D-Day, the sixth of June, will pass quietly in the West. Too quietly. We tend not to notice these ancient reminders of past glories these days. Our attention is fixed not on survival, but on other, more important, things. The men who went ashore that day, onto a hostile beach, onto a hostile continent, are far removed from us in time and space, for they knew who they were, they knew what they were fighting for, and more importantly, they knew what they were fighting for was important. Not so today, when far too many of us here in the West believe nothing is worth fighting for, that there is no difference between us and the people who are trying to kill us, no difference between people who kill little girls and cut off heads before the camera and a society that poured water up the noses of three terrorists in order to forestall further attack. We have lost our way, lost our nerve, lost our souls, and before long we will have lost our country.

 

 

The Western world is dead and gone

And with it any sense

Of waking to a peaceful dawn

Of striking warlike tents

The Taliban, those bearded men

So brave when beating girls

Have dazzled our fair left again

Who love their glistening curls

The North Koreans built their bomb

Without a word from us

We greeted it with rare aplomb

And counted it a plus

That Mr. Kim agreed to take

More money and more oil

When he agreed no nukes to make

 And wrapped us in his coil

Iran will shortly have the means

To kill six million Jews

While we put out behind the scenes

That really isn’t news

Where once men fought for home and hearth

Now men fight not at all

For cultures that have lost their worth

Where duty does not call

Where have they gone, our men of steel?

Who saw things rearranged?

It isn’t they who seem unreal

It’s only we who’ve changed

 

 

North Korea has issued a warning that if the South does anything, anything, even to the extent of mildly protesting the sinking of a South Korean warship by an NK submarine, it would mean war. Why would Kim say such a thing, do such a thing, when the South Korean military is much more powerful than the North Korean military? Does the nut job running North Korea have something up his tailored sleeve? Is he planning something nasty for South Korea while sipping whiskey with a nymph-like starlet on his lap? We don’t know. Satellites can tell us much, but not what’s in a man’s mind. Donald Rumsfeld famously said, “There are things we know we know, and there are things we know we don’t know, but there are also things we don’t know we don’t know.”

 

 

What we do know is Kim is nuts

He loves his whiskey and his sluts

He hungers for to kick our butts

And one day he will try

The thing we know that we don’t know

About the North Korean show

Is can their nukes make something glow

Or are they being sly

What we don’t know right now is that

If Kim does move will tit for tat

Start fires into which the fat

Will quickly start to fry

 

 

President Barack Obama recently announced a New World Order, though the parameters of that new world order seem fuzzy at best. It is difficult to say whether the president is ignorant of history or just unheeding. Napoleon thought he had established a new world order, and so did Adolf Hitler, to name just two of many, and we all know what happened to those world orders. Establishing new world orders is a difficult thing, and I doubt our Hussein has the capability or iron will required to pull it off. It’s possible he just misread his teleprompter. Maybe he intended to say “the New World (meaning the United States) is ordure,” and thought the teleprompter said “order”.

 

 

When Lyndon said that all the world

Was now one happy family

The disagreement that unfurled

Was sort of Vietnamily

When Bonaparte said Europe’s mine

A Continental order

A chorus rose to shout that’s fine

Just don’t you cross our border

When Adolf lit the world war spark

And danced a jig in Paris

He thought he’d broken Babe Ruth’s mark

He was no Roger Maris

And so it goes with our Hussein

The world is of his making

He’ll lower seas and stop the rain

His voice will leave foes shaking

With finger shakes and wagging tongue

He’ll curb the world’s new Hitlers

The New York Times his praises hung

In spite of his belittlers

Who say that power is not speech

Sometimes it’s force that’s needed

But Obie smiles it’s in his reach

And history unheeded

 

 

The Greek debt crisis is cascading like dominoes falling down the slopes of Mount Olympus. German voters are very unhappy that their government has voted their tax dollars to bail out a profligate bunch of people who are rioting and killing in an attempt to keep their bloated salaries and pensions that are paid for by borrowed money the Greeks never had the slightest intention of paying back. The Euro is trembling. Portugal, Spain and Italy are on the brink of Greeklike collapse, the EU central bank is scrambling to prop everything up, and the markets are betting the Eurozone is a political dream of the past. And don’t think it won’t affect the United States. The Cascades are more than mountains, the cascades are a mountain of debt that will soon come grinning with outstretched hand.  

