One For The Road

In the wake of my own flood
where these words
have dripped from my blood
scripted from a heart
that I tried to jumpstart,
well that my friends,
that was just the first part.
And in the light of all this
there is something I found
in a moment of silence
is where the story begins
to make all the more sense.
As it is in this
coming of age
that has opened up
the parts of me
I could never see
always sitting there
hiding behind a stage
where up a flight
of beaten stairs
awaits an inner sage.
And so it was in time
that I learned
what it meant
for a word to rhyme
as I hung them out to dry
for the world to pry
upon what
a word was about
the one that I scream
in a silent shout,
some are tangled in rhapsody
others touched by heartfelt melody,
yet so soon will come the day
when my words
come back to play
never left to go astray.
But first I must look,
look within my own damn mind
for what’s left of it
and the voice it carries
I have to find.
And what is that I have to say
will once again sing
with that something
in the me I find
along that lonesome way.
But before I get on and go
here is one,
one more for the road.
BeLove © 2018

Be back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.


Camping With Angels


The following is a story based loosely on facts and is no way a true story.  I hope you enjoy it.

I had been here before, in this quaint little town known as Angels Camp, Calif.  It is a beautifully old mining township, nestled in the foothills of the grandiose setting I have called home for damn near a quarter of my life, the Sierra Nevada Mountains. This area is particularly rich in history, mainly due to the precious metal-extracting days of California’s Gold Rush.  The times I had traveled through here before were always travels passed with the sheer sense of hurrying through, to get to somewhere else.  I had never really taken the time to let the historic sensory this municipality supported in its dilapidated structures gather my attention.  Little did I know back then, how much this place was layered in the lineage of my heritage, but now here I was waiting for it to embrace the purpose of me.  As I stood with the silence of morning’s first light, just two rurally incorporated blocks from where Samuel Clemens found his first inspiration in some “Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County”, I become aware of something with a supernatural presence trailing me.  Hell, maybe I was trailing it, who’s to say either way.

I had woken up at about 4:00 AM that Sunday morning, due in part to the fact that I had set up my tent on a more than slight incline.  I found my attempt at sleep to be restless and the tightness in my back wouldn’t allow my ignorance to repose itself in peace.  So I got up with the intention of foraging for inspiration.  I unzip the door of my collapsible home and my eyes are promptly affixed to the crucifix that stretched into the star-filled sky across the street from where I had attempted to rest easy. I notice how well-lit the sky is behind it and reach for my camera to power her up. I find the proper focus and backlighting, as I go to snap the picture, the camera powers off. Confused I shake the camera thinking that would fix it, much to my apprehension, it didn’t. I check the batteries, although I knew that it couldn’t be the problem because I replaced them no more than twelve hours ago. I chalk it up to my ignorance again and think nothing more of it.  I light the bottle top propane stove and fill the granite decorated pot with water. I fill the French press with some grocery outlet-grade aromatic blissful fuel.  I sit there for a while, waiting with a newfangled contentment.  I start writing down my peculiar thoughts in hopes of creative growth. The flame beneath the propane burner flickers away, it resembled the graceful likes of someone blowing out a midsummer night’s candle. Out of nowhere, I hear a family of frogs; start speaking their minds, in a mass exodus of ribbits, I start humming along with them.  I wondered if they were speaking in tongue because I was invading their privacy. I don’t know, and more than likely, never will. I then decide that I should get to know my surroundings better. I remember that I passed a gas station late last night, as I pulled into to town. If it was open at midnight, it must be opened now. I went about my way, on a quest for a cup of joe; I head in the direction of the crucifix.   It is what happens next, that you will want to pay more attention to.


As I am walking past the shuttered and antediluvian house of worship, something grabs my attention at the last-minute.  I see a shadow that beacons through the faint light of a fleeting window.  The apostolic structure and its windows are stained with a retrograded antiquity.  I wonder who, if anyone, is inside collecting themselves in lieu of the emergence of a beautiful day’s break.  I begin to ponder if it could be a bellow for help in the fashion of a kindred spirit searching for its eternal rest.   A chilly breeze blows beneath the surface of solidarity that I feel at the moment.  The moon is fullest I have ever seen it, whilst a purple hue settles in gently behind its amazing grace.  Eastward, the sun trickles against the horizon, accompanied by the soothing palette of an orange rose.  I shiver with the intent of shaking the ethereal presence that I feel grasping at my soul.  It seems as though in this search for my own identity, something is seeking my attention through the apparatus of an apparition that is rooted in my family tree.

