The Fire Of The Sun

Murderous Muslims have stormed a school in Pakistan and killed over one hundred and sixty people, most of them children between the ages of eight and twelve. Just another example of the murderous mentality of Islam. Fourteen hundred years is a long time to be at war with a religion that is determined to kill us all. The adherents of the religion of peace see the current seeming weakness of the West as an opportunity to do what they had failed to do at Vienna and Lepanto, and when they acquire nuclear weapons they will use them on us without a moment’s hesitation. It is time to be unabashedly bloody minded.

It is time to build the pyre
It is time to get it done
It is time to light the fire
Of the all consuming sun
Time to burn out the infection
Tear their hearts out with our hands
No debate and no reflection
Kill them as their god demands
Let the flames grow ever higher
Finish off what they’ve begun
It is time to light the fire
Of the all consuming sun

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I, Uni Verse

Many physicists today believe there is more than one universe, that in fact we should not think of it as the universe but as the multiverse. The multiverse does not exist. We are one infinitely tiny part of the infinitiverse. There are, in our own universe, billions of galaxies, each with a black hole at its center. Each of those billions of black holes contains a universe similar to ours, each with billions of galaxies, each galaxy with a black hole at its center, each black hole…and so on. There are, therefore, an infinite number of galactic center black holes, each with an infinite number of galaxies, a concept I examined in my sci fi novel Almost Paradise, and sadly, in the end I didn’t know if my characters were alive or dead, and equally sadly, neither did they. On the other hand, since I typically post a verse only once on any given day I suppose that makes me a uni versal poster, though there is an occasional multi verse.

When looking into deepest space
For just a sign, a friendly face
To tell us we are not alone
That E. T. has someone to phone
But what if what we see out there
Is but a part of what we share
With all who live in one black hole
Contained in baby’s porridge bowl
Where all the stars we see alight
Are torches marching home at night
From hours working in the mines
While searching grumpily for signs
A universe exceeding strange
Where passing Go induces change
And black holes beckon so intense
Upon horizons with events
And thinking so I fall asleep
And pray the Lord my soul to keep

 

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Baby It’s Cold Outside

Maybe one day rural Siberia will look like Beverly Hills. – Richard Fernandez, The Belmont Club, in an essay on the probability of our current world turning upside down.

I spoke to a young lady the other day and asked why it was so cold in Beverly Hills. She thought for a moment and then said:

“It’s all because of all this talk
Of galaxies and such
And guys who like to walk the walk
But don’t do very much
Where universes come in threes
And things are upside down
And that is why we have a freeze
In this my old home town
Siberia is rich and warm
With their Rodina Drive
While I now live in an old dorm
And barely keep alive
I tell you bro it isn’t fair
The good life it has flown
Siberia is now the there
And if I’d only known
That things would flip on us so fast
That they’d be warm, me cold
With every breeze a wintry blast
And icy fingers hold
Me in its grip till I turn blue
It’s all George Bush’s fault
They say there’s nothing we can do
It’s just that damn gestalt!”
She walked away, wrapped in her furs
Of warm Siberian mink
A stranger in a world not hers
By gosh, it makes you think

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Soothing Salve

Those in Washington who think nuking up Australia and Japan will solve all the problems in the Western Pacific are delusional. In WW2 Japanese destroyers had names like Phosphorescent Foam and Mist Of Flowers. If they do build a Boomer they’ll probably call it Soothing Whispers or something. As for Australia, the Aussies proved themselves fierce fighters, but there’s just too few of them. We can only hope if things blow up they will blow after noon on 20 January 2017. But if the Chinese move they will not move on Australia or Japan. The Chinese military knows there are no roads to Australia, they will have to go by sea if they decide to go, and so they have wisely decided to head north and west instead, for in that direction lies the oil of Russia and the Middle East.

