by whadmin
The ALOOF problem
October 3, 2019 in Uncategorized
Posted in The Coming European Civil War(s)
The ALOOF problem
I'll just leave this right here. Somebody will get mad.
Related News article – Swedes fleeing the migrant invasion
@cecilhenry
The ALOOF problem is defined as:
Where the Quisling native 'Elite' (i.e. the Putrid Oligarchy) systematically destroy their own country with their insane Open Borders policies, but are themselves (at least for now) (har-har) inured (by wealth and privilege) to the disastrous effects and consequences of their foolhardiness,.
If it gets too rough? Too violent? Worried about daughters getting gang raped & abducted on the way to school? They simply move on, and often into gated communities. Heavily gated. Expensive. Where they can mix with? Who? Their own kind.
Until such time as 'the pain' comes and visits THEM, in THEIR street, or in THEIR home, all the invasive crime & drug & rape is just like a casual TV movie. They are dis-connected from it. It means nothing. It doesn't HURT. (And that Kalergi plaque looks good over the marble fireplace) (right?)
I reluctantly, with no joy or satisfaction , repeat what I have said many, many times. It is an area in which I have (cough) some personal experience:
*** Many people ONLY respect & understand STRENGTH and/or
P-A-I-N.
*** Everything else is misunderstood as weakness, to be taken full
advantage of.
I guess I'll have to add to that cold summary, for the benefit of Leftist R-strategists, of the Swedish type, who are wholly (lower Kelvin region) cold & indifferent to the suffering of their lower class fellow citizens.
*** Many people ONLY respect & understand STRENGTH and/or
P-A-I-N.
*** Everything else is misunderstood as weakness, to be taken full advantage of.
*** UNLESS you're a Leftist R-strategist. Then as long as you personally can always flee the mess you constantly create, (and continue to hide, flaunt & pose in wealthy, heavily gated communities), then only a PERSONAL VISIT of P-A-I-N to your private gated street, or your personal home, will wipe that smug smile off your self-satisfied PC-Kalergi face.
Which is why I predict (PREDICT) that so-called “Far Right” groups (actually, just ordinary Patriots) WILL TARGET the R-strategist PERSONALLY in their OWN HOMES. Bring the P-A-I-N home.
The 'locust' symbolism for these rich, PC posing, ideologues? Not quite right. The locusts are the plague they let loose. These R-strategist-planners? More like the ancient Egyptian pharaohs, too stubborn to bend, until it H-U-R-T. Really, hurt. Rivers of blood.
Ah, Pain. Miracle cure.
The ideology of the violent Patriot paramilitaries (I predict) will reflect this thinking. Matter of time before we start seeing more of it.
Last edited by Francis Meyrick on October 3, 2019, 12:55 pm
by whadmin
Cosmic Wanderer – Full throttle
September 28, 2019 in Auto-biographical (spiritual quest), Cosmic Wanderer
Cosmic Wanderer Sept 28, 2019
Full throttle
At times in the turbulent distant past, I have, foolishly, fallen into a quiet, raging despair. A sense of being overwhelmed by furious helplessness. Dragged by cursing soldiers, both real and figurative, and slammed up against a wall. Dragged into a small cell, again both real and figuratively speaking. The real part once was being led, a screw hauling each arm, and smashed, face first, into each wall. By way of introduction.
We never did get along after that. And that night, a demon was born.
The figurative part was that bleak cell, into which that one time I was cast, briefly as it turned out, against my will. I was released without charge, although others were not so fortunate, and spent many years incarcerated, for much less. I was a supreme actor. I could feign the innocent, bemused simpleton, totally out of his innocent depth, with a convincing, wide-eyed gormlessness.
The decades have rolled by. Many.
The passion has not diminished. The Irish temper, I confess sadly, has likewise stubbornly refused to mellow. But something in me has changed profoundly.
In this small valley, with the tree topped hills not far away, with few locals, and many deer, hungry coyotes and wary rabbits, the sky today is mostly clouded grey. Low, rushing, and ominous perhaps, to the earth bound observer. But through the occasional cracks and tantalizing lapses, there appears, to an old, seemingly retired, weathered pilot, that marvelous hint of the vast, sunlit uplands. Literally, as well as symbolically. I puzzle sometimes why I cannot see more of that symbolic landscape. I was always a pilgrim first, and then a pilot. I puzzled as much as I steadily flew. I know something of that which I seek. Of that which I always thirsted for.