 

 

The snow-peaked Cascades loom afar

Horizon bonded, chained

They wander not, immoveable

Majestic, God explained

But other cascades loom anear

Unchained by graft and greed

Let loose by ideology

And long time leftist creed

They threaten now to cascade down

The mountains that we’ve made

To bury us in snow and ice

Man made, snow peaked, cascade

 

 

In the current crisis on the Korean peninsula, the State Department is operating on a principle that Hillary Clinton calls “Strategic Patience”, which is another way of saying “Doing Nothing”. The problem is that while Hillary and Barack are sitting back and doing nothing, other actors in the drama may be about to burst onstage. Hillary might stand still, but time and the world do not.

 

 

Hillary Dillary dock

The time ran up the clock

She waited in line

Said all will be fine

My patience is a rock

The Chinese sit and wait

They know there’s an end date

Impatience grows

That’s how it goes

And time is getting late

When time runs down the clock

There comes a fearful shock

No longer fun

She’ll cut and run

Hillary Dillary dock

 

 

The cartoons of Mohammed will not die, though some of the cartoonists have and will. Facebook recently had a post asking everyone to draw a picture of Mohammed, but was very quickly taken down under threats from muslims. That’s what we do best, back down, bow and scrape, no matter who demands we back down, bow and scrape. The ruling class of the West so loathes and despises itself that it has no choice but to comply with the demands of those it knows in its hearts is superior to them in every way, most importantly in the ability and willingness to use force to get their way. That is why I will never again draw a picture of Mohammed or his little cat Muezza.

 

 

I took my pen and drew a face

And horror found ‘twould not erase

I’d drawn a turbaned fulsome beard

And drawing thus I greatly feared

That muslims would the drawing see

And cry that it was blasphemy

I drew a cat and that was worse

My pen now seemed to be a curse

For on the cat to my surprise

I’d drawn the great Mohammed’s eyes

And on Mohammed, how I wail

I’d placed the cat’s beguiling tail

What could I do, a knock, the door

Three bearded men stood there before

They said my infantilish art

Not worth the great Mohammed’s fart

Then open mouthed they all three blinked

Mohammed’s cat had smiled and winked

 

 

Memorial Day. A day to remember all who died in defense of freedom, even in defense of the freedom of those who choose to spit on the flag and its defenders to spit. There have always been soldiers, and always will be. And thank goodness for that.

 

 

THE TIMELESS CIRCLE

 

Past green trees newly leaved, new green fields on either side, we marched. Distant white farmhouses, distant dogs barking nervously, cloaks against the misty Spring rain, we marched. North Africa the rumor, Zama the town. We didn’t care. We marched. And sang. Sang because we were young, sang because we were immortal, sang because we were Scipio’s boys.

 

All the silver’s for Centurions

The gold is for Triarii

And all the sweet young women are

For Publius Cornelius

 

Publius Cornelius Scipio. We would die, and they would call him Scipio Africanus. We marched, to the sea and the waiting ships.

 

The long swells laid many of us low, but finally, blessedly, we reached the bay and the river. Alexandria at last. We formed up on the quay, a bit unsteadily, still weak from the seasickness. Fifers leading, we marched up King Street, past capering boys and waving and cheering men and women. Braddock was but waiting on us, it was said, before pushing off for the great western forests. Fort Pitt was the rumor, and that meant a long campaign for the Forty-fourth Regiment of Foot, but that was all right, we were young and immortal. The long sea voyage and the longer campaign was a hardship on the married men, but for the rest of us women were a luxury of camp. But that was all right too, for we all loved the same woman, and her name was Brown Bess.

