Riding Advice

Indian Hunting

If you wish to mount a stallion

and ride like the wind

with heart drumming in tune

with the thunder-beat of hooves

on ancient trails

in ancestral lands

with Spirit Guide

teaching you sacred war cry,

you must get off purple pony

and leave the land of carousels behind.

© JW Thomas


This Day’s Journey


At one-o’clock I run with Snow-Hare above and below the frozen tundra in Northern Alaska, and I’m touched by the wonder and awe at each tunnel rising when welcomed by the majestic blues and greens and playful dance of Aurora Borealis.

At two-o’clock I befriend Field Mouse as he challenges two children to a staring contest: buying time to contemplate why the young maiden appears mousey and the young lad looks rather ratty. And why is there no light in their eyes, no smile on their faces, and what made them so solemn and numb? Are they not a thousand times taller than he? Why do they feel so unblessed?

At three-o’clock I perch beside Sparrow on the singing wire running off the man-made tree to the age-obscured stone of the homo-sapiens hives known as “projects.” And we watch a rag-tag band of urchins – what Sparrow heard peacock humans call them – as they frolic in an unlawful stream of water in an effort to beat the heat.

At four-o’clock I accompany Great Gray Wolf, an Alpha male, as he gazes upon an unusual gathering of clan women from civilized tribes. Each woman is adorned in ritual attire and bears tokens, small totems, and masks befitting their clans. And there is joy in their eyes, magic in their songs, and enough love for all in the Circle of Life.

At five-o’clock Eagle and I soar on thermals high over a once familiar Baltic region, now scarred and scorched with a barrage of lead volleys and explosive concussions. A growing collection of bodies litter landmarks and bathe Mother Earth in blood.

At six-o’clock I hang upside-down in the rafter shadows of a bombed-out inn with a wounded bat losing his life-sustaining blood, and grip, while watching four GIs tear-up as a comrade tickles the ivory of an out-of-tune piano.

At seven-o’clock I slowly regain consciousness and realize a herd of humans are gawking at me through a fenced enclosure, and a waft of air brings a whiff of Baboon.

At eight-o’clock I swim naked with Talapia in flood-waters near Bangladesh as his school play catch me if you can with malnourished fisher-folk balancing precariously on bamboo stands casting and retrieving their nets.

At nine-o’clock I stand in a cool eddy with Bear at the mouth of a creek connected to Old Man River, where Sock-eye veer off on the last leg of their journey to ancestral spawning grounds.

At ten-o’clock I am Toro, and I feel the penetrating pain of steel reminders of two matadors I gored since forced into the Barcelona arena as a cruel joke and alleged sport for the inhumane throng of humanity. And while the next “macho man” attempts to stare me down with confidence over a one-sided game of slaughter, I promise myself, before I die this day; I’ll castrate the two-legged son of a sow!

At eleven-o’clock I know no stress as I romp with Otter on a snowy slope east of crystal water swelling behind Beaver’s dam.

At twelve-o’clock I celebrate life with the sight, sound, smell, taste, and touch… of woman.

I am content.

Tick-tock… tick-tock… tick-tock…

Until tomorrow.


© JW Thomas



Poverty serves up depression and despair instead of delight.

It brings lethargy to body and soul that longs for life.

It drops doubt into every dream with the ability to

distort reality into nightmarish proportions.

It envelopes and smothers every ray of light

with an oppressive shroud of darkness.

It transforms fresh air

into the polluted toxins of tainted existence.

It causes a metamorphosis

from lasting love to unsatisfying lust.

It fails to nurture and nourish well-being,

but perpetually feeds addiction.

It steals faith from the faithful,

infects decency with depravity,

and turns the hopeful into the hopeless.

However, it is a human construct.

It is only able to do what humans allow it to do.

Humans are responsible for it.

Humans can fix it.

Humans must discover their lost humanity.

Human or inhuman?

That is the question.

© JW Thomas



Any musician can play notes.

But if they do not infuse their life into the tune…

If they do not form the movement with honest emotion…

If their rhythm is not based on valid values…

If they cannot celebrate the syncopation…

If they harmonize without instilling hope, or mete’ out melodies without a message…

And if they have not sacrificed enough for each arrangement, or bled enough to interpret the piece, they will never master music or create their magnum opus.

Jerry drumming #1

© JW Thomas

Utter Bliss

Per Imp #250001

Utter bliss.



Pure, yet fleeting.

Six-months at best,

following a twenty-year void.

From the black hole to exaltation.

From nothingness… to “BOOM!”

