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

With rare exceptions the rulers of the world have been men. But rulers are generally only 12 inches tall, with three rulers equal to a yard, some 3.36 inches short of a meter. Women, on the other hand, are usually a little taller than that.

Now take young Alexander
The Issus he did cross
We’re told ‘twas no one grander
Yet missus was the boss
Napoleon he conquered
All Europe ‘cept the Brits
In Russia he got bonkered
And Josephine had fits
Males do the heavy lifting
But females have their ways
The ground is always shifting
And has from ancient days
When hunters crossed the prairies
And thought they ruled it all
A ruler’s length though varies
With most twelve inches tall

Way back before World War 2 Pan American World Airways flew giant flying boats across the Pacific to places like the Philippines and China. A flying boat, for those too young to have ever heard of them, were large four engine airplanes that could take off from and land on water, Great range but slow speed made for long flights, but still much faster than by ship. The most famous of these airplanes was the China Clipper, which flew from San Francisco to China, with stops at a Pacific island or two in between for gas. Then China was an economic basket case, while today China is challenging the US for economic dominance, thanks to the American globalists who transferred their manufacturing plants to China to take advantage of cheap labor. China is using that American money to build up their military, and flood our best universities with smart young people who steal our research secrets and send them back to a China that is preparing to fight a war with us for control of southeast Asia and the surrounding seas. I much preferred the days of the China Clipper.

Pan Am once flew great flying boats
By name the China Clipper
But that was when the seas were moats
Way back before the Gipper
When China posed no greater threat
Than Cuba or Honduras
With China deeply in our debt
No reason to abjure us
But that was then and this is now
And China’s a great power
All thanks to big red Chairman Mao
Who let each bloom to flower
And now they steal our secrets blind
And send us student spyers
We treat the Chinese much too kind
Once sellers now we’re buyers
The Chinese rattle paper swords
Spit fire like a dragon
And threaten to release their hordes
And beat us without braggin’
But China Clippers do not fly
Across the wide Pacific
And I will tell the reason why
And I’ll be quite specific
No longer is the flying boat
The best we can deliver
The B2 is, if I may note
A hydrogen death giver

Fueled by massive illegal immigrant votes and the mysterious behavior of voting machines in deep red precincts to return large Democrat majorities, a bright blue wave swept the House and Senate. The impeachment and trial of president Trump, filled with fake evidence provided by the FBI and intelligence agencies, lasted two years. The blue tsunami of 2020 brought a previously little known California congresswoman into the White House, and Attorney General Hillary Clinton immediately arrested her political opponents and anyone she perceived to be a threat. A wealthy singer/songwriter avoided the reeducation prisons by signing over all his possessions to the Clinton Foundation, allowing him to emigrate. He stood, now, alone, in a light rain, at the rail of the ship, looking back at the statue of Liberty, partially obscured and standing motionless in the rain. He stared fixedly at her slowly receding figure and silently composed a love song to her, superimposing his own words upon the melody of the Courtney Marie Andrews song 500 Nights. He sang the words in his mind, not moving his lips or changing his expression, for the surveillance cameras were everywhere, even on a ship bound for New Zealand. Lady Liberty was now totally obscured by the increasingly heavy rain, and with the words and music burning in his mind, he took one last look back, then faced the surveillance camera and sang the words aloud.

I saw you standing in the rain
My every thought being with you again
But I am not one to complain
Still I remember what we had back then
Five hundred nights, was all it took for darkness to descend
Five hundred nights, we never thought that liberty would end
Five hundred nights
Five hundred nights

When he felt the ship in the chop of the limitless sea he turned and left the rail.

Yes the past is here to stay
But the present’s in the way
Of that grand and golden future of our dreams
Gleaming cities on a hill
Old age vanished with a pill
No the future never comes or so it seems
When man first beheld the stars
He did dream that one day cars
Would propel him quickly to some sunlit shore
And one day when man has tamed
All the galaxies he’s named
He will close his eyes and dream of something more

Political writer Don Surber writes that Obama is the first communist president. He uses a lower case ‘c’, denoting a pacific form of communal governance as opposed to the upper case ‘C’ of Stalinist style communism. I believe Mr. Surber is too charitable. Obama and his entire administration, including CIA Director Brennan, were and are Stalinist Communists, though we have been brainwashed into believing that to say so is to betray the tinfoil hat. The Obama administration was full of red diaper babies who never took off the diapers and who wear them proudly to this day. Anyone remember the Cabinet member who said whenever she felt frustrated or depressed she reread Chairman Mao’s Little Red Book? Or Obama’s principal White House adviser who was born in Iran to American Communist Party parents? Or how the Obama administration was and still is behind the attempt to overthrow the legal government of the United States? And now our colleges and universities are handing out diplomas to tens of thousands of little Stalin grads. As my mom used to say, don’t get me started. They would all be in jail if we had an Attorney General.

Jeff Sessions likes the word ‘recuse’
It lets him sit eyes closed and muse
About the world and all its faults
And all the while there sits in vaults
The documents that surely prove
That if poor Jeff would only move
That Mueller’s part would be disclosed
And all his people be deposed
And Hillary would then stand trial
With treason charges yet to file
On Comey and the DOJ
And then in cuffs be hauled away
The game is not king versus king
It’s who has got the big brass ring
The carousel is slowing fast
And many die will soon be cast
The dice will show who did the crime
And come up snake eyes every time