My life a poem, forego the count,
  that comes in threes and fours

The space between to catch new breath,
  that time may now allure

These moments gifted more than once,
  now constant in their prayer

Whose vow will cast the river wide,
—new words to baptize there

(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2017)

Tonight,
I had a date with the mountain

Tonight,
I made those promises impend

Tonight,
behind the shadow of my fear

Tonight,
—the devil smiled at me again

(Seattle Washington: ‘Something For Jimi’ March, 2017)

Hearing the promise
Open up in yourself
Proclaiming his goodness
Epiphany felt

(Villanova Pennsylvania: May, 2017)

Hand me down memories,
  borrowed not owned

Dreams that are mortgaged,
—the present on loan

(Villanova Pennsylvania: December, 2016)

There’s a voice deep inside me,
  that still tries to get out

No matter my mission,
  it screams and it shouts

Its call is then loudest,
  on those darkest of nights

When my mind seeks new refuge,
  from this Seraph’s delight

I toss and I turn,
  but it speaks louder still

As its words start to burn,
  from new vision distilled

No barter or denial,
  will turn back its call

The Muse is on fire,
--- my pen can no longer stall

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2015)

I met him on a summer’s day,
  when life seemed very far away

A home once mine when as a boy,
  I’d lived and loved and searched for joy

Twas taken cruelly from my grasp,
  the black sheep son, now left askance

As I walked past this house so tall,
  a dark haired man in t-shirt called

“How are you today” he said and smiled,
   my burden lightened, my mood beguiled

I knew that instant, my Angel named,
  and in that moment, we friends became

With all the magic in his heart
  my life rebuilt, he drew the chart

For two short years he gave me all,
  and fifty more I still recall

How at a crossroads he there stood
  a lighthouse shining, and always would

I owe so much to that young man
  who took me in and took my hand

And saved me from a life unhinged,
  and me a stranger—but not to him

Bob may be gone, but deep inside,
  his smile stays, his goodness shines

If I may live another year,
  his words I’ll carry close and dear

And thank my Brother from the sun,
—for the grateful man that I’ve become

(Villanova Pennsylvania: February 12. 2018)
        ‘Read At Bob’s Funeral, 2/24/18’

Did you try to take it with you,
  did you really think you could

Are those moments that you sold for cash,
  now spent and gone for good

Did you try to buy forgiveness,
  choosing darkness over light

Are your memories long forgotten,
—new horizons barred from sight

(Villanova Pennsylvania: May, 2017)

A prisoner of devotion,
  a Saint indentured pure

The light now holds him captive,
  on knees bent to the floor

His silence for a jailer,
  its sentence now unlocked

With handcuffs loose and falling,
—their key from heaven bought

(Las Vegas Nevada: January, 2017)

Gray Mountain, Arizona

                                      October 2nd, 1995

Out of gas again! The chill that ran down the back of my neck when passing that last open gas station should have given me pause. I was so sure there was still a gas station open in the middle of the Navajo Nation, one that served great fry-bread, and one that would get me to Tuba City with a quarter tank to spare. As I fiddled with the radio, tuning into the Navajo language network, the fear inside of me was already questioning what the night might bring.

Six years had passed since I had been down this road. The gas station I remembered was now boarded up and deserted, just like the dreams of most of the people it used to serve. With not enough gas to either press onward or go back, I became a prodigal wanderer in search of a distant Samaritan. I was now seeking in the remoteness of my spirit — the hospitality of the kind.

                        In The Remoteness Of My Spirit

In eight more miles, I saw a gravel road leading to a small ranch house a quarter of a mile at its end. To the right of the house sat a Hogan, telling of native inhabitants inside. In this part of the west, near the New Mexico / Arizona border, it was assuredly Zuni or Navajo, and I bet Navajo, as I parked the bike and walked up the long stone driveway.

I left the bike back on the road to seem like less of an intruder and walked up to the front door while rehearsing what I would say. I was hoping that someone was home, and if they were, that they would open the door. People were very scarce in these parts, and new people usually brought trouble along with them as part of their welcome.

To my great surprise, an attractive middle-aged native woman opened the door before I knocked and said: “Yes, can I help you?” They were warm words coming from the middle of such loneliness that surrounded me, and I explained to her my situation and that my gas was almost gone. She looked down the long gravel driveway for what seemed like forever and then said: “The only gas that my husband Charles and I have is in our white pickup truck which is around back.”

She told me that her name was Juanita, and she was sure that her husband would help me. She then said: “He has just gone into the Hogan ‘to sweat’ and would not be out for more than an hour. If you will remove your shirt and shoes, you could go in and join him, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. Just make sure to announce your presence before walking through the flap.”

