Tuesday, December 16, 2008


It has been 5 months since last I posted on here, and many things have occurred, I was unemployed, then I went to Mexico. Being unemployed was the least dramatic of these things, I became unemployed to come to Mexico, I have a job or two waiting for me if I come back, and go figure I would once again be employed by friends. Whilst in Mexico, I am officially unemployed, however, I employ my skills working with kids, and building friendships.
Since I have been down here I have had to say farewell to a dear friend, she left for the North, and I do not know when next I shall see her...(sniff, sniff, poor me-right). It is about such friendships that I desire to write, for friendship is not a rare thing for most people. Friendship, at least a true one, is a form of love, and this is disconcerting when one thinks about it, for how many guys will tell their friends they love them?
I believe that building a lasting friendship is much like gardening, it takes a lot of time, a lot of care, and needs to be tended often. If the tending is done in a spirit of love, the friendship will mature, if not it remains a stunted growth, mimicking what might have been. Though my dear friend has left, still will we tend to our friendship, for it has grown over the past and over the miles betwixt us, and I would not see it wither on the vine. Distance, whether temporal, or linear, cannot kill a friendship, if it is well tended.
But this is just my not so humble opinion, I suppose I could possibly in error, however unlikely.

Sunday, July 20, 2008

A Promise Kept

I thought I'd put out a story for y'all to read, I wrote it some time back, but its still as good now as it was then. Mayhap, for all of you in the humid heat of a Mexican winter, it'll cool you down.

The wind started with some warm air meeting some cold air over some stretch of ocean far to the north, building up its power it rushed into the mountains, whistling through empty canyons it tried to find a way out to the lands beyond. Smashing its way over rocky and snow capped peaks, it crossed the mountain ranges and came crashing down their eastern slopes. Having found the flatlands it sought, it came screaming across the plains venting its pent up rage, releasing its fury it howled like thousands of lost souls bemoaning their fate.
In the midst of the fury came a lone figure, a man, bent against the wind and the blowing snow, knowing he could turn back, he increased his pace against the screaming wind. He had his mind made up, and the wind was powerless to change his resolve. A promise was waiting to be fulfilled, and the honor he held so dear would not let him stop. The man knew he would be absolved if he turned back, but a warriors honor could not be regained by absolution ... he would keep his promise if he died trying.
A young woman, not more than twenty one winters, sat watching the blinding blizzard rage out side her window. Sat and watched, because she knew the man was out there even now. Her father sat in a chair across the room and watched his daughter, as the hours dragged on he watched her grow more and more distraught.
The man was still bent against the wind and blowing snow, and though he could not see much, he knew he had nearly reached his destination. Time seemed to slow, and each step seemed to take an eternity, twenty miles earlier he had begun to feel tired, now he was nearing total exhaustion. As the wind beat a tattoo in his ear he thought he could hear the marching drum, and hundreds of voices singing. Muttering under his breath he joined with his imaginary voices.
" The corp is marching two by two;
Hoorah, hoorah;
We'll all be dead, before we're through;
Hoorah, hoorah".
The young lady was now thoroughly anxious, and could be seen pacing back and forth, to and fro, this way and that like a caged wolf. If one looked carefully they may have seen tears welling up in her eyes, looking like they might come cascading forth at any time. Her father still watched her, and he knew she was worried sick, and if truth be known he was getting a little worried himself. He knew the man his daughter expected was now nearly ten hours overdue.
Half dead from exposure, and over exertion, the man staggered up to the house in which the young woman was waiting, and knocked upon the door. Only half a moment passed before it was opened by a young man, " let me take your coat", he said as the man nearly fell out of his winter gear. " She's in the basement, sick with worry", he replied to the mans unspoken query.
Raising a finger to his lips the man, weary as he was, quickly strode to the stairs and ambled down them. The young woman's father saw the man as he walked into the room, he opened his mouth to greet the man, but was cut off.
" Sorry I'm late, but I broke down 'bout twenny miles back, seems the entire city's shut down on account o' the storm. But ahm here today as ah said ah would be".
© Copyright 2008 Cavenagh (UN: princeniall at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.

