The Harmony Of The Spheres

In which the Universe resonates with the sound of strings, unheard by all but the very young and the very old.

A summer night, a dreaming child
The stars alight, the evening mild
The song is heard, though not a sound
No spoken word, yet all around
The velvet strings, the golden chords
That tell of kings, and great rewards
The childhood dreams, the secret smile
The music streams, as all the while
Among the stars, the planets play
The deep voiced Mars, who bids thee stay
And listen to, the tones so bright
That glisten too, and spreads the night
With dreams of elves, and faery queens
Of book filled shelves, and magic beans
Of knights of old, and ladies fair
With hearts of gold, and flowing hair
And so to sleep, my darling one
Your soul to keep, my darling son

The Weaving Of Reality

Reality has no purpose; its only function is to be. What we see, what we feel, what we think we understand is but the weaving of supposed reality into the daily fabric of our lives. Every living creature throughout the universe has its own reality, never duplicated, never shared. That is the eternal reality.

The moving world as dimly seen, the quickly fleeting thought
Is but the shadowed woven fabric being falsely wrought
On looms of fired neurons planting fertile, phantom seeds
That quickly stream like stardust on bright strings of shining beads
Of purest light of dancing photons, flamed of changing hues
Of changing vistas, changing shadows, swiftly changing views
The weaving fabric tells of future and its golden gleams
The woven fabric shows the past is torn and shattered dreams
Till loom and weaver wrap the fabric of reality
Around the prism of the truth and its finality
That shows reality is woven shadows dimly clear
And not at all what is or was as it seems to appear

The Remembered Past

Time is an illusion, but the past is not, for the calendar doesn’t lie. For me, the remembered past will always be neither better nor worse, but simply the timeless present.

As children do, I once beheld the distant stars
Aflame on moonless nights like glinting shields
Converting the black sky to massed and shining fields
Of stern and gilded warriors on guard
Much later I discovered that this was not so
That stars were simply fires lit by God
To show the way to mariners who slowly plod
The vast and empty sea of my back yard

I navigated ageing just by being there
And soon I found that I had finished school
I found her working in a small firm steno pool
But soon enough reality took hold
A family depended on my working hard
And so I did, as so did all of you
The stars of moonless nights a dark and faded view
The warriors on guard now dim and cold

For time is an illusion, but the stars can wait
They wait till we are home, our journey paid
When once again we see the star-bright fire laid
Upon the deep black distant marbled sky
More brilliant than a thousand fiercely burning suns
That shines upon the sea of my backyard
Where now it’s I who stands at ease on solemn guard
Where mariners and gilded soldiers lie

So silent and so peaceful that they seem asleep
In serried ranks beneath the dreaming past
Where present aimless dreaming flights must be recast
Into the fresh dreamed dreams of yesterday
To be remembered far into the distant time
Where mariners and gilded soldiers take
The wonders hardly wondered till they rise and wake
Remembered pasts where gilded soldiers play

Dreadnought

For those who have not already read it, I heartily recommend Dreadnought, by Robert K. Massie. A truly magnificent account of Jackie Fisher and the building of HMS Dreadnought in the face of fierce opposition from most of the higher echelons of the Royal Navy. (The equally magnificent sequel, Castles Of Steel, takes the dreadnoughts through WW1 and the clash with Germany.) The pre-dreadnought Royal Navy had some 68 battleships, some three times the number of her nearest competitor, and Dreadnought made all 68 obsolete, removing Royal Navy superiority and taking everyone down to zero. But Fisher saw that if he didn’t build a heavily armored all big gun battleship, someone else, probably Germany, would. In the United States, Teddy Roosevelt had just built The Great White Fleet, and overnight it too was obsolete, leading the US Navy to join Great Britain and Germany and embark on a dreadnought building program of its own in a departure from a long national policy of isolation that has held to this day. So the building of HMS Dreadnought had consequences far beyond being the first next generation battleship.

