An Anthology of Perception Vol. 2: 40 Years Through the Lens of the Here and Now

By Kurt Philip Behm

For over forty years Kurt Philip Behm
has lived within the magic of the
Perpetual Present. It has inspired all of
his writing, and has allowed him to both
see and write about the truth contained
within every moment.
Once acknowledging this truth within
himself and accepting its presence, he
started an inward journey that time,
and its deceptive handmaidens, the past
and future, would have only denied.
His message is to live not only for today,
but this very moment, knowing that this
moment is all that we have, have had, or
will ever have again.
Living within the magic of its Perpetual
Present will then free our souls, guiding
us on a path toward becoming all that
we were truly meant to be.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Feb 26, 2013
• ISBN: 9781481716246

Kurt Philip Behm

Best selling author and renowned poet, Kurt Philip Behm, has been writing both poetry and prose since 1971. In this sixth installment of his historical fiction series, The Sword Of Ichiban, William Broderick Simpson III (Cutty) takes a radically new and dangerous approach to turning the tide of World War 1.

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© 2013 by KURT PHILIP BEHM. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 02/22/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4817-1625-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-1623-9 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-1624-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013902050

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Dedication

Introduction

Book Seven March 2011-August 2011

Book Eight September 2011-November 2011

Book Nine January 2012-September 2012

Book Ten 2012

Buried Alive

After Midnight The Muse, Raw And Uncut (2011-2012)

Addendum &Terminology:

Dedication

I want to thank the Muse for staying with me for so long, and never abandoning me during moments of confusion or struggle. Your voice continues to grow louder inside of me as each day unfolds.

You have seen me through the most joyous of moments and the darkest of times.

I cannot imagine my life without you…

‘Writing neither poetry nor prose

you stared into the night

Beyond intellect and passion

you combatted all fright

As the things that had left

you returned once again

Their moment now eternal,

neither beginning nor end’

Introduction

Since 1972, many aspects of my life have evolved and changed, but one thing has remained constant.

I have spent all of those years in the only true dimension available to any of us—‘The Ever Expanding Perpetual Present.’

The instantaneous and momentary realization that all of existence is ‘HERE AND NOW,’ has been the guiding principle in my life. Its knowledge and acceptance has been the liberating concept that has set me free.

I am thankful that this insight opened early for me, and pray that its life force stays with me always. Writing within the ‘present tense’ has connected my thoughts unbroken and unreferenced from those very first words until the present day.

Don’t just live for today! Life today because it is the ONLY day you will ever have, have had, or will ever have again !

Book Seven

March 2011-August 2011

Writing the words,

. . . I set myself free

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2011)

In the spring of good intention

most malice is found

On a sea of indecision

great minds run aground

Over the rocks and the ages

and the tolling of bells

Just one spirit washes eternal…

from the deepest of wells

(Chicago Illinois: March, 2011)

Who writes across the page,

and then the pages after

That close the chapter

on the book,

. . . you never thought to start

Who gives their love to one unmet,

beyond chance meeting

With words then saved, and romance bound,

in feelings locked within

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2011)

Like children, pages

drift away adolescent,

refusing what I offer

Defiant

in their questions,

beyond all answers in their parting

Forcing what’s left to live trapped

in the abandoned distance

between us now

All movement stopped

and estranged, from the very things

we used to know

(Worcester Massachusetts: March, 2011)

At the flight bridge of my heart

Crazy Horse sits at the controls

In the wheelhouse of my direction

he stands vigilant and strong

In the deepest engine room of my search

he keeps wood upon the fire

And as the compass point of my return,

his words as road signs, lead me on

(Leominster Massachusetts: March, 2011)

Wana Hin Gle

‘HE WHO HAPPENS NOW’

happens today

in voices of reflection

As his new name is sung,

the heavens cry out,

Fathers announcing his return

Wana Hin Gle

‘HE WHO HAPPENS NOW’

happens once again,

the blanket passes between them

Old names now gone

a spirit freed,

and voices speak as one

(On The Phone: To Pineridge ‘Oglala’ Reservation South Dakota: March, 2011)

The great freedom to write,

is in writing for yourself

The worst betrayal in writing,

is deferring to whether others care

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2011)

At First

Reaching deep within myself,

the words were cold and dark

Those early things said to only me,

. . . steel promises to endure

I once was blind, but now can see

where I never thought to look

In aging sense, not fearing the end,

I no longer am alone

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2011)