Hope y'all enjoy it.

Thursday, June 26, 2008


I sit here scribing out my innermost thoughts, as the sky darkens into night, and a wild Alberta wind howls around the eaves, soon Luna shall rise and begin once more her eternal dance across the heavens, and I watch. It is beneath the glimmering silver of Luna that my best work forms, and letters lance across the page, like the lightning in the skies. However, at the time I scribble out these paltry words sol still burns balefully above, peeking now and then from behind the Nimbo Cumuli that darkens the day. Earlier the wind howled and screamed across the wastes, sure it nearly bowled me over, then came rains pelting with a berserker fury, and soon after it was still upon the land once more. I happened to think of how it is that the weather here is like life, whether it is tempest tossed, or gray and gloomy, or even bright and gay.
It is moments like these that I realize that the shaper of the heavens had a strange sense of humor, I watched as the tall grass rippled like waves upon the ocean sea, but when I looked at my feet, the appeared to be trying to reach out and grasp me, so greatly did they strive it near appeared to be the writhing of a great many serpents. But whether we are driven by the winds, like a rudderless vessel, or in some becalmed moment the weather here resembles life. Indeed life is humorous, if one takes the time to notice the humor within, much like the Alberta weather.

Friday, May 23, 2008


In Alberta the weather is oft times strange, this past week we have had temperatures that would make Mexicans sweat, and then three days of rain, which ended with some more hot weather. It is this variation that makes many Albertans seem strange, for as the weather changes so do the people's attitudes, indeed during the big hot more fights break out, and more interesting occurrences take place than one might otherwise expect. However, it is the breezes we get that bring on the strangest behavioral changes, for men have been driven mad by the incessant wailing of the wind, or by the tattoos it beats in their ears. Many stories and poems have been caused by this phenomena, here is another for your perusal. I wrote it many years ago, and go figure I didn't remember to apply it, it is semi autobiographical.

The Thought

The sun it burns down
baking this prairie dry
there ain't a cloud in the sky
and the grass is brown

Cattle graze while I ride
ruminating on who knows what
till the grass is short cut
and our brains are all fried

Shore it is not a wonder
an idea into my head came
tis the idea that is to blame
sure I decided to wander

I took up my pack and left
went off to the mountains
saw hills, valleys, an' fountains
even found a hidden cleft

In the rivers there, gold I sought
fished for trout in the streams
never found what I hunger for it seems
but I seen the bounty GOD hath wrought

Then a thought came into my brain
I know a bit of how to fight
perchance it was the blight
but the damned thought became my main

I drifted down to a northern city
for to take a hand at plyin' my trade
and it was a mercenaries life I bade
learned about war, mores the pity

For a decade I done fought
ten years I done survived
and into strife have I dived
and learnt the lessons I was taught

I seen the dark, and the evil
I seen the worst of man
I was there when the bravest ran
a setting quite primeval

Never found what I was lookin' for
bin all over, seen the worst, and best
seen armies, like waves, swell and crest
seen the fury of Hell, and blood on the floor

I think that next time the light goes on
I'll ignore the damned idea till it's gone
'cause I wish I could go back and begin again
I was happier on the range, prayin' for rain.