Or do I? Do I know anything?
I ask myself that question, thinking of the hordes of books devoured, the misty paths walked, and the reams of rambling scribbles I shall leave behind, as so much litter, to a disinterested world. What do I know?
Perhaps for me the change that I sense crept in when I slowly, very slowly, kicking & screaming, removed myself from the center of the Universe. When I first started to glimpse, beyond my scudding grey clouds, the gusts of life, and the uncomfortable swell of a choppy ride, something far greater. Far, far more astounding, than any vague gobbledygook I might myself inflict on an already gobbledygook-saturated, drowning world.
And the farther I happily ended away from the center of the amazing Universe, the more I awarded myself, not the foolish floodlit stage, but the scattered fringes of a far flung oddball wisp, in a nondescript spiral, of a vast galaxy of matter and sprawling ideas, it seems the more I felt my path, (although yet misty, and full of hidden stumbles), was much more steady.
Time, they say, is a great cure. It is, when you are dealing with a head as swollen as mine. When you realize that your labors are but a noisy piglet’s squeal in a cramped and often smelly stable. With a hurricane pounding on the barn door, threatening to take the roof off, and the walls out . And amazingly, every pig in the shop, furiously clamoring-fighting around the feed bowl, elbowing & stabbing like career hustlers of Congress for more trivial slop.
It’s a beautiful valley here. This minute is a gift. I sense much more upland wonders, hidden beyond those grey clouds. I am a Christian. Not the variety that uses that fig leaf to surrender in comfortable indifference to Injustice. The End Times stupor. I believe in fighting like a maniac. Every day. Standing up for what you believe in. Being willing to die for your cause, and risk whatever punishment the paltry, deluded Silicon harlots of Mammon wish to contemptuously cast your way.
I believe there is something wonderful, that propels us not to ‘saved’ passivity, or turn-the-other-cheek, Jesus-meek-and-mild lethargy.
I believe it exhorts us to dream like a banshee, seek like a terrier, fly like an ace, turning barrel rolls and avalanche loops among those sunlit hinterlands.
Remembering, whilst we hit that perfect vertical, with a four point hesitation roll, and a hammerhead at the top, that we are here but for a blink in the Good King’s eye.
Full throttle, and propeller to fine pitch. Boost that sucker.
Here we come. Watch out, Moshe.
We got your number.
Last edited by Francis Meyrick on September 28, 2019, 11:59 am
by whadmin
JOT This Down # 3 "Adolf Hitler, I owe you an apology"
September 26, 2019 in Uncategorized
JOT This Down # 3 “Adolf Hitler, I owe you an apology”
Once again, I pick up a David Irving book from my shelf, (vol 2 on Churchill) and commence a quiet second read. Quickly, this amazing author draws me right in.
So many gems, that need to be held up to the light. Again. Over, and over again.
They jailed this man for three years? Solitary? For a speech he gave sixteen years earlier? It's amazing he got out alive.
There are countless many who wish him dead.
I bought the book, Mr Irving. Forgive me for a small quote:
“We saw how after a 'wilderness period' of ten years Winston S. Churchill, described by Harold Balfour as this 'singularly unlovable' man, came to power on May 10,1940, to the alarm of his monarch and the dismay of at least three of his cabinet ministers (Lords Beaverbrook and Halifax, and Mr Neville Chamberlain); how, by playing on a non-existent threat of Nazi invasion he entrenched himself in office, and rebuffed the peace settlement which Adolf Hitler repeatedly and secretly offered, and which more than one of King George VI's ministers, his consort Queen Elizabeth, and (on certain dates in May and June 1940 even Churchill himself) seemed disposed to accept; how having thus sabotaged the prospects of peace, he contrived to prolong the war and, cynics would observe, his own premiership, by propelling Britain and Germany into a campaign of mutual air bombardment. At a time when Hitler embargoed all raids on London, Churchill ordered a 100-bomber raid on Berlin on August 25, 1940, deliberately unleashing a bombing campaign which would reach a climax of barbarism only after the present volume comes to a close. In his orgy of destructiveness, Churchill even issued orders – never carried out – a few days after the firestorm in Hamburg, for the ruthless saturation bombing of the Eternal City of Rome.