Still in my heavy riding suit, I took off my jacket and shirt and the padded boots I wore for touring. I felt a greater weight being lifted from me than just the clothes that I removed, and although I didn’t understand the feeling, I wanted to go inside.

I walked the short distance to the Hogan and stood outside its entrance wondering how I would feel having a stranger walk in on me. The silence of the open spaces overwhelmed me, as the sound of my heartbeat was the only thing I heard. With all that was inside me, I heard myself say: “Charles, my name’s Kurt, and your wife Juanita said it would be OK to come in and talk.” I stood there for a minute that seemed more like an hour until I heard a muffled voice from inside say: “All right, please enter.”

As I stepped through the flap the temperature change consumed me, and the steam coming off the hot rocks made it difficult to see. In the far corner of the Hogan, and with his back to the wall, sat an Indian man bare-chested and shoeless, with his head bowed and hiding his eyes. He had a bright yellow, green, and red bandana tied around his forehead. Its tails drifted down his back with the two ends resting on his belt. With his head still lowered he spoke again, asking: “Please sit down and tell me what has brought you to this place.”

I explained that my bike was almost empty, and he paused for a long moment before saying: “Your path has today led you in the direction of your own choosing. Sometimes without looking we most find our way. You now need to be able to find this inside of yourself once you leave”

                             Sometimes Without Looking …

Finally raising his head, he invited me to sweat with him. Already feeling the effects of the steam, and without any hesitation I said, yes, and we sat there in silence as all things started to change. He asked if I knew why the native man does this? I said: “It was for purification, and to come in contact with himself.” Then raising his head slightly, he said: “You surprise me strange visitor, you know more than was required and more than most know.” He then told me “I was expected,” and that he knew I was coming. He had known it inside himself since the last moon.”

                         He Had Known I Was Coming

He then spoke again: “We also sweat to come in contact with our past lives and those of our ancestors. It strips us of all place and time, focusing only on what’s real. Bow your head and think of nothing, and let the steam come inside you being thankful that on this day the Great Spirit has brought you to me. I will know what is happening, you don’t need to tell me, just feel the steam reach inside you as it frees you from all else.” As I did, a peace replaced my conscious self, and I felt my body leave the dwelling. I saw a distant ball-field of my youth, long ago and very far away.

My father was pitching to my grandfather who was catching. The in-fielders were all faceless and the outfield was gone. Through a connected vision I watched my grandfather pass a signal to my father, and staring as hard as I could I watched for the ball. My father wound up, pitching something toward me, and as it got closer it turned into a white bird with red eyes. The bird flew down low and went completely around me, and then coming up from behind, it rested on top my head.

I could feel its sharp talons grab my scalp as we lifted off slowly. Our speed increased, as we traveled to great heights out of the ballpark and into the dark. I don’t know if the flight lasted minutes or hours. I know that I did see my whole life, both the past and what was to come. I saw my children’s, children’s, children, standing off in the distance, all wearing a sign asking: “What is my name?”

We flew over the Great Canyon, the home of my Mother. We swooped down on the river as our reflections were released to the sky. At the North Rim. the talons let go and my body was now weightless, and in a mindless free motion I was allowed to begin again.

With this, I heard the gentle voice of Charles calling my name. Not from anywhere outside, but his voice was calling from within saying to me that: “Everything was all right and it was now time to come back.” I opened my eyes and Charles was still sitting with his head bowed before me, and without my uttering a word he said: “Ok, let’s go get you some gas.”

I ran to the bike and got the plastic siphon hose from the trunk, as Charles backed his truck down the long driveway, parking it as close to me as he could. We stood there and watched the small tube breath new life into the Venture, and he insisted that I fill the tank all the way to the top. I tried to pay him, but he refused and only asked for a favor — asking if he could ride on the back of the bike with me to a spot about five miles distant.

I waved to Juanita as we took off together, and in a few short minutes he tapped my shoulder saying: “This is the place.” As he got off the bike, there appeared to be nothing but desert and rock in the fading light. I watched him for as long as I could as he slowly walked East off into the darkness with my deliverance in hand.