Tuesday, April 29, 2008

Being Alone

It has occurred to me that one of the biggest causes of depression is loneliness. Now I do not know if this is a fact, but I do know that being lonely is depressing, it's gotta be, I mean look at all the songs like this one about it: (words & music by Roy Turk and Lou Handman)Are you lonesome tonight,Do you miss me tonight? Are you sorry we drifted apart? Does your memory stray to a brighter sunny day When I kissed you and called you sweetheart? Do the chairs in your parlor seem empty and bare? Do you gaze at your doorstep and picture me there? Is your heart filled with pain, shall I come back again? Tell me dear, are you lonesome tonight? I wonder if you're lonesome tonight You know someone said that the worlds a stage And each must play a part.Fate had me playing in love you as my sweet heart.Act one was when we met, I loved you at first glance You read your line so cleverly and never missed a cue Then came act two, you seemed to change and you acted strange And why Ill never know.Honey, you lied when you said you loved me And I had no cause to doubt you.But Id rather go on hearing your lies Than go on living without you.Now the stage is bare and I'm standing there With emptiness all around And if you wont come back to me Then make them bring the curtain down.Is your heart filled with pain, shall I come back again? Tell me dear, are you lonesome tonight?
This particular song was made famous by Elvis Presley, but it says something about loneliness, something that rings a bell with all those out there who are alone.
It also occurs to me that even though weddings are supposed to be happy occasions, the people who are single might leave a little depressed. It would only be natural, as they came alone, and they see unknown years ahead alone. As I wrote in my book The Dance "a dance is never so lonely as when one goes alone", and this is true in the dance of life. I understand it only too well, as I am one of the loneliest people I know, for the aforementioned reason. Now I know that the religious folk will tell me that Christ is always with me so I needn't feel so lonely, but these individuals are usually married and thus have no idea what they are saying. A man, ( or woman ) needs someone they can touch, and see, and hold onto during the storms of life, even I need this, and people claim I am used to being alone. Loneliness is banished by love, love a corporeal being, not a deity, even in the good book it says " it is not good for man to be alone". If the bible says this it must be true, right?
The only real question is whom do I give my love to, ( not make love to ), for only the giving of love can dispel loneliness. But then I could be wrong, it is merely my opinion.

Sunday, April 27, 2008


For some years I worked in the protection industry, never did things get any better, only worse. Like many in my former line of work, I lost heart in what I was doing, and eventually left, but while I was out there standing in the breach I penned a few lines. Here are two more poems for your perusal:

The world lays dark
enshrouded by her silky veil
the snowy plains are a contrast stark
and winter ghosts visit from beyond the pale

I stand here on watch
as I have stood so often before
a sole sentinel against evil
and menace appears beyond a farthest shore
so I guard, by my commanders will

In camouflage are evil forces
appear not as foe, but friend
and God knows how deep the rot courses
it's the blade crossing your throat at the end

And I wonder, when will the sun rise
from the horizon do the rays creep
or is it my imagination, is it all lies
does my watch never end, can I never sleep

Battles fought, wars are won
peace a forgotten dream
or still like a moon beam
broken by waves on an ocean

No more, late in the night
do things unknown go bump
or falling, awake, with a thump
like from out the sky a kite

When a civilization falls
and civilian government fails
storms of ages sweep in gales
and breaks down societal walls

A doom foreseen, inevitable
fated, unavoidable, destiny
night falls darker than ebony
a Rover's life is considered stable

Barbarians in the walled city
soldiers on the walls
as the city falls
leave their post, spare no pity

Terror stalks the streets
when shadows fall
and nightmares do call
from the jaws of victory, snatched defeats

The city elders corrupted
like kings with no honor
the country is a goner
for gates opened by those corrupted
by treachery from within
when good is thought a sin

It is said that an author can only write well, about that which he knows, or sees. It truly is a shame that this is how I have seen the world, for if what I have seen is true, and not merely warped by my own point of view, then we are in deep trouble. It would seem that even level headed people can see things this way now, not merely the fanatics of a gone by age, ranting about the end being near.