Lost,

what’s still to be forgotten,

. . . then found again

(West Chester Pennsylvania: March, 2011)

Your lust to know…

lined with false answers,

to falser questions still

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2011)

Revolution cannot exist

outside the circle

It only works when turning

from inside

Old changes giving

in to fresh beginnings

All promises revolving once

again, renewed

(Washington D.C.: March, 2011)

Nations of wantonness,

material delusion

All efforts to control—lies,

secrets not worth keeping

People who have never lived,

dying of spiritual immolation

At their own hands,

with blood to wash

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2011)

Through my writing

I live immortal

Inside the feelings of all

who read my words

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2011)

Divinity Speaks

Let all boxes empty into

me

I refuse to enter

the dark corners that they hide

The angles of their awareness,

. . . obtuse and misconnected

Straight, realigned and holy again,

once back inside of me

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2011)

Nothing in common,

nothing to share

Nothing to join us,

no one to care

Nothing in common,

nothing to share

Living in loneliness,

heartbreak and despair

(High Point North Carolina: April, 2011)

To Crazy Horse

Thank you for allowing me to begin something,

. . . I now know can never end

(High Point North Carolina: April, 2011)

I Am

A wandering trail of resentment,

paves over a history full of token lies

Tread lightly,

where the abandoned truth hides waiting,

. . . inside a burning bush

(Winston Salem North Carolina: April, 2011)

An Apple In Paradise

Do what you want,

as long as you do what I ask

Say what you mean,

and then keep it to yourself

Travel the world,

but don’t get beyond where I can see

Live out your dreams,

. . . just don’t ever wake up

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2011)

Searching

In some ways,

you’re dispelling the myth

In others, just protecting your

investment in the truth

(Villanova Pennsylvania: may, 2011)

Blank Iambic verse,

haiku, or sonnets

then to rhyme

Over the structured wall

to hillside pastures,

hearts to climb

(New York City ‘Chelsea’: May, 2011)

Word count, body count,

pretending to be the same

The difference . . .

For only the reader

to know

(Villanova Pennsylvania: May, 2011)

Created perfect,

in your raising were you tainted

From self-interest and corruption your

waters darkened

In the distance you were lost, unable

to find your way back

From depths, where your spirit lies cold

and unforgiven

As the initiation of your ancestors calls out

from what you first knew

Holding in their hands the perfection of your

birth,

. . . forever chanting your name

(King Of Prussia Pennsylvania: ‘Crazy Horse Reminds’ May, 2011)

Perfection,

only to be created,

. . . but never found

(Villanova Pennsylvania: May, 2011)

Assigning

Letters

To emotions

Words succeed

Or fail

Sincerely so

Leaving others to read

What once was felt

Then purposely

Left behind

(Villanova Pennsylvania: May, 2011)

Truant

In distraction

Words

Become

Empty

Of all

They may

Foretell

(Villanova Pennsylvania: May, 2011)

Has the ‘right’ lost the right

to all protest

With the ‘left,’ being what’s left

of everything else

Forsaking the truth, we bounce between

what never mattered,

. . . and mattered too much

And what never was, and was always meant

to be

(Media Pennsylvania: May, 2011)

Stop trying to understand

and feel something

Stop attempting to teach

what you never really learned

Start becoming who

you always were to begin with

It’s likely to be

the only chance you’ll get

(Villanova Pennsylvania: May, 2011)

When you answer back

the Muse,

does it abandon you

With you standing inside the

emptiness of its reflection,

dark and gone

Hoping for words to borrow,

and in its presence

become again

Escaping pronounced this surrounding

desert,

that silence never leaves

(Villanova Pennsylvania; May, 2011)

If you say it…

how much does it matter

If you do it…

will anybody care

But if said again and then done again,

the question mark is gone

In what now is spoken far and wide,

within

(Villanova Pennsylvania: Thoughts Of Bob Dylan’s ‘Mr. Jones’ May, 2011)

Money—wrapping paper

of disowned creation

Destroying the gift,

laying claim to the box

(Jamestown New York: May, 2011)

The angel and the devil

made a pact against the light

And under cover stood discussing

what they would and wouldn’t do

The darkness reflected protection,

exposing deceit where both could hide

In a shadow we call religion,

veiling the world in packaged lies

(Villanova Pennsylvania: May, 2011)