We have seen how as part of the price for his accession to office in May 1940, Churchill gave the 'kiss of life' to Britain's then moribund Labour Party, elevating several of its leaders to unhoped-for cabinet office and paving the way for the socialists' eventual return to power in 1945, a political upheaval which brought in its train the inevitable end of the empire built by three centuries of British endeavour. The revisionist historians Maurice Cowling and John Charmley have endorsed our first volume's assessment of Churchill's responsibility for the war and his part in the resurgence of socialism in 1945 and Britain's international decline. Churchill, the war-lord, showed himself indifferent to post-war problems, and displayed no interest in the dangerous revival of socialism by Labour minister Ernest Bevin and the trades unions”.
I reflect on these awful words:
“Churchill's responsibility for the war”.
“playing on a non-existent threat of Nazi invasion”
Adolf Hitler, I owe you an apology.
You are not by any means the often held up example of Humanity's worst form of evil. Like I learned meekly in school. Satan Incarnate. None lower. It seems Churchill fits the role MUCH better. The more I read, the more I learn how little I know. But I thought I knew it well.
Ah! But Churchill was a mere puppet-without-a-conscience, who sold his soul. All to keep his sprawling manor, his servants, his gardeners and his love of drink and fine food? Yes, he danced well. He bobbed his head with conviction. He spoke fluently, and used his gifts of oratory and wit. But… he still dangled from strings.
Who pulled and tugged, happily, so callously, on those strings? Who was he in bondage to?
If Churchill succumbed to Dark Forces, and we therefore call him evil, what measure can we use to apportion to his shadowy 'Focus' handlers?
(Don't we all sigh, wearily?)
Yes, we are back to ZOG. The JOT. 'Jew Occupied Territories'. Not just Palestine. But also the hearts of men. Occupied? Or enslaved. In chains.
* * * * *
I am in the evening of this bumbling, shadowy ruckus they call 'Life', and I am more and more content to humor the harmless fool I know I am. I am at best a poor player, who delights, nonetheless, sitting on a solitary mountain top, and quietly following the fingers of light across the sky. From whence they come. And where, diffidently, they go.
I love to play, not the guitar, for which my fingers are too old, but the keyboard of my simple thoughts. I let them wander, freely, without a care if they fall on ears at all. And whether any listeners might approve, or shudder. Far from posing as some kind of moral authority, or a fount of learning, I would much rather concentrate on hearing for myself, the fingers strumming, and the tones of thought, in harmony or not, cascading forth. For I sense in this cacophony, above the discordant din, floating free, a long forgotten hymn.
The gentle lute strings of a soft heart. I feel, indeed, sincerely sorry for this hurting, misled, often-fooled world. A world, I submit, created so beautifully, with such Artistry, corrupted so zealously by those Dark Forces who hate Man.
One of my favorite poems is a literary pustule. A zit on the elbow of Shakespeare. But I wrote it, with tongue-in-cheek, and captured for myself at least, the quaint Absurdity of my Existence.
In the machine
Paddled by forces
Seldom seen
Invisible fingers
Plot my way
At their mercy
I ricochet”
I submit, like it or not, We are all pin balls.
We have been indoctrinated all our lives.
That cold shower of painful realization, long put off…
disturbs me.
What is worse is that war is coming yet again.
Let us cast our thoughts to clearly, unambiguously, resolutely, identify the Beast.
And from where the Demon springs.
Last edited by Francis Meyrick on September 26, 2019, 12:39 pm
by whadmin
JOT this down # 2 (Kalergi Waltz)
September 25, 2019 in Uncategorized
Posted in The Holocaust – Fact, Fiction, or a Mix of both?
JOT this down: #2 (Kalergi Waltz)
JOT zones ('Jew Occupied Territories') are many. Some are subtle, and others are more brick-in-your-face variety. Ask the poor Germans.
The brick-in-your-face ( & stomp on your spectacles) variety is typified by the BRAZEN Kalergi Waltz. The unabashed Jew-strutting that takes in the European (cough) 'Parliament'. (Read: Seat of the Exalted Mighty). Flipping us, the common plebs, the middle finger would be superfluous. They are giving it to us anyway, and not just the finger maybe. I mean, Holy Moly, check out this article:
https://europeansworldwide.wordpress.com/2019/09/24/tools-and-fools-but-which-are-you/
This bit will give you a taste:
“Incredibly, one-third of all Members of the European Union (MEP) are paid directly by George Soros Open Society Foundations. Still think your votes matter, think again as your votes are worthless against George Soros Euros, which you in the event pay anyway. Enjoy the pantomime.”