Wednesday, April 23, 2008

Winter Weather

I, after spending three months plus in the warm climate of Mexico, had nearly forgotten how cold Canada can be. Much of western Canada is digging out from all the snow, and the blasted drifts, we have received in the past few days. It made me think, (and that is never a good sign), it could be worse ... This made me think of the worst winters I had survived, which brought about a new thought; It is interesting how many of us brag about the bad times. I mean we brag about how tough it was back when, the ten foot snow drifts, the blinding blizzards that lasted days, the coldest times we ever faced and survived.
This is an intriguing line of thought, as it should be the good times we remember best, but instead it is the worst. Or, perhaps, the worst is the best we can manage. In summer when the heat is upon us, people walk about heads down mumbling to themselves, or at the very least ignore the rest of the world. I have tried being friendly to strangers in the warm times, but it would seem that their hearts had a tinge of frost upon them, however, in the cold people get friendly. Not sure why that is.
It would make for an interesting socio-psychological study as to haw the weather affects peoples attitudes. Maybe it is the fact that in the winter we are made more equal, the rich and the poor alike slip on the icy sidewalks, and thus must pay more attention to the world about. It would only be in the summer that they could be aloof, pretending to be more than they are. It should not be that way, but it is. What is worse, is the fact that the people who live in warmer climes seem to be much more friendly than those to the north, but perhaps it is not the temperature, but the fact that our southern neighbors are more willing to take a person at face value. But I could be wrong, this is but my own opinion.

Friday, April 18, 2008

Two More Poems

Implosive Stresses
It's a fast paced world
No time for second thought
set upon by corporate parasites
masters without neophytes
the North wind's wrath unfurled
like student forgetting lessons taught

Crush the fragrance from the flower
Ignoring virtuosity of stillness
and rest comes in an early grave
is it too late for us to save
have we lost control of the power
can we no longer embrace stillness

In a concrete, obsolete metaphor
With painted flowers, silk roses
and time is a crime to waste
food is bland, no time for taste
tasteless fakes, and always wanting more
and the rural life, a threat it poses

So, to slow, to stop and flowers smell
Five will get you one or two
and pesticide applied at certain sites
may stop or slow aforementioned parasites
but perhaps it is too late, even Rome fell
perhaps merely postponed a year or a few

My Life
Caught I am, twixt worlds twain
of years of yore, of days gone before
and present day, an ever changing play
for herein lies my minds great bane

I want to live in peaceful days
as cowboys ride the thundering bovine tides
or to live a Rovers life, with no one elses strife
and avoid the fight, the battle frays

In peace I want to live, and raise a family
no more to guard, protect the yard
to stand alone no more, lonely to the core
but live in peace and raise a family

But in the changing world of today
the technological marvels, are obsolete as marbles
for minute change shall broaden the range
and the rule is to lie, steal, cheat, and betray

In the days we live I no longer belong
the world changes over fast, and forgets the past
and today's great fete, is tomorrow obsolete
and what once was right, now is wrong

They call my kind hunters in a farmers world
I say they're sheep, the walking asleep
they refuse to wake, for their dreams sake
the hunters are shepherds, the dreamers dream unfurled

