Long ago when worlds were none
and there was nothing of the sea,
when stars were not and never seen
and night was eternity;
this is when it all began,
and none know how this be.
In flames of hell they learned to crawl;
their tongues are forked, their hearts are small,
long and scaly be their case,
and eyes of blackness mark their face.
They came forth from their resting place
in mountain’s flames and thunders face
and cursed be the land that spawned
the dragon’s maul across the lawn.
When snow and wind skirt the peaks
and leaves have found the ground,
the lower lands speak of the menace,
the nightmare yet unfound.
They creep around the fireside
closer as the embers die
and scream, chant, and cry
until the sun can find the sky.
Then they seek the haunted crags
but the wary mortal comes
to find a quiet repose and
fear what isn’t man;
yet not beast, most people say,
this demon from some far away
forgotten place that causes mind
to drift away from the cast of time.
So, bar the windows, bolt the door,
clutch your covers tight,
when the food is not up high
the Yeti comes at night.
Oh! Sweet the rain, the water’s sound,
sweet the bog, the reeds around.
Oh! Soft the muddy river bed,
soft the grass beneath my head.
The deep, the dank, the rooty tree
under this you will find me;
beneath the silent river’s edge,
a silent wraith upon its bed.
RETRACTION, with apologies: I made a mistake last week, or was it the week before? I looked up on the web to find out what the Dow was sitting at on the day that Donald J. Trump was sworn into office. It was 19,800ish. When I was watching the market fall last week, or was it the week before (?), after almost 2 years of the horrors of Trump mismanagement with the help of the GOP and others, I miss read the number as 29,800. My bad, old eyes, apophenia, whatever . . . I ran with it and I was wrong. That would have made the fall of the market 7000 points over the last 2 years. That is not correct. Among all the bad things that have happened since the election of Trump, that has not happened yet. I misspoke and published that on the web. To those who took those numbers to heart, I apologize. I hate embarrassing myself in public and have done so many times. I do not like to do it to others. I think people should learn to just make their own mistakes without the help of others. I just made one.
So with our federal government in partial shutdown until at least the day after Christmas, Trump forced to stay in the White House when he wanted to go to Mar-a-Lago to soak up tax dollars and conspire with the wealthy, America’s betrayal of the Kurdish people in Syria, Russia Turkey Iran Assad and ISIS’s victory in Syria, the upcoming victory of the Taliban in Afghanistan, all the high-ranking Congressmen, Senators, White House officials running away after their helping to cripple American integrity and its economy, amidst all this I apologize for making a mistake on a number and running with it. My bad.
In the seething bowels of the earth,
the liquid fire glows.
It reeks a red and yellow tone
of molten earth and mellowed stone.
Deep within the placid ground
this monster builds its flames around;
it sings a tune that men do fear,
a bellowed groan and cracking sphere.
The ground writhes, and rants, and pounds,
Earth is scorched by seeping fire,
all that is this stuff desires;
and men cannot but flee its mire.
All his might cannot this hold
for nature holds the final control.
He claims to be the power on Earth
but not this day, this time, this mirth.
He claims the Devil does abode
and this his wrath man does behold;
perhaps, indeed this be true,
man’s wildest dreams to him be true,
but to the simple searching mind,
of which there are too few to find,
this monstrous fire cannot but be,
Nature’s scorn on the likes of thee.
The walls are strong,
the room warm.
Music from the stereo,
notes of peace and security,
joy and adventure,
it’s soft and it almost drowns
the moans and cries of anger
that will crumble the walls,
burn the cities and
destroy the world of walls.
Drop of rain falls,
a moment passes,
a storm comes and is gone.
Fallen time is wasted,
grasp as you can.
Another day has slipped by
another beyond reach.
Empires flicker in the mind,
They rise again
gleaming towers in the sun.
They crumble to dust;
dreams they are.
Penny upon the walk
passed, lack of interest,
Love not voiced,
fear of rejection,
nothingness and sorrow,
chanced could bloom with joy
or pass no great pain.
Tell what can be told.
Feel what can be felt.
These are joy and sorrow.
Death is nothingness,
flowing on and on,
and bloody pyres.
Only that much more to walk, my friend,
only that much more work to do,
but when you reach the appointed end
there is always more to do.
Long ago on Salisbury plain
a people wrought their craft both cunning and strange.
The heavens they watched, both sun and moon,
and saw their course through the years
until they knew when each appeared;
they saw the time that all did fear,
when sun and moon did disappear.
So, stones were brought from the mountains of Wales,
one hundred twice and forty leagues,
To the downs of chalk from where these folks did hail.
They set a ring on the white hard ground around a sacred place,
and here they set about the task,
to measure the brother-gods pace.
With tools of copper-brass they shaped the far brought stones,
shaped a ring of many arch,
and marked the heel stone;
within they built an arch so fair,
and the like four times again,
that men still wonder how they could be
from a time when men were scarcely men.
Twenty-one days into December
of each and every year
above the heel stone and through the arch
the winter sun appears.
You people who lived within that land
you trapped the brother-gods that day,
to live and play within your ring,
save on certain special days when
sun and moon would spring
and escape your cleaver wrought ring.
So, you dug some holes, fifty plus six,
To mark each passing binge.
Stonehenge sits on this chalky plain,
And sifts through the passing years,
the people who built it should be proud
for it lasted beyond their years.
They left behind for all to see,
the sun and moon enchained,
sitting within a little wheel
to act again, again, and again.