Is sudden brilliance revelation or intuition? Most would say the answer clearly is intuition. But what if what we think of as intuition is actually revelation, that the magicians were right and the scientists are wrong? What then? Did Newton, by reason, introduce to the world what we now call modern science or was it revealed to him? And if so, by whom or what?

The sun doth neither rise nor set
The Earth rotates and so we get
Illusion that the sun has moved in space
Copernicus though saw the truth
And said the sun sets not, forsooth
The Earth doth move while Sun remains in place
But was this truth before revealed
To ancients who saw a star field
As gods who spoke to men in garbled tongue
As revelation of divine
Intention noble or condign
And from such revelations magic sprung
Does revelation live today
Does magic still have much to say
About the universe and all of time
The last magician is the one
Who shows us that the gods have fun
By tantalizing us with garbled rhyme

It has been known for centuries that the body of the dragon is filled with fire and blood, and that when pierced by the tusks of its natural enemy, the elephant, the fire and blood spew out in noisome horror. Today’s dragon is the current version of the radical leftist Democrat Party, in which the bloated body is so filled with blood-red hatred and malice that when the elephant  gores the dragon with his tusks, hatred, malice, lies and anger spew out in a mass of stinking bloody sludge.

Oh noble beast of sacred tusk
Triumphant over dragons be
And keep us safe from dawn to dusk
Preserve this land from sea to sea
The dragon dead, its venom spent
Will yet arise and breathe again
And of his sins will not repent
But seek the dominance of men
Oh noble beast of sacred tusk
Bestride the dragon underfoot
And by your noble maddened musk
By dragon fire turn to soot
The body of the dragon slain
And to the wind disperse the vile
And horrid creature who would stain
The land with stinking, hateful bile

Sanctuary – from Sanctum Sanctorum, the Holy of Holies. In the Christian Church the sanctuary is where the altar is. In medieval times any miscreant who gained the sanctuary of the nearest church was safe from the ire of the king. San Francisco, among many other cities, has declared itself a sanctuary for criminal illegal aliens, keeping them safe from the brutal fascist Federal law enforcement. It would seem the only sanctum sanctorum in San Francisco is the gay bathhouse.

The Donald says he’ll cut off funds
To sanctuary cities
And that defiance of the law
Will lead to ringered titties
With giant rollers squeezing hard
On nippled sanctuaries
And causing much financial pain
Just ask the actuaries
Defiance lasts only so long
Then watch the cities holler
When Donald puts on them the hurt
And cuts off every dollar
We’ve got a sheriff now in town
Who doesn’t take no sasses
He’s got a six gun on his hip
And he’s for kicking asses

Under threat of assassination by a the Blood Tubs, disguised as a woman and guarded by armed Pinkerton agents, Abraham Lincoln stole into Washington DC in March of 1861 amid chaos and rebellion. One month later, April 12, 1861, in Charleston, South Carolina, Brigadier General Pierre Gustave Toutant Beauregard gave the honor of firing the first shot of the war to a civilian, a small man named Edmund Ruffin. There has been, as yet, no firing on Fort Sumter moment, but it will come, though we do not yet know who or what will play the role of Edmund Ruffin. We are in a civil war, even though at the moment only one side is fighting. The problem for the side that is fighting, the Radical Left, is that the other side is bigger, stronger and better armed. It is commonly believed that half the country is radical Leftist, but it is not. Not everyone who voted Democrat wants to tear the country apart. That fraction of the Democrat Party we call the Radical Left is just that, a fraction, and it is they who are driving the country toward a Fort Sumter moment. And when it comes, the radical Left will be utterly destroyed, the few survivors curled up in a foetal position and crying for their mommas. It will not be the military or the police that will take them out, they are too disciplined to completely eradicate the scum. No, the job will be done by ordinary guys who have had enough. Cop killing Black Lives Matter, you are warned. Black clothed masked rioters paid by George Soros, you are warned. Political enablers of anarchy, you are warned. A man named Edmund Ruffin thought it would be fun to pull the lanyard and send an iron ball hurtling toward a big, brick fort sitting in the middle of Charleston harbor. Just having some fun. There are a lot of Edmund Ruffins running around, egged on by the press, their professors, the Democrat Party. You are warned. Beware the enraged white man, for none of you, not the radicals, not the press, not the professors, not the Democrat Party, will like Reconstruction.

While you’re chanting death to Whitey you demand we bend the knee
And confess our sins and cower but you will not hear our plea
To be left alone to lead our lives without your screaming fits
As you trash our Constitution and you tear our laws to bits
A hard working man is privileged because his skin is white
While elitist college snowflakes burn down buildings as their right
You are lucky little children that so far no Sumter act
Just the steady drip harassment till the boiling becomes fact
It is then that you will find that you have seen your final sun
And your dying eyes discover pulling lanyards is no fun

In his epic poem on the mighty oak, the great Roman poet Quercus Deciduous, wrote:

A giant oak, his branches spread
Beholds the scene with quiet pride
The young man to be shortly bled
That man’s great love be shone
The Druid in his cloak of white
So loving of the mistletoe
Of which the gods take all delight
Prepares the altar stone
The sacrifice stands quiet, near
Hands bound, the mistletoe is blessed
The Druid’s chant rings in his ear
The blade all sins atone
The mistletoe accepts the blood
The sacrifice is placed with joy
Into the bog, deep in the mud
To sleep in peace, alone
The gods are satisfied, they share
Their joy with countless forest oaks
Who tend the mistletoe they bear
Through which the gods make known
Their love for mankind and to show
Their keeping whole the people who
Revere the oak and mistletoe
And sacrifice condone
For only sacrifice reveals
The hunger of the human soul
For that which only loving heals
And born in mind and bone

The Left knows what we need, The Donald knows what we want.

The Senator will pass a bill
A man whose organs bleed
That takes what’s mine against my will
For things I do not need
The tax man says here are the forms
Pay on the dotted line
A portion goes to safe space dorms
The rest of it is mine
My doctor says Obamacare
Is almost dead, long due
And then he looks, a steady stare
And says and so are you
The government takes all my stuff
I’m almost skin and bone
The Donald says enough’s enough
We’ll just leave you alone

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

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

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

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