A new bunch of murderous Muslim fanatics has arisen who call themselves the Islamic State of Iraq and Syria, or ISIS. These guys are determined to create a new Muslim Caliphate, and they make al Qaeda look like a group of community organizers. So murderous is ISIS that al Qaeda has disowned them. ISIS uses terror as a weapon of first choice, executing all who are not Sunni Muslim, be they Shi’a Muslim or Christian infidel. They routinely kill all the men and boys in a Shi’a or Christian town they overrun, sell the women into slavery and keep the girls for themselves just in case they run out of goats. I spoke to an ISIS fighter just this morning and asked about the new Caliphate. He smiled and said,

The glories of the Caliphate
Will shine like blazing stars
And Baghdad will be glorious again
We’ll kill all of you white folks and
We’ll burn down all the bars
And parcel out the women to our men
We’ll sweep out all before us and
We’ll put all to the sword
Who dare to speak their mind or make a fuss
We slaughter and deflower but
We never waterboard
For that would be too cruel for even us
We thank the US Army for
Equipment that we take
From Army of Iraq who you have trained
They run like rabbits and we laugh
At soldiers who are fake
And executed all who had remained
We count the days and know we have
Two years to do our deeds
Obama he play golf while we draw maps
Of places that we overrun
And those that fill our needs
Believe me none of us are taking naps
Obama call himself Hussein
But names don’t make the man
Saddam five times the man, don’t make me laugh
We know Barack and all we do
Is go according plan
While Barack bows low to his female staff
Yes we be ISIS and before
You know we be in towns
Like London and New York and Paris too
We act like soldiers not like ladies
Dressed in evening gowns
Your death will be a blessing ‘fore we’re through
He laughed out loud and smiled and said
He’d see me down the road
Then grinned and turned his new Humvee around
I knew that killing such as he
Was rows that must be hoed
And doing it would take boots on the ground

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When Time Was Short And Life Was Cheap

Scientists claim that life extension medical technology is right around the corner, and children alive today will live for 150 years, with further advances extending the human life span to undreamed of lengths. But what happens when the United States, the science and medical and technology innovator for the world, becomes an ossified gerontocracy and all new ideas and innovations are stifled by two hundred year old leaders who grew up in a different time and place and point of view? Who’s going to make great grandpop give up the reins to the family business? Will established writers ever give over to younger voices? Probably not. If I were a two hundred year old successful author I would most definitely feel I would be better read than dead.

When time was short and life was cheap
A man would find eternal sleep
About the time his sons were men
And wound the clock around again
The generations rose and fell
Determined by the tolling bell
As sons reprised the father’s life
And daughters made someone a wife
It all made so much perfect sense
The shorter life in recompense
Allowed for newer ways of thought
To build upon what forbears brought
But now we find extended years
Bring forth the gravest of all fears
That father will not step aside
That novel thought he’ll not abide
That innovation is now dead
And what is past remains instead
For once a point of view is formed
That view becomes how thought is normed
The innovator now asleep
Till once again life’s short and cheap

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The Eternal Beauty

Western civilization is crumbling all around us, and the fearful cry it may soon be extinguished by the barbarians. If it be our fate to join the dodo and the passenger pigeon I propose we take the time to see and appreciate the incredible beauty of the universe before the barbarians close it down to us. The universe is beautiful beyond imagining, from the dimmest galaxies at the farthest red shift edges to the deepest ocean canyon on planet Earth; from the scream of a hawk to the fragile beating of a butterfly’s wings; from a Beethoven sonata to a sad and wistful Gaelic folksong; to the majestic arc of an upper deck home run to the hysterical laughter of a small child as dad pushes the swing ever higher. We are surrounded by beauty, and yet most see it not, living their lives in blinkered loneliness, unaware of the stars and the subtle music of the passing seasons, to cry out, at the end of life, that all was in vain, as yet unaware that an unimaginably greater beauty awaits, should they choose to see it. As for the murderous Muslim barbarians, they neither appreciate the beauty of the universe nor will they live long enough to notice it.