I can still hear the frogs, ringing in my ears louder than ever.  Oh the gospel of Mother Nature, I think to myself.  I walk to the doors of the church and look to see if they are unlocked.  I do not know why I decided to do what I did next; something wouldn’t allow me to do any different.  I was drawn to find out what was seeking my attention; I had to know what it wanted from me.  I wasn’t at all surprised to find the doors unlocked.  I pull the door open and the air that wafts about me is cold and damp.  I walk inside and holler with hospitable declaration; it is my hope that I hear some other hospitable voice.  It feels like hours pass through the minutes of silence, nothing answers back.  The church is astonishingly well-kept for one that hasn’t been ceremoniously engaged in decades.  I walk between the pews and wonder why the backs of them are soft but their seats are hard, this is something that has never made sense to me.  I continue on my search for sanctuary and find myself standing in the quire, I notice that the seats surrounding me, all of them are folded proper, except for the one behind me.  For some reason I decide to sit down, I pull the leather-bound journal from my back pocket and start writing with a fervent demeanor, the words pouring from my heart are singing through me.  It is as though a spectral choir is serenading my soul with the words of a newfound gospel.  I sat there writing for what felt like an eternity.  I finally stop and breathe about a dozen of the deepest breaths one can breathe.  I close my eyes to pray, or it could have just had something to do with bewildered exhaustion.


I am awakened, startled by the serene harmony of a Sunday morning organ.  I am still seated amongst the empty quire.  I look around and see no one; all of the chairs are now absent, except the one my ass was parked on.  I gather my thoughts and position myself upon my feet, slowly stirring out of my short-lived slumber.  I start looking about my unfamiliar surroundings with a little more concentration and notice a ghostly man whom looks to be nearing his expiration day.  I introduce my presence to him with a comfortable distance.  He turns to face me, unfazed by my unannounced attendance.  “What are you doing here son?” The question is asked in a southern twang. I respond, “Looking for something but I am not yet sure what that is.”  He laughs and responds, “Well ole Chris Columbus wasn’t  sure what he was lookin’ for and that turnt out okay for most e’eryone, ‘cept the Injuns’.”  He turns his back to me and continues playing the organ.  I am amazed at how potent the sound is pouring from his fingers and through the angelic pipes glazed with brass and copper.  He stops and stares back towards me with an inquisitive gaze.  He stands and walks my direction; I am not frightened or anxious.  I am in awe of his carefree demeanor stained with a life full of zest.  “Well son”, he says, “You look to be on the right path, but it’s time for you to mosey on about to where you need to be, times a wastin’ and you got work to do, if I ain’t mistaken.” “But I don’t have anywhere to be,” I say.  “That’s how ya know y’all on the right path, son,” he answers, “Cause if you ain’t got nowhere to be and you came to this here ole holy haunted cathedral in the middle of nowhere, then you already knowin what you ought do.”  “I guess that is about right” I respond.  I am amazed that I can understand exactly what he is saying, even though his words are riddled with a lazy twang that is lacking syllables.  “A’right son, I reckon I ought to see you to yonder door,” he offers.  “Well, before I go can I get your name,” I ask.  “Son, you already know my name,” he says with an arrogant and audible smirk.  “I beg your pardon, do not tell me what I know or do not know, kind sir,”  I retort with a smidgen of punkish behavior.  The man responded, “Well, in that case, allow me to give you some advice.  Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn’t do than by the ones you did do.  So throw off the bowlines.  Sail away from the safe harbor.  Catch the trade winds in your sails.  Explore.  Dream.  Discover.”  “Well, thank you for your hospitality and the helpful advice, looks like its near time for me to get on about my business,” I say.  As I turn away and make my way towards the  door, he says one more thing. “By the way son, the name is Sam, but you can call me Mark.”  The door slams as he laughs with hysteria.  I muse about myself for a moment and then head back to my camp, walking with briskness in the midst of Angels.  Wouldn’t you know it, the sun had yet to fully rise, and only ten minutes had passed according to the standard observation of the Pacific time zone.