All big guns and speed to boot
Her 15” big guns could shoot
At ships hull down, near out of sight
To obsolete foes overnight
Remarkably, a Donald tweet
Like Dreadnought, makes quite obsolete
The politics that went before
And drove a dagger to the core
Of politics that wowed the crowd
By doing something not allowed
He’s keeping promises he’s made
The dagger deep, the twisted blade
Undoing the Obama mess
We pray that God the Trump man bless

What Does Progressivism Want?

Sigmund Freud famously said “What does woman want?” Today we must ask What does progressivism want? They will tell you they want peace on earth, equality, prosperity, security and happiness. They will cheerfully agree that La Dolce Vita is the ultimate goal. Do not believe them.

Progressivism has one goal
Progressivism wants your soul
They want to put you on the dole
Thus binding you to them
They want to tell you how to live
And as a further additive
Decide how much that you must give
To show your love for them
Progressives want to keep their sheep
In shuttered spaces made to keep
Them safe from shadows that may creep
And grateful thus to them
The Left believes a tiny slice
Of leftist thought at little price
Will cause the sheep to sacrifice
Their lives and souls for them
Forever in a magic haze
Of silver nights and golden days
So wonderful it will amaze
And all because of them

What Does Woman Want?

A stumped and puzzled Sigmund Freud once cried in exasperation, “What does woman want?” I believe I have the answer.

The women’s movement shorn of lust
Dawned as the Pill became a must
And turned our little daughters into tramps
By telling them that sex is fine
As long as the man buys the wine
And there was nothing wrong with being vamps
The female body was a shrine
Belonged to no one, but was thine
To do with as a lady damn well pleased
No longer shrinking, sad and shy
Just walk right up to any guy
And smile to watch him squirm at being teased
Blunt language, the four letter word
That in the past was seldom heard
From dainty female lips was on display
As women swore like lumberjacks
And posed seductive on their backs
While smiling in an ingénue-ish way
Oh it was fun some little while
But soon the ladies changed their style
And politics took hold of female bods
They marched for causes they were told
Would show that women too were bold
And Steinem, Bella Abzug were their gods
So here we are, the women’s game
Where men will always get the blame
For everything that happened since the Flood
They claim they only want what’s fair
They claim they only want their share
But we all know that what they want is blood

A Flip Of The Coin

Everything has a half-life, and the half-life of socialism is only slightly greater than that of the fruit fly. The pendulum, when it starts to swing, never stops at the vertical, but always continues until it reaches the opposite extreme. The Common Market was a good idea, but not enough for the socialists, and so they gave the people of Europe the European Union, run from Brussels by unelected bureaucrats. If almost half of Europeans under the age of thirty are unemployed and have no prospect of employment, how long does anyone believe this condition will continue? The answer is clear. It will not be long before the young look about for political alternatives, as they are now doing. Nationalism is not so quietly gaining ground, and the EU has no power to prevent the collapse of the socialist model. The only question is, Will the swing from the soft Left ultimately lead back to the hard Left, back to totalitarianism, or will it lead to free market democracy? Given the history of Europe, at the moment it’s a flip of the coin.

And so it ends, a man, a horse
With cheering crowds and joy of course
The motorcades, the throbbing drums
The doling out of misers crumbs
The strong in charge, the weak on knees
With bird pecked bodies hung from trees
The rule of law a notion scorned
No memory, the past unmourned
But all was calm, the old way gone
The continent the strong man’s pawn
But then, by chance, the coin may light
On heads and all may be all right
But socialism, when it dies
Has always led to whimpered cries

On Weaving A Rainbow

Science can explain the facts, but it cannot explain the mystery. Scientists will tell you that rainbows were explained to everyone’s satisfaction by Descarte and Newton, who determined the rainbow is formed by the reflection of light from the surface of a raindrop, the reflections separating the light into its separate wavelengths, thus creating the bands of color. Do not believe them.