Just look at the photo. When George Soros, widely REVILED by Native Europeans, the man most likely to be wished an acute case of chronic diarrhea by the Working-Man-in-the-street, can coolly pomp around like he owns the joint, (he is, admittedly, well on his way) and be photographed with (hic!) gimme-another-shot Juncker, like they are about to get married. Optics? They don't care! Brexit vote? Democracy? It's all a sham! The European Seat of the Exalted Mighty has long since gone JOT. Jew Occupied Territory. That's if it ever wasn't, eh? They want YOU to feel despair. To give up. Surrender. Will you? I think not.
But clearly, we need to turn it up a serious notch. I predict once-peaceful folk are sharpening pitch forks. Looking up recipes for fertilizer bombs.
Getting, really, really mad.
by whadmin
JOT this down #1 (Brontosaurus)
September 25, 2019 in Uncategorized
JOT this down: #1 (Brontosaurus)
Of all the 'Jew Occupied Territories' (and there are many) the Media JOT is really vexing to those of us who:
*** value the Truth,
*** love our race, and
*** wish to proudly cherish our traditions and
*** our ancient ancestral homelands.
The endless warm propaganda pap that gets shoveled down our gagging throats, alternates only with discourse that is so inane, so off-the-wall contrived, that many objects have been flung through TV screens. Accompanied by much uncouth, indiscreet screaming. Not to mention fifty caliber bullets. I GAVE my TV's away. My sanity was on the line. Between the garish advertisements (white girl, randy black stud, ooh-la-la, much fukky-fukky happiness) and the illogical plot lines (White man always dumb, Brown man WAY-much smarter) , and the screamingly one-sided political indoctrination (Democrats pure as the driven snow, Orange Man bad, White Man even more wicked, Religion dead, greed is good, Jews love you, sea levels rising – pay lots more taxes or die) …. between all that garbage, I quit watching. My house is somehow much more peaceful, without all the sound effects. Good thing nobody ever recorded me in full song, rendering gentle admonitions to the TV screen.
“Maxine! You daft, ugly, corrupt BITCH! F**k off! Shut up! Drop dead!”
“Pelosi, does us all a favor! Go and DIE! Screaming! I know your plastic surgeon will go bankrupt, not to mention your local liquor store, but WHO CARES?? Croak, baby, CROAK! FFS.”
(dog hides under bed)
“Damn and HELL, Donald! Less yarmulke, and more WALL! I don't CARE who your daughter married, I don't CARE who bailed out your stinking casinos, I voted for a WALL, muthaf**ker! How long is that going to take? Three centuries or a millennium? My grandkids are going to be drawing what's left of Social Security, enough for a flat beer, and your piddley short non-WALL-fancy-FENCE is going to be an object of Historical Comedy-hour BANTER! Who the f**k RUNS this country? Our President, elected by US the people, or the ever-hovering, shekel-shekel, Talmudic MAFIA?? Are you in their POCKET? Are they in BED with you? Is that them kissing you goodnight? On the lips? Where? Gawd! KICK 'EM OUT!!”
(Whining noise from under the bed)
Ah. Peace in the house. No TV.
(Happy mutt, asleep on my lap)
It follows that the only avenue I see open to us Trouble Makers, is a Free and Open Internet. If that gets robbed out from under us (and they are trying MASSIVELY hard), we are going to be up sh*t creek. Never mind the paddle. Where's the bloody CANOE?
I believe we should fight tooth-and-nail to preserve the Internet. And we should build up many, many more subversive gofer holes. Shut one down? Up pops another. Shut that one down? Guess what?
Peek-a-boo!
Another Mastodon, Gab type, Caddyshack style, gofer hole thing, anti-shut-down device, can be set up starting at only $299 a month. So says Master Rob at Epik. He should know. He knows the tech blarney.
I don't have the hoompah-hoompah, tech savvy, bells & whistles who-is-your-Daddy knowledge, and I can't tell a 'Mastodon instance' from a Brontosaurus with screaming-hot-trots indigestion, but I can be relied upon to annihilate any innocent keyboard with a constant flood of verbal Semtex.
I might just be the man to help a syndicate of like-minded souls, to get another Save-the-Internet Brontosaurus off the ground.
