Consider that the universe we see is an illusion, and we are, in fact, in a notional box with a transparent top on which the stars and moving planets wheel in concert, and on whose sides are revealed the images of the world around us. Inside this notional box we are surrounded by family, friends and work, light, dark and weather, as well as the illusion of the passage of time. The purpose of the experiment is not readily apparent to us, nor is the nature of the experimenter, though the answer to both may only begin to be understood with the realization by us that life is an experiment. We can call the experimenter God if we choose, as many have. This is not a new notion, but has occurred to many over the aeons the experiment appears to us to have been underway, and is predicated on the belief that there is and must be a Creator God. I am inclined not to dismiss the idea that we are an experiment because it seems to me to be just as valid an idea as that an infinite reality consisting of an infinite set of different realities exists outside a known set of rules.

The stars and planets whirl apace
Inside the box that seems like space
While on its sides the box reveals
Illusions while the box conceals
The emptiness that is outside
That the experiment must hide
infinity is just a box
Infinity illusion mocks
What seems to us infinite years
Inside a box of finite tears
Is but a blink of God’s right eye
For time lives not, nor can it die
Nor measured, for it has no mass
So by illusion time doth pass
As in the box we simply wait
Elusive and illusive fate

The Pentagon announced recently that it was storing all its most sensitive data in the cloud. But what is a could but water vapor heated by the sun, its motions determined by the vagaries of the winds, far more substantial than any man-made invisible cloud of electrons. Putting all your most sensitive data in an electron cloud guarantees that someone will easily gain access and be in possession of your innermost thoughts. Cloud borne secrets are no secrets at all, any more secure than the top secret documents stored on Hillary’s server or Weiner’s laptop were secure. If you want to keep a secret, write it down on paper and put it in a locked file drawer. Leave the fleecy clouds to others. And while you’re at it, cancel your email account and write letters. On a manual typewriter. Do these simple things and you can sit back and watch the clouds roll by.

Great spies have been around since there were little babes to christen
Some hiding in the grass to see what’s up
While others stood by double doors real quiet so to listen
Or lurking by the king to fill his cup
George Smiley and the Circus and the lovely Mata Hari
Worked hard to ply their craft in secret style
They’d gather all the data and the secrets they could carry
And gain your confidence with just a smile
Those were the days when spying was a recognized profession
And tradecraft rules were written down in books
And spies when caught would die before consenting to confession
And sultry women spies got by on looks
But now the spying’s done by agencies with large computers
A terabyte is nothing to those chaps
Who scan the skies behaving like a pack of anxious suiters
Believing that their love’s untrue perhaps
The cloud now covers Earth and blocks the all transparent sunlight
Chock full of secrets there for all to see
While Smiley mutters grumpily, “There’s nothing now that’s done right”
And Mata Hari scoffs and pours some tea

The poet knows not of the wild neutrino
That travels at the stately speed of light
A datum that astounds the campesino
Who asks if light’s so fast how come there’s night
To sculptors marble marks their lives as lithic
The painter lives for pigments and for tints
While I who thinks my life has been terrific
Remembers long times past but nothing since

The wager has never been, Is there a God? The existence of God has always been a given, whether named Marduk, Zeus or Yahweh. No, the wager has always been, Is God on my side? For if God is on our side, then all is possible, but if God is not on our side then nothing is possible. When Christian Europe came out of the Dark Ages, they wagered that God was on their side, hence all was possible, and produced a civilization unmatched in the history of man for science, art, philosophy, music and law. They wagered on glory, and ruled the world. But the leftist ruling elites of Europe and the Anglosphere now wager that not only is God not on our side, but that there is no God, and consequently nothing is worth dying for or even living for, and they have turned their countries over to outsiders. Glory is gone, replaced by apology, indifference and defeatism. A people or a nation may experience a temporary spate of glory, whether of a thousand years or a thousand days, but when it is over it is over, and not likely to return, for glory, while exhilarating, is exhausting, and history is replete with the names of the exhausted husks of the once glorious and gloried.