When reasons stop

You continue on

Reasons not enough to end

Or begin again

Motion itself enough

For now

Until the moment real

And you step inside

(Villanova Pennsylvania: May, 2011)

If it’s worth dying for,

then for that you may live

Until all causes die,

. . . and eternity smiles

(Villanova Pennsylvania: May, 2011)

I Answered Back

As I lay dying

there were no regrets,

. . . because I answered back

From all beginnings

to every distant end,

. . . I answered back

Not waiting for any higher calling

or mystery on the wind,

. . . I answered back

Before the questions, even after the

secrets,

. . . I answered back

I shouted in voices of my own becoming,

and you forgave me for every one,

. . . and answered back too

Spreading your wings eternal,

inviting me to climb on

Pointing me toward the heavens

for one last ride

Where I hold on triumphant,

listening to you announce into forever,

. . . those things I’ve said

(Villanova Pennsylvania: May, 2011)

Did he do drugs in front of you while you

pretended to be somebody else

Did he call out to you too desperately,

and beyond your sight

Like a winter tree reaching out—when all you

could see were branches leading away

Did you sell out for the distraction of what

made you feel good at the time

Closing the door on any cries for help, spiraling down

in what was left of your rented and deflating balloon

The disappearing air refilling your impersonation, the

one where you get to masquerade again,

. . . as yourself

(Villanova Pennsylvania: May, 2011)

My Dog

Colby’s love can never be taken away,

or explained to those unloved

It’s the thing we pretend to care most about,

yet run the hardest from

He asks for nothing while giving his heart,

laying silently by my side

Where I no longer have to be anything,

. . . except myself

(Villanova Pennsylvania: May, 2011)

Splashing on the fragrance

of what your betrayal

has left behind

The perfume of your silence

lingers, in scented feelings

without words

(Villanova Pennsylvania: May, 2011)

As pretty as your smile,

your laugh so frightening

Within the soft promise of intent,

the lies you tell

Calling me once, then calling me twice,

. . . three times I answered

In a brokered dance, that never gets

to take you home

(Baltimore Maryland: May, 2011)

THE IMMORALITY OF ARCHAEOLOGY

The dead should always be

Allowed to remain,

Dead !

(Baltimore Maryland: May, 2011)

Abusing

your senses

Reason

out of control

Intelligence masquerades

as the hooded killer within

Blocking the light through

its deafening cloud

Hiding as it blasphemes

in a voice disowned

(Villanova Pennsylvania: May, 2011)

Devereux fields

—divided tracks

Taking me away from myself

against my will

Pulling me in a direction that

my soul will not go

Leading me through broken feelings

to a newer destination lost

Where I stand alone in the traffic of a

thousand abandoned shadows

Waiting for light

Waiting for love

(Suburban Station Philadelphia: June, 2011)

A bloom falls,

. . . the rose, never the same

(Villanova Pennsylvania: June, 2011)

I’ve been lucky . . .

being allowed to first see

and then say,

something that I believe !

(Paoli Pennsylvania: July, 2011)

Sleeping free inside the meaning,

like a blues musician who can’t read

The words once spoken are all

that matters,

. . . and all that ever dreams on

(Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2011)

I love to write,

but can only do

so much of it every day

Like an addict,

feelings going in

are not the same coming out

With blood and bone

the spirit takes, and words

not enough to heal

I love to write,

but can only do

so much of it every day

(Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2011)

Sometimes,

the little secrets we keep

insure and protect the love

Injections of immunity left unsaid

flowing dormant and beyond words,

. . . from a sea of respect

(Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2011)

Women want to be intrigued,

not overwhelmed

Discovering what is attractive,

and sometimes hidden in their mate

Virility not thrown in their face,

with muscle t-shirts, or tattoos

Women want to be intrigued,

not overwhelmed

(Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2011)

The Muse cannot be borrowed

or shared

Just stolen

like coal from the neighbors bin

Its heat the same

but different

Wrapped inside the promise of

cold again

(Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2011)

If rules conflict

with meaning or content,

. . . to hell with the rules

Like table manners the night

before battle,

. . . satisfy your hunger first

(Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2011)

Letting death in one night

the wait began

Its acknowledgment and affirmation

giving birth to the end

Where I now stand disconnected

and alone in the dark

An only child—

orphan of myself at last

(Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2011)