And charging.
I know. There goes the China Shop.
by whadmin
Conscience #002 – (Jewish Bolshevik Leadership)
September 25, 2019 in Uncategorized
Posted in The Holocaust – Fact, Fiction, or a Mix of both?
Conscience # 002 – (Jewish Bolshevik leadership)
You: “I'm a passionate Zionist. I love Israel. I trust the Jews. The Holocaust happened. You won't ever change my mind.”
Us: Uh-huh. We won't. Not if you won't listen. If, maybe, deep down, you fear the Truth? Ignorance is bliss? It's YOUR Conscience, bud. Your Humanity. The world's (ongoing) suffering.
The same old Jewish lie goes around & around about the 1917 onward Bolshevik Murder Rampage. Holodomor-Genocide-on-steroids. The frequent-traveler lie being that JEWS had little or nothing to do with it. I had a Jew tell me here on Gab that the ONLY Jew in that inhuman debacle was Trotsky.
No other Jews.
Dude… study this list?
by whadmin
Conscience #001 – (Jewish Cruelty)
September 25, 2019 in Uncategorized
Posted in The Holocaust – Fact, Fiction, or a Mix of both?
Conscience # 001 – (Jewish cruelty)
You: “I'm a passionate Zionist. I love Israel. I trust the Jews. The Holocaust happened. You won't ever change my mind.”
Us: Uh-huh. We won't. Not if you won't listen. If, maybe, deep down, you fear the Truth? Ignorance is bliss? It's YOUR Conscience, bud. Your Humanity. The world's (ongoing) suffering.
Study this, maybe. If you dare. Reflect on the words of sadistic Jew and virulent propagandist Ilya Ehrenburg.
“Kill! Kill! In the German race there is nothing but evil. Stamp out the fascist beast once and for all in its lair! Use force and break the racial pride of these German women. Take them as your lawful booty. Kill! As you storm forward. Kill! You gallant soldiers of the Red army. ” Ilya Ehrenburg
Master Jew hate propagandist Ilya Ehrenburg told soldiers on January 31, 1945: “The Germans have been punished in Oppeln, in Königsberg and in Breslau. They have been punished, but yet not enough! Some have been punished, but not yet all of them. ”
In contrast to Ehrenberg's rhetoric, rape was in truth a German military offense punishable by death. Rape by German troops was the smallest recorded in occupied territories and lower than that of US troops on US bases. Check out this link…
THE HUMAN PROBLEM – THE HIGH COST PAID BY WOMEN
But trust the Jews, right?
I know, the poor Jews were the VICTIMS.
Keep repeating that to yourself, my Zionist buddy, three times in the morning, and fifty times at night, and you'll be just fine.
Last edited by Francis Meyrick on September 25, 2019, 6:09 am
by whadmin
I'm an IDJOT – mock me
September 24, 2019 in Uncategorized
I'm an IDJOT – mock me
I sense that to some, I'm an i-d-i-o-t.
Actually, {they} make no bones about it. And sometimes, call me worse.
I can't say much sleep (a fleeting commodity, anyway) is ever lost over it.
I am aware, without caring much, of their rabid disapproval.
From their lofty peacock perches, supremely comfortably ensconced, they heap odium upon my head. And mock, my humble writing.
I cater not to the masses. I seek no approval. I seek the ONE voice, full-on from the peanut gallery, who can arrest my headlong race, and garner, my full, humble attention.
I don't care if I'm wrong. I care it be pointed out.That way, lies progress.
So correct me, Master? If I speak foolishness?
You see, friend, along the way, much, in the way of illusion, has been discarded.
Unnecessary burdens, weighing the dusty pilgrim down.
Wealth and property, off-to-the-side.
As long as I have survival basics, I'm good. Body and soul united.
Fame?
I laugh. In a short while, as the Universe revolves, we are ALL long forgotten. A puff of wind. A small pebble on a beach. An exhausted ripple, coming, inevitably, ashore.
A tadpole, darting feverishly, in a small, cloudy pond.
Wisdom?
Let no man attribute to himself such. We know nothing. Nothing, I say. Better a dry morsel, and happiness therewith, than a house full of sacrifices, with strife. Wisdom is judged by others. And, more succinctly, by the heavens, if they care.