The peak of glory passes, and is never to return
It passes all unnoticed as the rot begins to burn
The smart set still holds parties while the politicians sleep
The while the country trembles as it heads into the deep
When gone it’s gone forever, as of glories gone before
As Babylon and Britain found the glory is no more
So too do tribes and nation states fade slowly out of sight
For glory lasteth but a day, from dawn to darkest night
The mighty armies march no more, yet ghosts may still remain
The chariots of Hittites passing dimly in the rain
The billowed sails of Nelson driving ships of mighty oak
While on a hill in Darien the sea to Cortes spoke
Yes glory is ephemeral, and yet the stories live
For glory is its own reward, and is but God’s to give

Mad Gundar is my name
And thunder is my game
I sail the storm-tossed seas of ice and cold
I cross the ocean wide
Beyond the great divide
Once crossed by ancient mariners of old
To lands far in the west
Where once none would have guessed
That skraelings would have danced upon the shore
We landed in a bay
And gathered round to pray
And gave our thanks to god almighty Thor
We stayed for but a while
For thanks to skraeling guile
Those skraeling arrows did us greatly harm
We struggled to resist
And greatly did insist
We came thus not to conquer but to farm
The long trip home was tough
The sea was very rough
And many seamen took it quite unwell
With dragon ships awash
With pemmican and squash
The decks became aslick with every swell
When Norway we did reach
And stumbled up the beach
We loudly claimed discovery’s holy grail
We found the western lands
With glory in our hands
And history would praise our gallant sail
But history I cursed
Leif Erickson was first
According to the folks who were not there
The lies they told did hurt
My voice grew shrill and curt
But truth to tell most folks seemed not to care
Yes Gundar is my name
And thunder is my game
And though my crew and I are getting old
We sail toward setting sun
And till Leif’s fame is done
We sail the sea of ice and bitter cold
Yes, we shall sail the sea of ice and bitter cold

The older we get the less we think about China and politics and the more we think of our friends of the past, remembering the good times, the laugh times, the girls and women, and most of all, we think about our best buddy, the guy we grew up with, drank beer with, argued with sometimes all night until we staggered, singing, to our homes. The faces and voices are as clear and sharp as the day they were formed. The faces and the voices and the memories last only as long as we do, but that’s enough.

My best friend lived only a bike ride away
The playground and baseball each bright summer day
We played high school ball and we dreamed our bright dreams
But life is quite different from high school it seems
We drifted apart, each with children and wife
But mem’ries of youth stay the rest of our life
Then there was the woman who fair took my heart
Just eighteen we were, but ‘twas love from the start
Sun-lit golden hair and eyes cornflower blue
Nose dusted with freckles and instant I knew
But she went away, and I think now and then
I’d give all I have just to see her again
As she was back then when the world was still new
Sun-lit golden hair and eyes cornflower blue

By the middle of the 19^th century it was clear that the days of principalities and tribal boundaries were at an end, and it became obvious to all that the nation-state was the final stage in the political development of humanity; Family, Clan, Tribe, City-State and now Nation State. I would argue that the next stage is the Connected-State, the state in which all the nations in the world are finally connected by advanced technology, particularly the electric grids that connect all human activity, from farming to space flight. This Connected-State will last until the next major solar flare to hit Earth and the electro-magnetic pulse wipes it all out, frying everything on the electric grid. The cities will die first as the water systems stop delivering water and food shipments no longer arrive from outside. Hunger, thirst and violence will destroy the cities and surrounding areas as tens of millions of starving people from London, New York, Seoul and every city on Earth, large and small, spread out in search of food and water. Natural flowing water will sustain many, but hunger will eventually kill them as the supply of domestic animals quickly gives out. The rural areas will be overrun, and farmers defending their families and food kill the city dwellers until finally overwhelmed by the surviving hordes from the cities and suburbs now deserted by the living. Eventually, most people alive when the EMP pulse hits Earth will quickly die, the unlucky few survivors too softened by civilization to long survive an inhospitable world. The least hard hit areas will be those portions of the Earth where connectivity was minimal – sub-Saharan Africa and the more mountainous parts of central Asia. Essentially those peoples who never quite rose above the Tribal phase of development will have enough survivors to sustain human life on Earth at at least the Family level, to gradually and over time regain the level of a Tribal culture. And since these people never got above the Tribal level the first time around, the chances are the Earth will never again see the likes of a Periclean Athens. When will this happen? We are told we may expect a solar EMP to strike Earth about once every 150 years. The last one to strike Earth was the Carrington Effect in 1859, long before there was an electric grid. Do the math.