When independence craves

depended on…

And single accepts double and change.

Though change changed once more…

and again…

and has yet to cease.

Per Imp #280001

Bliss is gone.

No tracks to follow.

Perhaps a whisper.

A thought.


A dream… often forgotten,

since dreams are equally fleeting.

And yet Love remains without Bliss.

Still tested.

Still pure… Even more than before.

No dross remains.


The fiery furnace of life’s trials.

Sparing nothing…

except perhaps,

the final curtain call.

Yet Love does more than linger.

Love survives.




Though Love’s thirst is quenched

through a daily rain of tears.

Tears at the hands of the infamous foe

who chased young Bliss away.

Sickness was who came calling,

and he did not come alone.

Masked… disguised.

Per Imp #260001

A battleground of flesh.

A battle six-plus years and still going.

Like all wars, it’s taken its toll.

The battleground is ravaged.

Consequently, only those engaged

in the battle know the true worth

of the battlefield where blood is spilled.

The womb of war.

The birth of pain.

Yet True Love sees passed the scars,

into the thousand yard stare,

and never loses sight of a soul-mate.

Hand-to-hand and heart-to-heart combat,

no matter how the flesh may change.

Thus, the loss of Bliss is bearable

as long as Love remains.

Yet woe to all where Love departs…

and woe upon woe

where he or she’s never been.

Per Imp #240001

© Jerry Thomas

Freelance Stuntman on the Western Fringe

[Memories from my past.]

Jerry stunt #16

[What’s a stuntman without his trusty steed?]

Beginnings often span generations.

Pop dreams of Hopalong Cassidy,

Gene Autry, and Roy Rogers.

Junior imagines Audie Murphy,

John Wayne, and Clint Eastwood.

Pop vacates the country,

no more dung to sling.

Junior starts his dream in a barrio,

a suburb of L.A.

City boy with a country heart,

no stables to muck or rake.

Lone Ranger’s mask,

two white-handled cap guns.

Bonanza lunchbox until the age of eight:

hold onto them any longer and even the girls

would give tear-jerking wedgies.

What a surprise a dozen years make:

paid to play childhood heroes:

bang-bang shoot um’ up.

But the only stars attached to Junior’s name

come with impacts and concussions.

It helps to be an adrenaline junkie,

plus hustle here and there.

Fights, falls, fire: their willing to pay,

Junior’s willing to play.

Skydiving, mountain climbing, scuba:

give him the check, he’ll hit the deck.

Car crashes, chases, motorcycle jumps – Stop!

Jerry stunt #15

[Damn! Here comes another bruise!]

Hold everything! Where are his westerns?

“Sorry fella…

but he ain’t never rode a horse.”


Don’t years on a carousel count?

The S.O.B. just walked away.

Junior proved him wrong –

he could fall off a horse

better than he could ride one.

Next, he bought a stunt pony

that could fall along with him.

When both go down

neither feels like such a loser.

When they fell together

they finally got the westerns.

Live shows, exhibitions,

documentaries, stunt competitions.

Jerry stunt #19

[Brotherly love… stuntman style!]

Yippee ki yay – blankety-blank.

Hero cheers – villain jeers –

sexy ingénue whistles and catcalls.

Stunt actors receive the loudest ovations.

Pointing guns at an audience

has an influential effect.

The western fringe

is both blessing and curse.

No fame or fortune would there be.

But more fun than a Sci-Fi wife

at her first alien abduction.

Non-western stunts are in demand,

and pay much better.

Junior doesn’t care –

at least not much –

at least not when asked publicly.

Junior’s living his dream.

A childhood fantasy:

It comes with every call to

saddle-up, spur um’ on,

shoot um’ down, and roll um’ over.

Though he still ends up with

a wedgie or two

while performing a stirrup drag and release.

Jerry stunt #26

[Hey stop! I got wedgie!]

© JW Thomas

Jerry stunt #17

[Some days you get off on the wrong side of the horse.]


The mystery

is not what the Great Spirit

will make of us,

but what we make of ourselves

with the gifts

and free choice

Edoda (God/Father) has bestowed.

Has the Unehlanvhi (Creator)

set Himself up as taskmaster?

We are not shackled

by spiritual bonds.

We are not flogged

by anidawehi (angels).

We are not served

to Asgina (Beast/Devil) for lunch,

merely tempted.

When we succumb

we share responsibility

with the tempter

Why blame the All-Seer?

Freewill bears responsibility

and consequence

of each choice.

The only protection from blunders

is to wed Wisdom.


© JW Thomas