for my master, my teacher among the group. I look in vain.
What am I doing here? My entire adorned mind screams in non-compliance. It’s too late, much too late to go back. I am led to this gold-leaved old oak tree. This lightning scarred tree, atop the knoll with God’s voyeuristic eye upon me and our small gathering.

I am led to the red-barked tree and put down on the ground upon my back.

The old priest and the girl who holds the stinking cup bend down to me and murmuring incantations, spit upon my forehead. The old man fastens talon clawed hands on my jaw and pries open my reluctant mouth. The girl sops putrid liquids, wrung from a clump of moss through my gaping lips. This yellow-eyed priest closes my mouth with his thumbs and I gag, swallow, gag again.

Fast now, someone has me feet and they are yanked apart. Rough braided rope is being wound around my ankles. Fingers are snatching knots of hair from my head, my beard, souvenirs plucked from the priestling. Good luck for the bearer if I live. Thrown to the swamp hogs if I die. Like me, like me.

A howling has begun behind my eyes. I am tossed into the air. I go up and I do not come down. I am thrown up into the air and I am bound in flight. I am howling behind my eyes and my tears stream away. Away down to where I was; but where I will never be again.


The afternoon storms
that rolled up the valley
had settled dust and
ushered in smoked mountain
Cracked rock cliffs softened
in the ultra purple star shroud
Aspens, silver and dangling
danced off in the darkening
A thousand miles away
sun flames drop into the abyss
somewhere the moon catches
its first born breath
and exhaling that breath
stirs new forms to life
Pearls and
damp unfoldings.