His weathered face lit by the dying fire
His tiny grandson peaceful by his side
He watched the sky that never seemed to tire
As in the darkness something dying cried
Around the patriarch his kin lay sleeping
Soft summer grass stirred lightly in the breeze
The strange bright dreams were only his for keeping
Their meaning though made all his blood to freeze
The future was his past and stood out clearly
Defying all experience and mind
The dreams showed that the future had paid dearly
For gathering to them and all their kind
The knowledge of the universe surrounding
That led to hubris and to pride of place
He lay down in the grass, his heart still pounding
And to the dying fire turned his face

In Britain recently, refrigerators were exploding due to the substitution of green approved refrigerant gases to replace the non-green approved CFCs (Freon).

The monster sits there ill at ease
A-humming in its way
Knowing that he cannot freeze
And gonna blow today
The dishwasher just sits and stares
The range is hunching low
They’re waiting knowing they’ll get theirs
If fridge decides to blow
It’s quiet now and all is dark
Another day is gone
When suddenly the range cries Hark!
It’s coming up on dawn
They’ll be down soon it’s breakfast time
And fridge is sounding queer
And there, the clock, I hear the chime
And fridge cried, Mind the beer!
For I’m about to blow this joint
I’m sick of being told
That I’m no good, and what’s the point
If I just can’t get cold
And that is how it ended as
The fridge took his last ride
And out he went with much pizzazz
And everything inside
Now covered all including range
And dishwasher as well
And all ‘cause whackos forced the change
To environmental hell

The battle of Chickamauga was fought September 18 to 20, 1863, between the Confederate Army of the Tennessee and the Union Army of the Cumberland. Today the site is peaceful, but on those three days Hell had visited Earth.

A distant hint of butternut
In silence came the host
Across the fields to where the bluecoats lay
In woods beside a little stream
Where men shared nervous talk
And thought of home that warm September day
The drums grew louder as the ranks
Of iron willed men drew close
Then halted as the files were shaken out
Then with a cry the lines advanced
Into the bluecoat flame
On either side was never any doubt
Amid the flags and bugle calls
The dying and the slain
Lay still in place in God’s embracing arms
And there they’d stay ‘til the sweet sound
Of bugles called them home
To see again their mothers and their farms

The president of the United States may be the most powerful man in the world, but he is still only a man, conflicted, at times unsure, for life is an inky black pool in a beautiful blue grotto, and sometimes life is bitter cold ice.

He swam effortlessly through the deep, sparkling water. Like a seal, he thought, intoxicated with pleasure, delighted with the long stream of bubbles rising slowly to the distant surface. Giant ferns reached up from the bottom, swaying gently in the wake of his passing. Fantastically colorful fish of all sizes and description darted past, unmindful of the intrusion, incurious, intent on their own lives and destinies. Below him a column of tiny lobsters marched across the sandy bottom, their feet churning up clouds of silt. He reached for a lobster and held it in his hand, wishing he could talk to it, wishing he knew what it was thinking, what it was feeling. As he watched, large fish attacked the lobsters, who defended themselves by raising their pincers, a dense forest of sharp claws, a living, serrated shield. The fish, undeterred, slashed at the lobsters, tearing away the carapaces, shredding the flesh, which floated free, to be gobbled voraciously by smaller fish attracted by the carnage. Deeply disturbed, he swam toward the surface, toward the shimmering light, a light that unaccountably seemed to recede slowly into the distance. With a sudden shock he realized he was no longer in the blue grotto, but on the ice, crouching by a breathing hole, spear poised, waiting for a seal to come up for air.

A voice inside, a soft spoke word
The grotto was his mother
And in his mind the voice he heard
The ice his little brother
But was he lobster or the seal
Perhaps the mad crazed fishes
Perhaps the grotto would reveal
The nature of his wishes
The bubbles rose in trail again
The lobster still in place there
Still marching, meaning what? What then?
How much can troubled soul bear?
He did not know if he were seal
Or man or lobster searching
For meaning. Is a life for real?
Or just a staggered lurching
Toward light within the grottoed walls
Or on the northern ice floe
He lives in governed marble halls
And knows that he could not know