Late morning, sun-laced misty rain, the river bank in bloom
With flaming dogwood mirrored on the quiet flowing stream
I chanced to look beyond the bend, and spied the faery loom
Transparent and as gauzy as a dream
Around the loom the faeries danced, I listened, but in vain
The tableau silent, faery wings, so blurred with motion bled
And as spellbound I watched the dance, I saw that they had lain
Upon the grass a brilliant bow of red
That slowly rose above the trees and formed a flaming arc
Then anchored by the flurried wings into its chosen place
A phantom bow of colored light, so red it turned the bark
Of dogwood into dancing flames of grace
Now from the loom came orange light, with orange shadows cast
By faery wings as light emerged in gleaming colored bows
As weavers crafted yellow, green, each larger than the last
And quicker paced came blues and indigos
All hastened to the growing bow, and set atop the first
By swarms of hurried faery wings intent on building well
While at the loom a violet, came tumbling with a burst
I held my breath, afraid to break the spell
Into the air the violet bow now gloriously crowned
The shining rainbow fashioned of the purest spectral light
And as I watched, the faery wings dropped slowly to the ground
And with their loom they faded from my sight
Again I saw the river bank, the dogwood, sun-splashed mist
The rainbow shining quietly above the river’s banks
A mystery that I believe shows God has truly kissed
Our world with wonder, all without much thanks

The Lifting Of The Veils

The great anomaly is that time is an illusion but the calendar doesn’t lie. And so, having attained a certain age, I occasionally wonder where I’ve been and where I’m going, and what, if anything, is the purpose. We are all of us bounded by the twin illusions of space and time, much as a property may be bounded by the woods. Which leads to the question, is the boundary woods real, or is it, too, an illusion? If space and time are illusions, and if the boundary of our lives is an illusion, what then are we experiencing? Is all an illusion, and if so, to what purpose?

We live our lives in certitude that all about is real
That memory recalls the past, and rain and cold we feel
That time flows past at leisured pace, the future yet to come
Time’s flowing stream depositing the past, that is for some
The distant future and for others pressing present times
But all is an illusion and what’s real is unmatched rhymes
Where man and sparrow think the world is what it is he sees
But what is seen is different for the mantis shrimp and bees
The bounding woods we enter at our birth and leave at death
Are ours to walk about alone until our final breath
And so alone we live surrounded by all that we love
Till in the woods we hear the singing of the mourning dove
And yet in the illusion we seem real to those we leave
And in the woods that binds them they stand quietly and grieve
While we unbounded by the woods discover that the whys
Of life is that free of the woods that nothing ever dies
For man and sparrow, mantis shrimp and bee alike shall live
Beyond the woods and know the joy that Providence will give
To all who enter into life and walk the wooded trails
To those who journey through the woods to lifting of the veils

Bloody Hell

The Left reacts violently to the words Clash of Civilizations, but of course it is, and the Left is complicit in the destruction of Western and Christian values and traditions. But values and traditions are hard to kill, as the would-be killers will inevitably discover, to their sorrow. Do Muslims kill Christians for no reason other than that they are Christians? Of course they do, but the Left has gone to great pains to see to it that we will not ever see it that way. But some of us do see it that way, and the tipping point will be reached and that will be the end of it. Islam is a killer religion, and throughout history Muslims have killed all they deem as The Other.

They push old wheelchaired men off boats
They smile for cameras cutting throats
They kill at weddings, brides and grooms
They drag young women from their rooms
And stone them, laughing as they kill
While shouting it is Allah’s will
They dress young kids in vests and bombs
And send the pictures to the moms
They cheer in streets as thousands die
As terror kills them from the sky
An embassy is no safe place
From this disgusting, vilesome race
They kill on Christmas holy days
And now it’s time to show the ways
The West has found to kill a man
As quick and dirty as we can
We’re slow to anger, but we will
And one day soon there’ll be a kill
A thousand suns will burn the grass
And all the sand will turn to glass
For only then will terror end
We never break, but sometimes bend
But bend enough and something gives
And now awake the Cruzer lives
To don his helm and sharpen sword
And send them all to hell’s reward