There are no roads
To the antipodes
You cannot drive to Oz
A swell place I hear
With its dinkum beer
And the sheilas wear no bras
In the northern isles
There are no smiles
From Honshu south and north
The IJN
Will not again
Rise up and sally forth
The Chinese smirk
And get to work
The Gulf oil they will have
While in the West
Our very best
Speak only soothing salve

 

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Shale We Dance?

The United States is now the world’s largest producer of oil and gas, no thanks to Obama and the whacko environmentalists who tried to stop it. Nevertheless, fracking shale has turned the world upside down, with Russia and Saudi Arabia wondering what happened to them on their way to destroying the United States by bankrupting us with two hundred dollar a barrel oil. I spoke to an environmentalist recently and she stopped driving spikes in trees long enough to give me a withering look.

“You think you’re winning now,” she sneered
“Your fracking and your shale
But you can stuff this in your beard
Your horrid plans will fail
You want to level every tree
Despoil each waterway
But this green world will not be free
Until that wondrous day
That greens like me will truly rule
And you will be in jail
We’ll shut down every mining school
And dig up all the shale
And oil rigs will be all aflame
And nuke plants all destroyed
We’ll round up everyone to blame
And give the unemployed
The job of seeing all of you
Be strung up by the neck
My child will have but nature’s view
From my new redwood deck”
I left her to her furied sneer
Without a backward glance
But in the distance I could hear
Her gentle green earth dance

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Death By Asteroid

The talk now is about mining the asteroid belt, with the mineral value of even a small asteroid calculated in the billions of dollars. The plan is to capture an asteroid, move it out of its orbit, and steer it toward Earth, where it will somehow be safely landed or maybe mined in low Earth orbit. If all goes well, if everything goes perfectly, there will be no danger. But nothing is ever perfect. Accidents will always happen. Might a runaway asteroid of the proper mass and velocity do to us what one of them did to the dinosaurs and ninety-five percent of all life on Earth some sixty-five million years ago?

A dinosaur stood idly in the rain
As in the distance rose a brilliant flare
At breathless speed it bore down on the plain
Passed overhead as forests were stripped bare
The tremor as it struck caused fluid rock
To burst to fire as the pluming dust
Began its circling, turning on the clock
That killed most of the life on this world’s crust
We know that accidents will surely come
The early trains and the steamboats come to mind
A death or two is a small price to some
But asteroids can sometimes be unkind
The dinosaurs knew not that they would die
But we would know beforehand what’s in store
As telescopes tracked death across the sky
And most of life on Earth will be no more

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To A Border Collie

Yes, yes, the NSA has some sophisticated gizmos that can capture my emails without my being any the wiser, but no software and no hardware, no matter how sophisticated, no matter how magical seeming, will ever equal the intelligence of a Border collie. I got my first Irish setter pup for my thirteenth birthday, and have been an Irish setter man ever since. Until now, when a Border collie pup came bounding into the family and turned it all around.

Not smart at all my handsome Irish setter
But if you want a dog I thought none better
When I was young we walked the fields together
It mattered not the season or the weather
There’s something ‘bout a boy, his dog, that others
Can see at once the two are just like brothers
I never thought another breed would jolt me
But now a little dog has got aholt me
A handsome, oh so playful Border collie
So smart you have to stop and say, by golly
This pup sure seems to know what I am thinking
He looks at me with eyes not hardly blinking
Intelligence lies deep within his breeding
I caught him with a book that he was reading
I cannot say he puzzled o’er the wording
But pictures tell a lot ‘bout sheep and herding
I thought he looked a little sad and wistful
I thought he yearned to grab a great big fistful
Of tiny sheep and herd them through the thistle
Obeying both his master and the whistle
That pierced the air and turned the bright’ning morn to
The scent of grass and work that he was born to

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A Fight To The Death

    In the high grass, in the gathering dark, the president of the United States hears footsteps slowly draw near. The footprints stop and a voice says, “So we meet at last.”
   
“Putin?”
   