I couldn’t help but feel a sense of tenacity from this charismatic and friendly fiend.   I felt an intimate and paterfamilias connection with the ghost.  In a situation where most folks would be petrified, I found myself intoxicated by the galvanic goodness upheaving itself through the depths of me.  The shadow was now gone, or at least it was no longer presentable, due to the height of the sun.  Was he walking with me back to my camp?  Is he still with me now as I am writing these words with the technological ease of a laptop?  Who knows?  What I do know, is that I am on the path I was meant to walk.

Scott H. Biram

Thanks for stopping by.  See you soon.

-B. Love-

Flash of Brilliance

Darkness exists so the exposure of light can be clearly distinguished.


A bedazzling burst of luminescence tosses my thought process out of the bathroom window with reckless abandonment.  I crawl through the window trying to take back what is rightfully mine but I find myself stuck.  Here I am with my head in hand and my ass showing for the entire world to see.  My thoughts are within arms reach yet still a day’s drive from this precarious predicament in which I find myself.  I start thinking that I should just give up.  I could just crawl back inside where the warmth of insignificance is ignorantly bliss.  The place where I would be weighed down by a false feeling of contentment is probably the best-case scenario for me, I think.  I start pushing my way back towards my comfort zone and with a sudden circumstantial awakening, thousands of flickering lights illuminate all around me.  I reverse course and with every ounce of effort I have in my belly I push through the window.  I land on my feet with an overwhelming sense of zest.  I grab my thoughts from the midst of these bioluminescent fireflies full of imagination.  I shuffle through them retaining the ones that demand a more permanent posture.  I toss the negatives aside.  I maneuver my motivation towards the conquest of happiness.  I am venerated by how easily these little bugs that live their life just to shed some light on the darkness can spark an artistic chain reaction with the slightest ease.  Minutes ago, I stood with my face to the wall and now here I stand with all cylinders firing clean and the engine running smooth.  Everything I see is again so animated with fertility.  I can once again feel an air of confidence from my head to my toes and so the story goes.

My mind seems to operate like a child’s more often than not and in more ways than others.  I can visualize those of you reading this who know and love me, shaking your head profoundly in this very moment.  In all seriousness, it’s somewhat true.  It’s truer now than ever before with my son’s imagination growing more flamboyant by the day.  I do not believe this to be a bad thing.  It is Aldous Huxley that said the secret of genius is to carry the spirit of the child into old age. Over the past few weeks I have become so spellbound by the isolated art that besieges us in every exclusive occasion this life offers.  My recent behavior is similar to how a child looks at life.  Its not some sort of creative threatening augmented reality; it’s zest in the purest form.  A child’s creative mechanism never stops working.  That is until we as parents unconsciously deviate the child from maximizing the make-up of this peculiar mechanism.


Let’s assimilate what I am talking about to the simple game we call connect the dots.  This is one of the first games we learned to play as children.  You simply draw a line from one dot to another, typically in numerical or chronological order.  I look at it like this these days, that no matter the path we choose, the dots will always connect themselves. We may choose a more abstract avenue or even a straightforward street, either way it’s the path we choose in the present moment that nourishes the imagination.  Eventually the more we played this game and understood it’s pretense the more our creativity became patterned by uniformity.  Maybe someone told us we were doing it wrong and with that negativity a piece of our genuine creative process escapes our soul, similar to a glacier calving itself into the ocean during it’s short lived summer.  The mind is such a delicate thing during those early years that any detrimental feelings can carve a path towards unhappiness.  I find it imperative that we must allow our children to take the path they choose, not the path we choose for them.  Of course I know that is our parental responsibility to keep them out of harm’s way.  It’s our instinct of nurturing that keeps them safe but there is nothing nurturing about forcing their hand to do what we deem necessary for them to do as far as their welfare is concerned.  When it comes to rearing children, I am now realizing that it is a joint effort between parent and child to enlighten each other.  I would be lying if I told you that my son hasn’t been instrumental in cultivating the man I am becoming.  I’ve grown up more in the past six months than I ever pretended to over the past twenty-five years.