Tuesday, April 15, 2008

Future Tense

Once again the long dark has enfolded the heavens, the coyote choristers serenade the rolling hills, and a chill breeze breaks across a frozen lake. Once again I remain sleepless, my mind roiling with a thousand thoughts, schemes, and machinations, and once again I fill this page with my inanity, and insanity. This is not the first time, nor will it be the last as I am certain it shall occur once more, or perhaps more than that. Life drifts by at an idyllic pace, or at a headlong run, and we do our best to keep up. Confusion, and turmoil seem to be our lot in this world, thistles from out of Eden came, but at least the future is unseen. Some things are best left as a surprise.
My thoughts at times wander, and I try to determine an algorithm that will allow faster than light travel, for I have always thought that Euclidean geometry was terribly lacking, and that our current idea of physics could be more than mistaken. It is not within my grasp as I tap out this paltry note to posterity, but in the wee hours of the night some times I can see it, but as slumber fades so does the memory. It has been said that if you can imagine it we can build it, so I can imagine FTL. It is not the insanity it first appears to be, science has proven the existence of particles moving faster than light, I believe they are called Myons with a weight of 0.005Ev, though how they caught and weighed one I do not know.
It is of other things that I consider also, love or lack thereof, marriage - but to whom. I have written letters to the girl in my dreams, but I never know whom she may be, her face changes and shifts with the dreams. Sometimes she is this person, sometimes she is another, sometimes she is a Wolf bitch, ( or perhaps a were wolf). The various faces represent her various qualities, and attributes, her frailties and flaws. Even in my dreams I cannot imagine a perfect woman, perhaps my dreams must have some basis in realty. However, if I can dream it it can exist, that's what the technicians claim. It is, however, a little disconcerting to have a dream where I am kissing a beautiful young woman, and all of a sudden she morphs into a wolf bitch, even if her pelt is black.
At least I have never had a dream in which my bride has done this, that I think would be even worse than the talking lions, squirrels, and badgers, that seem to follow my dream bride around. So perhaps the girl I finally marry will merely speak to animals, but not change into one, even though wolves do mate for life. What has any of this to do with reality? Maybe nothing, then again dreams are the foundation of our realities, without dreams reality would be depressingly boring. Perchance my reality is just as screwy as my dreams, or it could just be a take on reality through my highly colorful imagination. IS this not what affects our concepts of love in the first place, our various takes on reality?
But I could be wrong, what is your opinion?

Friday, April 11, 2008


It is easy, in the long reaches of the night, to find myself lost in musings, on any number of subjects. The stars burn their ice fire above, whilst a lone scribe belabors his quill upon a scratched parchment, bleeding ink like ochre from the wound of his mind, at last pouring forth upon a page a travail of misery. Perhaps this may seem dismal, but then all great artists must suffer right? But perhaps it is the very act of which a magic is created, the words dance to a masters command, seem to leap from the very page, drawing images in ones mind, and is this not the magic of the scribe?
I enjoy writing, unfortunately the very act of writing can be very exhausting, but the work, when finished can express, and cause many emotions in the reader, but it is a product of the magic of creation, which lingers long in the air. Notice I use the word magic a lot? I have come across people in my sojourning that have the strangest beliefs, for instance they have this idea that anything called magic is inherently evil, so I persist in calling such things as this magic, for their benefit, and edification. Magic, as I understand it is neither good nor evil, it is merely the use that is put to that makes it so. If I conjure a coin from anothers ear, it has nothing to do with evil, merely science; if I create a story that draws pictures in the readers mind is that not also science, or magic if you will?
If anything one does not understand automatically is labeled evil, then I must, perforce declare emotions like fear evil. Is not this much like magic, I lack the understanding of this, like one may lack the knowledge of coin or card tricks. So if Understanding is lacking, Knowledge must be obtained, to deny this is to control education, and a result will be a failure. My mind is on this as I see the hash being made of the Canadian education system, where a child may graduate without ever having learned to spell, or calculate in their heads. In this system a child may even graduate without ever having learned the price paid for their freedom, as their history ends in the era I was born in. Whomever forgets the past is doomed to repeat it, and I do not wish to see this occur. In my point of view they are being taught to be sheep, and will willingly march to their doom, merely because somebody told them to, of course they would be unable to think creatively, so would be unable to conceptualise escape.
But that's just my opinion.

Wednesday, April 9, 2008


I have lived a life of solitude, and loneliness has been my constant companion. For long and long I have lived alone, but it is not the choice I would have made - had I had a choice. I have searched high and low for one I could love, and would in return love me, and never have I found her. Perhaps it will be her who finds me, would that not be the ultimate irony?
My accustomed way of life is difficult for many to grasp, much less accept. In a sedentary farmers world, I am a rover, a wayfarer upon the highways of life, and it is a life without the stability many women seek. A road is never so lonely as when you travel it alone.

