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A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall

“A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall”

Oh, where have you been, my blue-eyed son ?
And where have you been my darling young one ?
I’ve stumbled on the side of twelve misty mountains
I’ve walked and I’ve crawled on six crooked highways
I’ve stepped in the middle of seven sad forests
I’ve been out in front of a dozen dead oceans
I’ve been ten thousand miles in the mouth of a graveyard
And it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard, and it’s a hard
It’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall.

Oh, what did you see, my blue eyed son ?
And what did you see, my darling young one ?
I saw a newborn baby with wild wolves all around it
I saw a highway of diamonds with nobody on it
I saw a black branch with blood that kept drippin’
I saw a room full of men with their hammers a-bleedin’
I saw a white ladder all covered with water
I saw ten thousand takers whose tongues were all broken
I saw guns and sharp swords in the hands of young children
And it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard, and it’s a hard
It’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall.

And what did you hear, my blue-eyed son ?
And what did you hear, my darling young one ?
I heard the sound of a thunder, it roared out a warnin’
I heard the roar of a wave that could drown the whole world
I heard one hundred drummers whose hands were a-blazin’
I heard ten thousand whisperin’ and nobody listenin’
I heard one person starve, I heard many people laughin’
Heard the song of a poet who died in the gutter
Heard the sound of a clown who cried in the alley
And it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard
And it’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall.

Oh, who did you meet my blue-eyed son ?
Who did you meet, my darling young one ?
I met a young child beside a dead pony
I met a white man who walked a black dog
I met a young woman whose body was burning
I met a young girl, she gave me a rainbow
I met one man who was wounded in love
I met another man who was wounded and hatred
And it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard
And it’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall.

And what’ll you do now, my blue-eyed son ?
And what’ll you do now my darling young one ?
I’m a-goin’ back out ‘fore the rain starts a-fallin’
I’ll walk to the deepths of the deepest black forest
Where the people are a many and their hands are all empty
Where the pellets of poison are flooding their waters
Where the home in the valley meets the damp dirty prison
Where the executioner’s face is always well hidden
Where hunger is ugly, where souls are forgotten
Where black is the color, where none is the number
And I’ll tell and think it and speak it and breathe it
And reflect it from the mountain so all souls can see it
Then I’ll stand on the ocean until I start sinkin’
But I’ll know my songs well before I start singin’
And it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard, and it’s a hard
It’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall.

Bob Dylan

The Bitch is Back!

I rode my horse today. And for a little while, I forgot about GMO, political criminals, the pending police state, and the rising price of oil and food.

My horse and I have a bond. We are entwined when we go down the trail, and become as one going up mountains, over obstacles, and through trees. When I ride, my horse and I are temporarily in another world that doesn’t include anything but what is around the next bend in the trail.

While taking care of my elderly mom, I got lazy and didn’t ride. I sat around with her watching the tube and getting fat. When I did climb on my horse, my saddle didn’t fit and my balance was off. My horse really felt the added weight and was a bit sluggish. Well, Ma is gone now, and I have lost the weight. I had forgotten just how much my little trail excursions helped my mental state.

Today, it all came back. My horse and I took off from the ranch and climbed to the top of the mountain just to the south of my property. We had prepared for this by me lounging her for several minutes a few times per week. You see, my horse is an Arabian endurance horse. Arabians are a unique breed. Once they gain the musculature and stamina for endurance, it doesn’t take very much to get it back. When we came to Oregon, she was in tip-top shape, able to leap tall mountains in a single bound. Well, practically. I was too. Ten years took their toll, and both my horse and I got fat. Since then, we both went on a diet and exercise regime, and now we can see the light at the end of the tunnel. We are “one” once again. As a result, my balance is back, my focus is clearer, and my stress level is down.

I thank the Almighty for this outlet. I believe everyone needs something to lift him/her out of the cold hard reality of the present world situation into another place that suspends the here and now, and propels him/her into the “what can be” realm. Without some form of outlet, there is a good possibility that one can go mad. At least that is how I feel. I didn’t realize just how much I need my outlet until I regained it after a long period of abstinence. And now I can proudly proclaim, the Bitch is back! Thank you, Lord.

Barb

 

 

The Path to Perfection

Stevie the one-eyed goat - the best milker I ever had!

I was taking care of the animals the other day when this thought popped up in my head: “It is the imperfections that create the beauty in what we see.” Perfection is misunderstood to mean equal, or exactly the same. This could not be further from the truth. It is the imperfections that make the uniqueness in everything and everyone, thereby displaying the beauty of the individual. To be beautiful, the imperfections must do their work to carve out perfection in a unique manifestation.

So, if we are blindly following a “so called” path to perfection while disdaining anything imperfect, we are in fact, disdaining the very path by which perfection is attained. That is when we think we are on the “good path,” which only leads to destruction.

We just don’t get it. Instead of embracing the imperfect and realizing its value, we try to eradicate it and replace it with things like genetically modified organisms, and wonder why the destruction is so complete; but that’s another story…

Barb

With the Stroke of a Pen

HopeBy Barbara H. Peterson

With the stroke of a pen, nations are formed, and with the stroke of a pen, they are destroyed. With the stroke of a pen, ideas are also given birth, and hope reborn.

With the stroke of a pen, our nation was formed, and with the stroke of a pen, it was torn apart. With the stroke of a pen, I lift my voice to the heavens to cry out in rage! I rage against the unabated greed of a people gone mad with lust for material possessions, comfort, and wealth. I rage against the death of a world enslaved by greed with the shackles of moral depravity and apathy.

All the material wealth in the world will not cover the poverty of soul that lies deep in the hearts of the foolish who count on their hordes of gold to protect them. Material wealth is fleeting. It can disappear in the blink of an eye, and when it goes, what is left – anything? For those whose only goal in life is one acquisition after another, there is nothing left. For those who place their faith in a life beyond what can be seen and felt, there is hope. When all turns to dust, the only survivors will be those clinging to what cannot be seen or felt.

Those who barricade themselves behind walls of wealth will not survive; their barricades will turn to dust. Those who cling to the hope that there is something more to life – something other than their possessions – will survive. With the stroke of a pen, wealth is created and lost, but hope is eternal. In a world consumed by greed, hope rises from the ashes like a beacon.

I choose to use my stroke of the pen to expose the poverty of material wealth and greed for what it is, and offer a message of hope. It is only a matter of time before the world pukes out this corruption in its belly. This disease is so deep within the bowels of humanity that the world as we know it cannot survive. It is erupting in open sores throughout the world in the form of endless war, torture, perversion, hatred, and fear. These are symptoms of a disease so far gone that the only relief from the agony is death.

So, I lift my pen in rage against a dying world consumed by greed – not to destroy hope, but to offer it. Like the birds that live by taking shelter where they find it, we can survive the coming crisis. We can search within to find the strength to carry on after the world as we know it no longer exists. There is more to life than what we see, feel, and hear. There has to be because if there isn’t, then life has no meaning, and if life has no meaning, we are merely dumb brutes clawing our way through time devoid of consciousness.

Therefore, I lift the banner of hope reborn out of the ashes of a world destroyed by the disease of greed, and lay claim to life after death – without malice or treachery. Here’s to a new beginning.

Copyright 2007, Barbara H. Peterson

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