 

In the forest clearing we made camp, fires flaring into light, the smell of bacon on the cool night air. We thought of home, and of the coming days. The Cilician Gates was the rumor, then south along the coast to Aleppo, where was waiting King Muwatalli and the rest of the army. The weather, thanks to Tarhunna the Weather God, has been fair. Crown Prince Hattusili has told us the Pharaoh Ramses has left Damascus and is marching north, that the fight, when it comes, will be a hard one, for the Mizziri are accomplished warriors. We lay on our blankets, and in the growing dark came a voice, singing softly, an army song, a song a man sings when far from home and family, a song that reminds him of why it is he fights, why it is he dies. Welling up from the darkened field, the voices of the Tuhkanti regiment joined the lone voice, singing of home. Across the fields it spread, to the other regiments, sitting in the dark by their dying fires, until the night was filled with the sadness of young men thinking of mothers and sisters, wives and sweethearts, seeing their fathers in the fields, hearing the crickets and the birds and the wind in the plaintive leaves.

 

Hatti, beautiful Hatti,

Will I see thee once again?

Will I see the morning sun?

Will I see the evening star?

Hatti, beautiful Hatti,

I can see thee now.

 

The last line trailed away, the last notes faded on the soft evening air, until in the distance, from the direction of the Golden Aspens, another ubati took up the song, and once again the sad voices filled the night.

 

Hatti,beautiful Hatti,

I can see the fields aglow,

I can see the mountain snow,

I can see thee now.

 

We sang the final chorus, all of us, the entirety of the Kussara Division, our voices swelling on the final line. I can see thee now. The last sad notes faded into the night, and we rolled ourselves into our blankets and our thoughts, knowing that sleep will make us whole, knowing that tomorrow we’ll be soldiers again.

 

The coast road to Aleppo was clear, the Mizzri still far to the south. Rumor was if we hurried we would reach Kadesh before the Mizziri. The sea sounded very near at hand, and through a break in the trees we could see a beach.

 

Curiously, the beach looked peaceful. Boats coming ashore as if on a summer outing, no machine guns, no mortars, no arty. Equipment rolling off and onto the beach, long files of men trudging up the beach to the exits, not a shot fired.  It was surreal. I found the beachmaster, and he stuck out his hand. “Welcome to Okinawa,” he grinned. Inland, clear in the distance, lay a range of hills.

 

Purple hills shimmered in the heat hazy distance, the day growing hot. The muted sounds of birdsong and insect hum swirled around us. Across the field, drawn up in battle array, waited the Carthaginians. We raised our shields, and at the order, advanced.

 

 

Mamma always called me sun

That’s why I am a star

I wonder had she called me son

Would I be where I are

Writing verse of little note

Trying for a laugh or two

Hoping that someone will quote

Something that I’ve rhymed for you

 

We have always been told that nursery rhymes were clever means of avoiding the authorities while lampooning the high and mighty. I don’t know who the three men in the tub were unless they were a trio of limp wristed courtiers too powerful to risk making fun of. Winkin Blinkin and Nod of course were the three phases of sleepy time for good little boys.  Humpty Dumpty was a cannon placed on the walls of the Royalist city of Colchester, England, during the Civil War, and when Cromwell’s men blasted down the wall so came down Humpty Dumpty.  Mary’s garden refers to the quaint habit of Mary Queen of Scots of hanging Protestants during the Religious wars following death of Henry the VIII. There are a couple of claimants to the origin of Old King Cole, but the one I like is that Cole (Coel) was a Celtic king under Roman rule and his daughter gave birth to a man history would later know as Constantine the Great, of whom I have written at length. One day we’ll tell the hair-raising story of Jack and Jill.   

