The crow pecked softly on her window pane
And called her from her deep and peaceful sleep
Entranced, she watched the crow her bedroom gain
In darkness deeper than the darkest deep
She rose and followed to the tower stair
To far above the battlement below
She felt the gentle wind upon her hair
And felt the dark black shadow of the crow
The fall seemed dreamlike to her sleeping mind
So still the sound of gently falling snow
She touched each flake and let the dream unwind
As in the deep black darkness smiled the crow

The nest was full, it’s time to go
A nudge, a gentle push
The fledgling, dazed, upon the ground
Sought shelter in a bush
Well here I am, the youngster thought
But where is mom and dad?
I’m safe for now from that tom cat
But things are looking bad
This branch I’m on is swaying like
A hurricane passed through
Enough to make a fella sick
And scared of falling too
The ground it seems so far away
And what was that I heard?
Is it the cat? I’m getting scared
Thank goodness it’s a bird
Just sitting on the bird bath lip
And now he flies away
But pretty soon I’ll get my wings
And maybe it’s today
It looks like it is gonna rain
I’m stuck here on this leaf
It’s getting dark and now I’m wet
It’s all beyond belief
I’m cold and wet and in the dark
I’m scared, is that that tom?
THERE’S SOMETHING HERE! IT’S AFTER ME!

Oh phew! It’s only mom

We are losing many things that once were sacred, like respect for the flag, the sacredness of life, the knowledge and love of country and our history and, not least, the loss of the unspoken understanding of the sanctity and holiness of marriage. I spoke to a sex doll recently and she said,

For wholly marriage I am made
Not sex doll for your pleasure paid
Man come in store say blond hair Dutch
Saleslady say to him how much
He buy and carry me across
A threshold showing who is boss
Guests cheer and clap and is so nice
They throw on me some GM rice
In house a small man nod his head
He say some words and we be wed
Guests kiss me then have cakes and ale
Is strange how all the guests be male
At marriage night man sit and cry
Say user’s manual be why
Is not in English, he not read
He look at me, he cry and plead
I say I will be happy please
To teach him read the Japanese
She smiled and turned and walked away
I watched the brilliant sunshine play
On golden hair that made her Dutch
And warm blue eyes that said so much
Framed by arched eyebrows stark and bold
Above her epicanthic fold
I thought I’d get me one of these
As soon as I learn Japanese

President Trump, in words, tweets and action, is well on his way to convincing China that it is in their interest to turn their North Korean hit man into the cops, like Humphrey Bogart convinced Sidney Greenstreet in the movie The Maltese Falcon to turn in his gunsel, Peter Lorre. The scene would have gone something like this:

The conversation went smoothly despite the little man with the bulgy eyes and sinister aspect pointing a gun at me. “So you see, Mr. Spade,” the fat man said, “it would seem I hold all the cards.”
“Except if he shoots me you never get the bird. Get rid of the gunsel and we can talk.”
“By gad, sir,” the fat man chuckled, “you are a caution!”

And so it went, into the night
Not only birds are tweeters
Sometimes it’s true that might makes right
Sometimes the hunt needs beaters
To make some noise with pots and pans
And screams and whistles, shouting
While tweeter smiles and makes his plans
With no room now for doubting
And so the Chinese see the light
They’ve got to choose, so pick one
Who do they back if there’s a fight
The choice is made, a quick one
The gunsel sort of disappears
Replaced by one more pliant
And so there’s peace for many years
With China tweeter’s client

The sky turned gray by afternoon
A hush fell on the Earth
And all who waited knew quite soon
Would come the winter’s birth
So gently fell the tiny flakes
So quiet lay the wood
A moment seems the time it takes
To cover all that stood
Between the house and the first line
Of trees now white snow wrapped
With crystals that first seemed so fine
That on my windows tapped
In comfort on my kitchen chair
My coffee hot and strong
I felt compelled to sit and stare
At nature’s winter song
The summer leaves that long ago
Had left the branches bare
Were covered now with crystal snow
While deep in every lair
The tiny creatures sleeping lay
They knew ‘twould last the night
And when it stops it’s time for play
A wonder world of white
The snow grew heavy, leaving casts
Of mounded, rounded heaps
Beneath imagined pirate’s masts
Concealing treasure keeps
By dusk the driven, windrowed snow
Had blanketed the wood
And on the deck by kitchen glow
A lonely bird bath stood
It seemed but minutes had gone by
For nature’s big parade
To paint the Earth from leaden sky
As daylight turned to shade

While the insane frenzy of toppling old statues of even older Confederate generals seems to have abated somewhat, the assault on our history by the left continues with the assault on Christopher Columbus. But make no mistake, the assault on the United States and all it stands for will not cease until leftism is dead. In the meantime, I found a statue of a minor Confederate general that escaped the attention of the crazed and frenzied. The general was calm, as was to be expected, though he did have a few things to say.