I feel death coming on

in the memory of life around me

I feel it looking at me

while still afraid to look back

I hear echoes from beyond

of what I still don’t understand

The parts of me that used to care

growing callous with what I’ve lost

From a hymnal without words

I sing nothing to be remembered

Just a melody, carried on winds

that grow distant,

. . . and then fade away

(Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2011)

From deep inside the corner

of a Tuesday afternoon

I hid from the weeks to come

and the years before

The days screamed out to me

from every instant beyond measure

As I crouched there disconnected,

inside a moment that wasn’t mine

(Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2011)

Brand consciousness,

Brand awareness

What does it accomplish

What is the cost

The numbing of the senses

Repetitive impressions

Unconscious acceptance

All value being sold

(Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2011)

Like stadium seating, words build

upon each other

The lower sounds attaching deepest,

bearing all of the weight

The top rows and open seating are much

noisier and fleeting than the box seats below

Where passion rules and voices chant,

in positions standing firm

(Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2011)

Crazy Horse Memorial

Carved into the distance,

. . . what is now forever told !

(Villanova Pennsylvania: ‘Chief Joseph About Crazy Horse, July, 2011)

The vast expanse of ocean

returns a sadness to my heart

Its tide pushing in my fear

carrying away all hope

Alone, the beach stares eternal

as my confusion is now knee deep

Neither pity nor forgiveness beyond her

crested barrier, she judges not

Her waves drown out the lack of any

acceptance or disdain

Washing over the empty and broken dreams,

. . . where my troubled verses bathe

(Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2011)

The One-Act Play

The hero in the one-act play

looks out to the audience,

. . . no one looks back

The programs hide their faces

as arms hang silent,

. . . in mock applause

Is it acceptance he seeks, or immunity,

from another audience now long dead

As he stops in the middle of the stage

and looks up to the rafters

The props and circumstance give cause

to repeat, but then at once alarm

Tonight, his one-act play is alone on

the road

Where he leaves only forgiveness as handbill,

becoming deaf to all applause

From voyeurs who would critique his part

by always looking away

(Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2011)

The Conquering Wind

The tale is written, lesson learned,

the road forever changed

New rivers flow unending

to the valleys

Intention stores the voices of

a thousand yesterdays

Today becoming the birth of

new acceptance

I ride as before, but wiser now,

and younger once again

What’s left behind, to warn against

repeating

All roads turn into open space

as I reach once more inside

For a new highway bound

to free just one more day

(Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2011)

Poetry,

seeking to allure

or confuse with its verse

Intrusive in its nature,

while masked in the cleverness

of what it doesn’t say

(Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2011)

Writing prose,

the verse tries to break in

Like children wanting to help their father,

as I try desperately to explain

Orphans no more, and knowing their special

place inside my heart

The time spent writing the other lines, to them

a lie

They laugh at me in wonder, as I struggle to get

it down

While they sit eternal and unexplained,

. . . guarding my soul

(Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2011)

Together

Couplets,

outside the serenade

of ‘time’

Pairings,

of the one thing

only

Together,

in search of what can

never be explained

Reclamation,

of the single tune

in chosen rhyme

(Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2011)

The defining thing about verse

is freedom

Expression beyond

any criticism or literal sense

To choose,

or not to choose,

. . . the sense of it all

Beyond transcendence or

intention,

. . . immortal to reside

(Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2011)

Punctuate yourself

into mediocrity

Paginate,

in an editor’s delight

Spell-check, until the meaning

is no more

Or go back to where you started,

. . . destination in plain sight

(Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2011)

Dining in corridors of things you left unsaid

and undone

Feasting on broken promises made, when you

said you still wanted what I had

And alone in the kitchen of this imposed

starvation

I die in a famine of reminder, hating you more,

. . . loving me less

(Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2011)

Stepping Inside The Cave

Stepping inside the cave,

all barriers were crossed

Alone with myself,

the demons were lost

Stepping inside uncertain,

only then could it appear

With a voice now my own,

through the darkness,

. . . ringing clear

(Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2011)

The Wild Man brings you face to face

with your fear

Then abandons you at the moment

of greatest affirmation

He roams the blood trail of those places

you have yet to go

And with his stalking, forces intent and

all decision

The Wild Man cries out to you, his fate

lies in your choosing

To live again or hide,

. . . as one already dead

(Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2011)

The Legacy Of Direction

Crazy Horse keeps giving me back

to myself

An arrow, taut on the bow of my

awareness and perception

Reminding me that all direction is mine,

but legacy is more

The arrows flight determined by what

I will and