“So it is,” Putin smiles, “and I understand it is to the death.”
   
“Pistols, swords, bare knuckles? What are the rules?”
   
“I know of one rule only,” Putin laughs, “and that rule is there are no rules.”
   
A voice whispers in the president’s ear. “You have the power.”
   
“What power?” Obama cries. “If I have any power I don’t know how to use it!”
   
“You have to imagine it,” the voice says.
   
“I’m going to imagine myself back in Washington, sound asleep. Where am I?”
   
“You are on the surface of the static universe.”
   
“GODDAMIT, NO I’M NOT!” Obama screams. “I’M IN HIP HIGH GRASS AND PUTIN IS COMING FOR ME!”
   
“An illusion,” the voice soothes. “Nothing exists until someone imagines it. You imagined a Putin and so he is real.”
  
“Then if I unimagined him he will disappear?”
   
“You cannot unimagine him.”
Alone in the dark, the rustling grass ever nearer, the voice inside him says softly,

“Imagine the Devil, the Devil exists
Imagine a nuked up Iran
Imagine Obama who smiles and insists
That Putin is no Genghis Khan
That all Putin wants is a new place to start
A new place where he can be Czar
The one thing that Putin holds close to his heart
Rebuilding the USSR
But why does he threaten, why is he so gruff?
Why is it he threatens you harm?
He’s building new nukes and new 
bombers and stuff
Despite all your efforts and charm
To show him that you are two knights hand in hand
In thinking that force has no place
In modern day statecraft where life is too bland
For Reagan and Bush’s arms race
And now he’s upon you, the rustling has stopped
His breathing can softly be heard
Your world view is small, the big picture is cropped
He’s waiting for your final word
A fight to the death or submission complete
A free hand to do as he please
The cold war is on and it’s not a repeat
You’ll not have a Reagan reprise
Fight him you must for it is war to the death
But I see that you have cast your lot
For in fear you’ll continue until your last breath
To think Genghis Khan he is not”

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The Hipster Legionnaires

The 60s hipsters all dressed alike, talked alike, thought alike and smelled alike, all in the belief that by dressing alike and acting alike they exhibited their contempt for conformity. You still see 60s hipsters in the malls, gray ponytails below the shoulders, all dressed in the hipster uniform, still believing they are marching together for a better world.

The ranks aligned, they marched as one
The hipster Legionnaires
Their bronze helms gleaming in the sun
Unmindful of the stares
That greeted them from lesser folk
Who smiled and shook their heads
And snickered at the garish joke
That was the Legion threads
The uniforms were patched and torn
As if they had much wear
As if they often had been worn
And changed to suit the air
That wafted as the gentle breeze
From what is hip to not
Changing color with such ease
To match what’s newly hot
The hipster legion, ranks maintained
Marched briskly to a prize
So changeable yet still contained
True beauty in their eyes

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Laurel Wreaths

Most of us have never been awarded a laurel wreath. We fantasize, at times, of the life we never led, a life of daring, of honors and accomplishment. For the great majority of us the honors are never bestowed, the laurel wreaths never worn. And yet, we often forget that true honor comes from just doing your best and doing your duty, to your family, your country and to God.

Sometimes I think of all the things
That I might well have done
A cure for cancer, a hit play
Would surely have been fun
An MVP, a Series ring
A trophy case jammed full
Of honors, laurels and the like
‘Twould take a horse to pull
A rock star with my name in lights
A starlet on my arm
A winner of the Triple Crown
From my Kentucky farm
We dream these dreams behind closed doors
So that no one will know
Then go to work and do our job
In rain or sleet or snow
Wreathed laurels do not make a man
Nor honors write a life
A man’s defined by how he loves
His family and his wife
Our daydreams are but might have beens
Of laurels never won
But I’m content for I have both
A daughter and a son
To whom I’ve left a world at large
For them to make their way
I see them realize their dreams
And cherish every day

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