The sky is of an ebony hue, as I pour the misery of my stomach out in ink upo the paper. The night has grown late and once more sleep has eluded me. It is in the long hours of the Third Watch that I began to pour out my thoughts, and though my duties have ended, I still continue. I am in a situation where life seems to be spiralling out of control, and nowhere I turn are answers to be found.
When life is simple faith is easy, but at times like this my desire for control seems to ( at times
) occlude my faith. I know that all I have to do is let go, but it goes against all of my instinct, and training. In my minds eye I can envision it; a warrior, weary and worn, in armor wrent and cloven, with his back to an open gate. Fighting all comers, because to retreat, even through the gate, would seem a dishonor.
I lack the capability of fear, if I did not, I am certain that worry wwould cloud my mind. Fear for the future would be a certainty, but instead I plot and plan, and try to decide my next moves. As always I seem to be in a situation where I lack enough information to make an informed decision. I flip a coin and it lands on edge. I gather that I must take the advice I gave to another not so long ago; without looking take a leap of faith. Now must I practise what I teach, ironic no?


The Beach
I'll stand on the beach on the edge of eternity
I'll stay and count the sands of time
I'll wait till I find you
I'll pay court to you with prose and rhyme
you'll know that I do love you true
together on the beach on the edge of eternity

We'll stay on the beach and watch the tide
We'll stride along, past the rocks of disaster
we'll be happy once more
we'll tarry or run, go along slower, or faster
You'll know it's love, mi amore
as we stay on the beach and watch the tide

You'll dance in the water, twixt the shore and sea
You'll know you have captured my heart
You'll be mine and I'll be yours
You'll own my love in whole, not in part
You're the one I love and adore
as you dance in the water twixt the shore and sea


The night was black as satin,
the moon danced gaily in a cloudless sky
the aroma of jasmine drifted by
as by a garden pool, you and I
declared love eternal, undyin'

The stars sang beauteously
the eastern winds breezed through
and played your hair, danced about you
overhead a bird spoke of love so true
and your eyes laughed flirtatiously

Silk your skin, spun gold your hair
you a beauty, me the beast, by a garden pool
the moon is silver and full, yes I'm the fool
I speak in rough barbaric talk as a rule
to wax long on love is to declare

Tuesday, April 8, 2008


As my last post suggested, I write poetry, and because the last post was on the subject of love, I will provide y'all a love poem. Yes, I wrote it, and some time ago too. In fact I think that I may add some of my poetry with every posting, so long as it fits with the general theme.

How long can I live this way
alone, by myself, no one to share
when can I give my love away
to a lady for whom I respect and care

I see a sunset, the colors of dusk
I see Homer's wine dark seas
I smell jasmine, or is it your musk
upon the air, a dancin' in the trees

I see the mountains, all a fire
the mist a swirlling on the river
I hear your voice, upon a spire
it kisses my cheek, caresses till I shiver

I feel you at my side mi amore
I see you upon my horizon
and sure I am the one you adore
cause I see your heart, mi corazon

I want to hold you, amaguita
and to never let you go
I want to marry you, chicita
this you need to know.

This is probaby the best love poem I have written, but some people may disagree, as any good artist I try to view a subject from different angles, and view points. Some times I look into a possible future, and other times I watch the past, and always I write what I see. This is merely a warning should some day I write a post on something that appears to have little time sense, (is it past, present or still to come), like some thing on politics, or theology, or philosophy. Any poem attached to such a blog will be of a similar theme, and likely just as hard to understand.
But I think that love is a good subject to continue upon, with rabbit trails now and then, to prevent monotony.