A lonely rock strewn shoreline’s end
The smiling face of an old friend
Twin fawns safe by their mama’s side
A laughing child’s first horseback ride
A summer night with stars so low
That woodlands shimmer with their glow
A dusty, winding country road
Past fields that recently been sowed
With seed that burst to life the land
As joyous as a high school band
The gleam of distant Saturn’s rings
The star filled spheres where music sings
Of beauty nested in the folds
Of new mown fields and ancient wolds
When all seems lost, at darkest night
It’s then that strong men rise to fight
Barbarians have come before
And felt the Western way of war
We’ve been bequeathed this land we trod
Where God is beauty, beauty God

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A Wicked Place

The world is a wicked place, the cynic would say, with corruption and debauchery at every turn. But there has always been corruption and debauchery, and always will be. The problem with being cynical is that the cynic never looks in the right places, for if he did he would find that corruption and debauchery are trumped by goodness and laughter. It all depends on where you look.

The world is such a wicked place
The cynics smugly say
The leadership is a disgrace
Corruption rules the day
Our leaders have a hidden face
We see not the decay
And willingly we just grimace
And let them have their way
But cynicism is, at base
A death wish on delay
A loser’s game in any case
Though cynics may say nay
In truth this world is full of grace
With flowered fields in May
And little girls dressed all in lace
As children laugh and play

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My Country

The terrorist outfit ISIS has conquered parts of Iraq and declares itself a nation, the new Caliphate. You do not become a nation just by saying you are. You do not become a nation until you’ve won. Prussia was a city state, first among equals of the string of German city states along the Baltic, until Bismarck united them into a new German nation. The Confederacy was never a nation, but had they won they would have been. Iraq was never a nation, but a monstrosity cobbled together by the British and French after WW1 from the stinking corpse of the Ottoman Empire. ISIS will not be a nation no matter how much of Iraq it conquers, and to believe otherwise is delusional. One might as well call the Mafia a nation.

A nation has history, and culture and art
And science and rivers and streams
And people who work on the land from the start
And reach for impossible dreams
A nation has industry, cities and towns
And wheat fields uncut by the knife
And millions of kids in their caps and their gowns
All bursting to get on with life
A nation is hard working mothers and dads
Who bring up their children to care
For country and family eschewing the fads
That promise that life will be fair
That nation is ours, yes the home of the brave
Where scoundrels may sometimes take hold
We sometimes elect a slick con man or knave
And sometimes a man of pure gold
It matters not though to a nation like ours
For presidents come and they go
If followed by curses or candy and flowers
No wonder we’re loving her so

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The Fire Of The Gods

Ring around a rosey
Pocket full of posey
All fall down
A deadly strain of Ebola is ravaging West Africa. People don’t trust hospitals, don’t trust the European doctors who risk their lives to care for them, and throw the bodies in the street where they infect others. The UN has responded to the crisis by holding a meeting. During the bubonic plague in Europe in the Middle Ages, people thought holding a bouquet of flowers to the nose would keep you alive. It didn’t. They all fell down. And neither will throwing bodies into the street or holding meetings keep you alive. The gods care not for posies or meetings, it all ends in the fire of the stars.

So small they seem, so distant far
Some call them Stella, others Star
And while they seem but points of light
They fill the sky of darkest night
Along the vast ecliptic plane
The stars as dense as summer rain
Galactic center bright as snow
Beckon us with fire glow
The gods look down on tiny man
From heights that only god can scan
Infinity as some would say
And all constructed in a day
The gods of man so small in size
Claim all we see is but a prize
Created thus despite the odds
Bequeathed to us by they the gods
And yet the stars so fiercely burn
That man in time will surely learn
That right is right and wrong is wrong
And heed them all the psalmist’s song

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Master Of The Game

The troubles in Gaza continue apace, despite the occasional cease fire, cease fires Barack Obama claims are the result of his super smooth diplomacy. Barack Hussein Obama believes he is Master of the Game, and that, as Master, the world spins clockwise or counterclockwise as he desires. Barack Hussein Obama is indeed Master of the Game, and the game is one I played as a ten year old. It is called Go Fish.

Cards close to his vest, the Obama then said
“Please sir, do you have any 2s?”
The well armed young Muslim just smiled, shook his head
And said, “Sir, you surely amuse.
I’ve missiles and car bombs, machine guns as well
And tunnels we’re certain to use
To kill all the Jews and despised Infidel
And yes sir, I have but no 2s.”
With squinted shut eyes and a harsh wire beard
The Muslim said, “Now it’s my turn
And now my good sir it is just as you feared
Your 8s now I surely shall earn.”
“An 8 I do have, and a knave is to blame!
An ingr8, yes!” O fairly cried
And Ben Netanyahu is surely his name!
A small man I have cast aside!”
Within the dead calm came the harsh words so vile
Obama’s eyes turned into glass
“I win,” smiled the Muslim, “I’ll watch all the while
You kiss wet the Prophet’s smooth ass.”
And so the game came to its well destined close
Obama had gotten his wish
To lose to the Muslims is just why he chose
To play a nice game of Go Fish