I spoke to a still standing statue
Inquiring, “General, is thatchew?”
“To which he replied, “It is I, sir,
I stand here and frankly I cry, sir.”
“For toppling your friends?” I said sadly
“I cry sir for joy,” he said gladly
“I want to get down from this perch, sir,
And charge like it was Dunkers Church, sir
For if I get down in two smidgeons
I’ll kill me a million damn pigeons!”

The Washington Post recently ran a story telling how some Caribbean pirates, (the author’s anti-Anglo-Saxon characterization, they were actually a British letter-of-marque privateer), prevented the United States from adopting the metric system in 1793, when the French scientist sent to convince Secretary of State Thomas Jefferson to abandon the still current system of measurements was captured by the British when his ship was blown off course. To think that a simple Atlantic storm has saved us from having mid-summer heat waves with temperatures in the mid-thirties.

French scientists considered that
Old measures were passé
And anyone who used them were
Horribly déclassé
And so they took new measurements
And promptly got them wrong
The meter was a little off
Just like an off key song
But thanks to British privateers
We had a piece of luck
We kept our feet and inches while
The rest of them were stuck
With millimeters and the likes
Of liters, centigrade
Where people sweat in summer heat
Of thirty in the shade

Life is a cyclical event that begins and ends with youth.

The grass is cool on moon-dark summer nights
The backyard tree is black against the sky
The house asleep with but a few dim lights
And thoughts and dreams turn back to days gone by
To younger days when stars were still in reach
And star-filled dreams were easy to believe
The ten year old has much that he could teach
His older self if truth he’d but receive
The distant stars are near if you but find
The ten year old who once was lonely you
For travel to the stars takes but the mind
To take you there if you were only you
For time is but the passage of the dreams
The stars lent to that ten year old back then
That drifted with you down life’s winding streams
And now at age you dream of stars again

A real life sex fantasy murder at Oxford University in Britain featured a famous professor of microbiology named Wyndam Latham and his male lover, with the victim a 26 year old hairdresser named Trenton James Cornell-Duranleau. At the trial names such as Cubbage and Perthuison surfaced. I have, over these many years, read any number of British mystery writers, including Agatha Christie, Dorothy Sayers, P. D. James, Arthur Conan Doyle, and many others, and every one had characters as fancifully named as these. So lyrically fictional are these names that I am loathe to credit the story as non-fiction. Were I on the jury I would be reading the latest Lord Peter Wimsey mystery to see if I recognized anyone. The Shadow, a popular American radio mystery program of the 1940s, featured a character named Lamont Cranston as the Shadow, another name that would not have looked out of place in a British mystery. The Shadow ended every episode with the words, “What evil lurks in the hearts of men? The Shadow knows!” Names are important, in fiction and in life, where only in fiction do guys named Wyndham Latham pay for their crimes.

What evil lurks in names like Wyndham
Where stands it in the ranks of sindom
Is it within the hearts of men to know
Just ask, I think, Cornell-Doranleau

We know the short term future of Western Europe is Islamization, but what happens after France and Germany and all else in between see Muslim majorities vote in Muslim governments? The only obvious answer is the eventual disappearance of the concept of ‘country’ or ‘nation’, and the emergence of smaller units of governance. The city of Paris will absorb surrounding territories and people who will think of themselves not as French, but as Parisians. In short, city states will be the Western European map of the future, with their own cultures and governance. Though based on the Muslim religion, these city states will be ruled by their own clerics, with no allegiance to a central government, because there will be no central government. The problem for Islam will be Eastern Europe, which will not. be affected, and which will retain enormous power as a reminder to the dhimmi Western European populace of what their leaders have thrown away and what they can regain. Sixteen hundred years ago the Eastern emperor Justinian recalled the legions from Britain to save the Western Empire from the barbarians, and the East will have to do so again. The Muslim city states will have an historically short life, but much blood will be shed before Eastern Europe reclaims the West.

They drove the ship upon the rocks
And broke her back
And watched the shimmered darkness fall
In green-edged black
The churches all are shuttered closed
Now storage space
And Imams rule that women may
Not show their face
Yet in the East from Warsaw, Prague
From Budapest
Brave men will gather under arms
In holy quest
They’ll drag the broken, stricken ship
From off the rocks
To set as gently as they can
Upon the stocks
Where willing hands will set her right
And raise her guns
Then step her masts and set to sea
As the tide runs
The cleansing won’t be easy and
Will take much blood
As rivers run bright red and lakes
Fill with the flood
Until at last the Arab and
The Muslim horde
Are driven from Vienna by
The slashing sword