 

 

Rub a Dub Dub

Three men in a tub

Sounds pretty freakin’ unsanitary

No matter what their lifestyles were

And there, of course is the rub

 

Winkin’, Blinkin’ and Nod one night
Sailed off in a wooden shoe

Where they were captured by Somali pirates

And had to be rescued by Navy Seals

Who thankfully knew what to do

 

Old King Cole was a merry old soul

And why wouldn’t he be

With a pipe full of hash

And a very large stash

And all the fiddlers he could ever want

Who afterwards would hand him his bowl

 

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall

Humpty Dumpty had a great Fall

Though Spring and Summer were a bust, the Winter banquet circuit was a blast because he got it together for the World Series, was MVP, and won game seven with a salami and afterward said he never shoulda thrown me a fast ball.

 

Mary Mary quite contrary

How does your garden grow

Well it’s organic she said and that means I get higher prices for my stuff than I would have but other than that business is slow.

 

 

 

Philosophers have pondered the question, Can you be a saint without God? One the one side are those who say a god is necessary for there to be a saintly man, while others say a man can be saintly with or without a god. The problem comes in defining God. Was Zeus God? Yes he was, to those who believed he was. Is God therefore anyone we believe to be God? If so, then there is no God. Or there is a God, and he has many faces. There was a time, not so long ago, when men thought gods controlled the very winds of the earth, but today those winds are controlled by state bureaucrats. So are bureaucrats God? Do not bureaucrats make things work, just as God makes thing work?

 

 

The plains without the buffalo

Grand banks without the cod

Not one without the other

And not saint without a god

For god is not a wise old man

In flowing robes and beard

He lives within our hearts and minds

And nothing to be feared

Was Damien on Molokai

A bureaucrat or saint

He made the healing process work

Without a trace of taint

Did good men live in time of Zeus

Or Amon Ra or Thor

Of course they did as did good men

Of many gods before

It isn’t who is in your heart

That makes you good and true

It’s what is in your heart that makes

A saintly man of you

For every heart of darkness there’s

A man who strives with might

To tear away the darkness and

Restore the world to light

 

 

Ever hear of steganography? No? Well, according to Wiki, steganography is the art or science of writing hidden messages inside otherwise innocuous messages in such a way that no one, except the sender and recipient, suspects the existence of the hidden message. Steganography is not new, it’s been around for centuries, but seems now to be taken to new heights by the Obama administration. The new agreement with Russia on Iranian sanctions seems tough when read, but upon further reading one finds curious omissions, curious, that is, if one is not aware of the art of steganography, where the hidden message is the message. And the hidden message is that both Obama and Putin want a war in the Middle East, probably for different reasons. The sanctions allows Russia to install SM-100 ground to air missiles in Iran, while not permitting the sale of totally irrelevant stuff like heavy tanks. The installation of these missiles guarantees war between Iran and Israel, because Israel cannot allow Iran to get nuclear weapons, and if the missiles go in Israel will not be able to stop Iran from proceeding. Therefore Israel must attack the nuclear sites before the missiles go in, and that means war, and war means Iran will close the straits of Hormuz, and the US will have to force it open if the world is not to come to a screeching halt through the lack of oil. But does Obama want to force open the straits of Hormuz? I believe he does not, for by not doing so the price of oil goes to $500 a barrel, and the economies of the West and of the United States go in the toilet, and the crisis allows Obama to rule by diktat. Just a thought. Not all hidden messages are Jabberwocky.    

 

 

It’s Jabberwocky! Alice cried

The message must be here!

For surely word things cannot hide

That much is clearly clear

Ah no, my child! the red queen laughed

It’s hidden, don’t you see

To try for it will drive you daft

‘Tis quite a mystery

I smile at those who would decode

Up spake the Cheshire cat

For none knows but the Willow toad

And therefore that is that

Mad Hatter! help me, Alice begged

The message must be read!

Mad hatter cried, I have it pegged!

From A on through to Zed!

See here the words that doth surround

Where other phrases be

That clear in stately praise redound

Upon a cup of tea

I think it’s more vexed Alice said

There’s trouble in the air

I see a world just filled with dread

And no one seems to care

Our president just preens and smiles

Just like the Cheshire cat

He’s sure his nuance and his wiles

Will lead to rule diktat