Monday, April 7, 2008


These were written in my journal some time ago, in my journal I write various thoughts and story ideas, and sometimes even poetry.
If marriage can be said to be the greatest battlefield, the courtship must be the opening skirmish. It is a pity that there are so few capable warriors, (or perhaps shield maids), to find in this Northern Land, if there were more then I may well be engaged in a battle Royal by now. An ancient legend states that when two hearts beat as one even the gods become afraid; I think that this would be what the One God designed marriage for in the first place.
Perhaps it is a denial of this that makes some women think I come on too strong or aggressively. My very tentative approach speaks of caution, I try to never underestimate my opponent; perhaps I overestimate them instead. Each women I meet wants some thing different, but they are usually seeking an impossible to meet figment of their Disney colored imaginations. Not all princes are fabulously wealthy, more than a few actually work for a living. Perhaps if they kissed a few frogs their dreams might come true, after all the Beast was a prince too.
What is love?, and why are people so fixated upon it, moreover, how does one fall into it like it was a well?
As for myself I don't have the answers, but I do have an opinion. It is my contention that if one falls into something then there must be a way out; but real love is not so much an emotion as an action. If one sets out to work at it they may find an emotion tied to it; but love is something you do, not something you feel.
Part of the confusion over love is that English is too limiting. There are many types, levels, and degrees of love, but we have one word to cover them all.
I have met an incredible young women recently, who is everything I could want - except married to me. She has a beauty all her own, it radiates about her like streaming light. Her mind is sharp, honed to a diamond edge, which can be good for cutting through glassy stares. She has a true desire to follow the LORD, and in some ways is stronger in her faith than I. It is for all these things I appreciate her, but it is for who she is that I have begun to love her.
Now I realise that my concepts of love are often hard to fathom, but to me love is an action, not merely an emotion. If true love is a choice, then, by definition it must be an action, and if this hypothesis is correct, then it is not merely an emotional state. Whom among us would truly choose to have an uncontrollable emotion that is so volatile that it can warp all reality.
On the other hand passion is not an action, but it can be motivated by an action. Pure unbridled passion for anything can also be called a love for it. English as a language is very limiting, our word love encompasses all the words for different types into one. Perhaps our vocabulary has become too limited on this subject, I could be wrong; this is just my opinion.

Friday, April 4, 2008


I have returned to Canada, after three and a half months in warm Mexico, now I'm cold. This ought not be news, as Canada is a cold place at this time of year, but what I miss about Mexico is that it is not merely the climate that is warm, but the people also are warm, this is a difference from the cold shoulder many Canadians give each other. The climate is temperate, the people are friendly, and the women beautiful, the water is relatively cool, the food flavorful, and the motorists courteous; ain't Mexico grand.
Here is a description I wrote while I was down there:
I am in a land of teeming beauty, where everything is in constant motion. To remain still is to stagnate, and that does occur, but so rarely as to be worth comment. Even the brackish waters in the canals teem with life.
Here there are birds of every size, and shape, and of every imaginable color. Poetry in motion, but even such a description does it an injustice.
The people are friendly, the women are beautiful, and the climate hospitable. I have already fallen in love with the country, to fall for one of the local women would not be that great a stretch.
This is not a land, or a culture that can be understood if one lacks music in their soul; for this country resonates with a melody all its own. The colors of the rainbow melded into the guitar, the shades of green and blue woven into the voice of the trumpet. The Mariachi are the tongue of this land, and their notes its voice.
The magic of creation lingers long, it fairly sparkles in the air, washes over the hills, and exists in the heart of a song. Though I do not understand all the words, they pluck the harp strings of my heart, and some of their melody sticks to this ink. A land of romance that only a romantic can understand, a land of many colors, of many chords, of many shades , for little here is black and white.
The women here have skin that would be the envy of many in the north. Even the most wrinkled crone has skin smooth as a fine wine.
I find this place intriguing, a riotous assault of the senses, the hustle of the markets, with a thousand different colors. People bargaining in half a dozen different languages, the chatter of the birds, the roar of the vehicles all become a sort of a song, (perhaps the song of commerce). A million different colors, and shades, one might think the paint was bleeding off the canvas, of the painting of life down here.
The indigenous residents are friendly, the children have smiles to light up a room. The locals are also as polite as the average Canuck.

but this is just a thought.