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We’ve Come To Help

The Yezhidi, an ancient Christian sect, are trapped in their tens of thousands on a mountain in Kurdistan, and every man, woman and child will die as soon as the murderous Muslim ISIS reaches them. I have long wondered where and when the tipping point would arrive, the point where the elephant tires of the ants biting his ankles and stomps on them. That point, I believe, will come when a nuclear device or bomb takes out London or Paris or Tel Aviv and not before. The Yezhidi will die, despite Obama’s targeted air strikes. Without Special Forces on the ground and B-52s overhead the Yezhidi will die. Without massive heavy equipment rushed to the Peshmerga, the Yezhidi will die. Without the 82nd and the 101st and the 10th Mountain division holding the mountains, the Yezhidi and the Peshmerga will die. None of this will happen under the Valerie Jarrett administration. And so it will come down to the elephant enduring the bites of the ants until the tipping point is reached, after which the Middle East will be returned to the seventh century. The sorrow is it all could have been avoided.

At dusk the distant mountains loom
Against a darkling sky of doom
Yezhidi women softly weep
As hungry children try to sleep
Below them monsters climb the hills
Intent upon the easy kills
In Washington Obama speaks
And bravely claims he rules the peaks
That ISIS will now rue the day
They put the USA in play
He says that soon UN will rule
That ISIS build the kids a school
And feed the older girls and boys
And turn in guns for baby toys
When that day comes, Obama claims
The history books will take the names
Of all, like him, who made the peace
A world where violence will cease
We’ve come to help our Kurdish friends
As soon as we define the ends
In meantime we sit idly by
And watch the brave Yezhidi die

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Afternoon Tea

Sherlock Holmes, standing at the window of 221B, looks down at the intense activity along Baker Street, trying to identify the factor that connects all the many Obama catastrophes.

“Patience, dear Watson,” Holmes says, “now and then
the world is a quite complex place,
where only the very least clever of men
can see what is plain on its face.”
“I say Homes, old fellow,” says Watson at once,
“you seem to imply with your words
that only the densest of men, say a dunce,
comprise the once great Barack herds.”
“Exactly, dear fellow, those chaps at the Times,
who write the most exquisite bosh,
in praise of that fellow and write of his crimes
in grand tones of pish and of posh.
I speak of Obama, a man of small size,
a man without breadth, depth nor mass.
That he fails so badly can be no surprise,
except to the journalist class.”
“But they see no failure,” said Watson in scorn,
“they see not the complex nor faults.
They have no more sense than with which they were born;
they dance while the man plays a waltz.”
Holmes picks up a copy of Watson’s new book
Where Holmes sees the problem first glance
And sees that the Yanks have but only to look
Back home if they’d give it a chance
Holmes moves from the window and fills up his pipe,
says, “Watson, it’s here in this tome.
Americans know that the time is now ripe
to return to the Crown and come home,
to dwell in the land of Disraeli and Pitt
of Churchill and Marlowe and me.
There’s steps on the stair, my dear fellow, please sit,
Mrs. Hudson with afternoon tea.”


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The Desert Horsemen

The sadness of the Middle East is that it has come down to a fight to the knife between the Israelis, who want only to live in peace, and the Arabs, who want only to die killing Jews. There can be no peace settlement when one side has no interest in peace. And so it comes down to this for Israel: kill or be killed.

The desert horsemen swept the land
From Mecca to Khartoum
The Christian cities of the coast
Were soon to meet their doom
The Caliphate extended to
The hills of Hindu Kush
And conquered Spain and then to France
Where close to Tour the push
To conquer Christian Europe paused
No doubt because the fates
Intended that the Turks would meet
Death at Vienna’s gates
Lepanto saw them off at last
Ascendant Europe grew
In science, arts and guns and ships
The many ruled by few
And so for many hundred years
The desert horsemen slept
To dream of conquest of the West
And Allah’s promise kept
Today it is the West that sleeps
While desert horsemen ride
Again to kill the infidel
On Islam’s rising tide
To those who cry give peace a chance
The Arab smiles, amused
He laughs as Western pundits rage
And Israel accused
For in the end it comes to this
A fight now to the knife
Between the Arab wish to die
And those who wish for life

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