Kurt Philip Behm

Dying alone on foreign land,
  death now grips his blessed hand

Never choosing time or place,
  but method certain,
—the Angels wait

An oak to fall on alien soil,
all seeds to heaven thrown

His words cast free to light the dark,
  that ‘Good Night,’
  —now his own

(Villanova Pennsylvania: January, 2017)

Defaulting on all past
  and future sins

The weight of their debt,
—the present rescinds

(Villanova Pennsylvania: June, 2017)

If you think it’s just one thing,
while believing it’s not

Or you hope it’s another,
then folly’s your lot

If you swear it sits outside,
as you dream from within

All meaning encrypts,
—and your eyes close again

(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2016)

Are you the hero
  in your recurring dream

Or the victim
  of a life undone

Are you the ambassador
  for all you esteem

Or a fugitive
  —a soul on the run

Are you a real friend
  beyond trial and strife

Whose allegiance
  now stalwart defends

Are you the true master
  of all your desires

Or the ghost
  —of what sleep can’t befriend

(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2016)

Golden Hair

It was Christmas 1973,
as I straightened up his brace

A disabled body with unconquered mind,
best friends in different states

As she walked straight down the cellar steps,
my future in her glance

Dressed pure white, she’d come from work,
her clothes did then enhance

The beauty in her heart and beyond,
with one look did reveal

As she walked half down the thirteen steps,
sitting sideways to conceal

All lovely strewn and golden haired,
with eyes both blue and sharp

Her face a lovely countenance,
my light now through the dark

She looked at me dismissively,
and feigned a smile weak

As if to say without the words ...
you fall short of what I seek

She’d heard the rumors in disbelief,
and got up to turn and leave

I followed to where her mother stood,
and with her help did I then plead

I said that night to myself alone,
that if one thing I shall do

I will marry this girl with the golden hair,
as God has made so few

A lifetime now passed, then half again,
she still looks at me that way

Not hiding the love she feels inside,
until my dying day

No words then gleaned or ever built,
for feelings such as these

My pen now empty and eyes stare blank,
at what my heart can only see

To love her once was not enough,
yet no more was I allowed

My chest so small for that so big,
her golden hair my cloud

If I was blessed with just one wish,
and knew it to come true

Just one more day with golden hair,
—whose love so fine and new

(Villanova Pennsylvania: February 17, 1978

There are many futures,
—but only one past

(Villanova Pennsylvania: September, 2016)

Thoughts ignite
And words burn
As everything considered,
—turns to fire

(Villanova Pennsylvania: August, 2016)

My world is different, my world is foreign,
  your words do then remind

My vision captive, my soul unpledged,
  the music solely mine

Never lonely, but then alone,
  my solitude you fear

As strangers swarm around your doubt,
 —whose falsehoods you endear

(Villanova Pennsylvania: June, 2017)

Slowing down the motor,
  running low on gas

The lies, the HOV lane,
  the truth off in the grass

The speed counterproductive,
  it warps and then transforms

The magic in the stillness,
  the beauty heaven born

The light becomes a blurring,
  as darkness settles in

Till stepping off the madness,
  and travelling within

That fatal rush to judgment,
   a quiet now sustains

One choice to stop the treadmill,
  —all motion rearranged

(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2017)

Will there ever come a time
  when time doesn’t matter

Will there ever come a date
  when the days won’t connect

Will there ever come a phrase
   its words devoid of meaning

Will there ever come a song
  whose melody won’t play

Have you let what you celebrate
  turn into celebrity

Has your message been transformed
  into a billboard or sign

Have you become a caricature
  of a free and lasting symbol

Have your words become mere chatter
   —in your pandering for fame

(Villanova Pennsylvania: June, 2016)

Time may be short,
  but the memories are long

Of a life I now celebrate,
  in poetry and song

My body though challenged,
  my eyesight forlorn

Those promises I kept,
  the blanket that warms

The sun may be setting,
  with leaves turning brown

But the path clearly marked,
  my journey, my crown

As the light becomes dimmer,
   and the music portends

Not sorrow but gratitude,
—this message I send

(Villanova Pennsylvania: October, 2016)

The deeper we get into
  the idea of what’s real,
    the further away we become

Trying to put our formulas
  into a box,
    is folly zero sum

Like the horizon before you
  that you see but can’t touch,
    the truth forever disguised

Its costume to change
  with every reason we claim
    —only the search bringing meaning to the wise

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2019)

Where do dreams go
  once you’ve dreamt them

Where do feelings go
  once you’ve felt them

Where does pain go
  once you’ve suffered it all

Where do memories go
  —once you’re gone

(Villanova Pennsylvania: December, 2015)

Unchained from the structure,
  enslaved by the words

My voice to the wind,
—freeing silence unheard

(Villanova Pennsylvania: November, 2016)

In the end,
  the only thing left,
  —is what people remember

(Villanova Pennsylvania: November, 2016)

Love freely given,
  no heart denied

A soul in flight,
—Angelic skies

(Villanova Pennsylvania: December, 2016)

Live divorced from the past,
  engaged to the future
   —but married to the present

(Villanova Pennsylvania: January, 2019)