A child carries with them possibly the weightiest approach towards happiness; I call it the Zen of Zest.  A child is full of endless energy, charismatic creativity, and their enthusiasm towards life is perpetual; and unless they crave your affection, they are tirelessly happy.  Why do you think that is?  It’s because they are living in the present moment.  Their minds have yet to learn the ambiguous actuality of time management.  They don’t care about yesterday and haven’t even thought about tomorrow. They are satisfied with what life is giving them in the moment.  It’s zest in its purest form. It’s innocence without any measure of guilt.  Therein lies the message I am hoping to deliver with a bit of oomph in the frame of this post.

It is of the utmost importance that in order to maintain the art of happiness we must only focus on the moment we find ourselves wrapped up in.  I have heard these words before, more or less.  Hell, I’ve written them recently.  I just never really let them sink in to the depths of me until about a week ago.  I know that the secret to disembowel stress, one must take a sort of meditation stance, in order to release the mind from the body and transform yourself towards a secondary plateau of enlightenment.  The belief of Buddhism teaches us that by restraining oneself, cultivating discipline, and consistently practicing mindfulness and meditation one will achieve nirvana.  These are all bullet-points for the outline of living in the moment.   In Christianity, we must give our fullest devotion to God and be true to an everlasting relationship with his word; in return he will handle the rest.  In other words go about living your life in the moment; do not worry about what is down the road because it is in God’s hands.  It’s all about the follow through in whatever we choose to do…..

Let’s talk about zest.  What is zest?  How would you define it? I define it as a lively quality that embraces all of life’s energy, enjoyment, and excitement.  It’s an entirely outward affection that doesn’t warrant anything inward in regards to it.  Why is zest so imperative to the overall health of happiness?  It’s because without even a small dose of zest we become miserable and despondent.  We become a statistic and are content with going through the repetitive motion of the soul-sucking arrangement known as uniformity.  A man or woman, who exemplifies zest in its purest form, follows their individual path with equal parts humility and ego.  I call it the perfect concoction for confidence.  They do not worry about the future and have no regretting demeanor towards their past.  Their enthusiasm has only one place to be and that is in the now.  They give genuine and providential affection without demanding anything in return.   The best type of affection is supplementally life-giving; each entertains affection with joy and bestows it without effort, and each discovers the whole world more absorbing in corollary with the presence of said supplemental happiness. Hmm…Hmm…Hmm….Sorry I was clearing my throat.  I believe the writer of this blog could learn a lot from the last paragraph he just wrote.  Only time will tell if he does.


One of the main factors that rest in the lack of zest is because man or woman feels unloved.  This is how we become self-centered and an inadequate amount of affection promotes unstable insecurity, which in turn leads to seeking constant escape via some degrading habitual habitat.  A few examples of this could be the following.  First a man or woman that buries himself in work, in order to escape reality, no longer seeks zest just complacency, this will ultimately lead to a life lacking joy. They typically take on extra responsibility to alleviate the pain filling the crevices of their soul.  Secondly, the man or woman that delves into the depths of a bottle seeking solace in a drunken stupor has just given up on zest altogether.  They no longer see the light in anything except through the bottom of an upside down bottle.  Don’t get me wrong a few drinks here and there in moderation is probably a wonderful thing for zest but when drunkenness becomes a dependent of yours its time to recalibrate the thought process.


In the book “Conquest of Happiness”, Bertrand Russell states the following:

“Among those that I regard as harmful and degrading, I would have to include drunkenness and drugs, of which the purpose is to destroy thought, at least for the time being.  The proper course is not to destroy thought but to turn it into new channels, or at any rate into channels remote from the present misfortune.”

That ladies and gentlemen is a flash of brilliance.  See you soon.

   Enjoy this beautiful day.
Tea Leaf Green / “Taught To Be Proud”





 The hours pass
Like streams of sand
Through a glass
Pressed for time.
Or an empty space
Built on trust
Filled with dust
Blessed with rhyme.
When a word strayed
This world I made
Finally made sense
Except for me
And my pretense.
Where did I think
I’d be
Without all this crass?
Can you feel the grass
Beneath the shade
When we played?
A moment I missed
Chew on this
Stew on that.
What to do
When we knew
The bow was broke
And so are you.
BeLove © 2017

Guy Clark – “Maybe I Can Paint Over That”