I say, at this point in my journey, with knurled staff in hand, and blistered feet, that I have at last reached a small, rocky outcrop. It is windy here, cold sometimes, but I have a view. I can see some, if not all, my trail below. Winding, often crooked, through many a confusing fog. Past robbers, bandits, and many madmen.
But here I am, gratefully breathing in lung fulls, feeling alive. Above me towers the dark mountain, its top hidden in restless clouds, darting across a turgid sky. How high it goes, and how much further my journey, I have long since accepted as unknowable. As long as my feet can lift themselves forward, and my face can set itself against the hail, I am content.
Am I an idiot?
Others may judge. And often do. But I affirm that I am, most definitely, an I-D-J-O-T.
An Idjot?
Because, my friend, (or my enemy), I have slowly (reluctantly) learned what did not come naturally. I have learned, sadly, to loath and detest.
I-D. I-Detest.
A pity, indeed, to have such feelings.
(An acid may destroy any container that tries to hold it. I remind myself of that constantly. I am at pains to take Time out, to admire and enjoy the magnificent works of the Creation. Which the Creator, in his wisdom, I submit, has made obvious to Man).
But I also, sometimes, have to leave the Mountain. The forest, and the sunset. The quiet, and the dreams. The visiting,soft memories. The old hand, still felt, on my shoulder.
Sometimes, I must slum it down in the noisy city. Gasp, not just on the fumes and noise, the rush and the lack of care. The inhumanity and the foolish ways. But choke, eyes bulging, despairingly at times, on the rabid worship of Mammon.
I detest.
Detest what?
I-detest what I see, and sense. The results of War, and massively unjust Peace.
In three words: The Jew Occupied Territory. J-O-T. Their unjust spoils. In their home country, and in every unfortunate nation where they plant their insidious viper nests.
In Commerce and Banking, Media and Movies, in Pornography and Filth, in Usury and Exploitation, in Pedophilia and blatant Cover Ups, in Political Murder and Mayhem.
Time and Time again. The trail leads unerringly back to the Jew. From the Lavon Affair to the US Liberty, from the World Trade center onward to the next False Flag Pearl Harbor. Where millions will die.
Can sordid facts be anti-Semitic?
I Detest all the Jew Occupied Territory.And I don't just mean lands.
It makes me a determined I-D-J-O-T.
According to the Diaspora Affairs Ministry's statistics, there are currently ONLY 14.4 million Jews in the world, with 6.3 million in Israel and the rest spread out over the globe.
Yet, like ravenous beasts, they have hurled themselves onto and into every pore and fiber of Western Man. And worse, his Value System and once-rich Spirituality. They, so stunningly few in number, have done more to warp & pervert, ridicule and devalue, mock and minimize, the spiritual Life of Billions, than any other human conspiracy.
The distorted values this world overwhelmingly holds dear today, have little to do with what native populations once wanted. Or previously held for self-evident.
And everything to do with the systematic brute imposition by the genetically ruthless Talmudic Mafia, of their perverted, rancid, coarse wishes.
And theirs alone.
They are carnal, they are infinitely greedy. They are roaring, staggering drunk with power, soaring arrogance, and they utterly despise everybody else. They are sly and sneaky. They have spoiled much, that was once so beautiful. Germany for one must not perish! The British people voted for Brexit! The ordinary people of Europe were never consulted, they do not want the invasion! But the diabolical Jewish wrecking ball, well lubricated, even now, cynically, takes aim yet again.
The Jews have stoked wars, financed wars (both sides) and prolonged wars. They have murdered tens of millions in cold blood. Their blasted 'Balfour declaration', far from a venerable icon, is a vile Judas document, dripping in more innocent BLOOD. No pieces of silver come even CLOSE to the price that was paid there.
Yet they have the gall, the unspeakable NERVE, the chutzpah, to claim waaaaaah…! VICTIMHOOD?
And the German people, so terribly wronged themselves, STILL give THEM Billions of reparations?? And the Jew-owned American Congress SLAVISHLY gives them whatever they demand…?
Jew Owned, did I say? JEW-ISH+++ Dual Citizens my hairy elbow.
Bah. Only the Jew.
I see it now. Reluctantly. I was a slow learner. Too trusting.
But what once is seen, cannot be unseen.
I am, officially, an IDJOT.
Mock me. Or join me.
by whadmin
A thought hovers
September 24, 2019 in Poetry
Hm.
A thought hovers
precariously,
like a dew drop
warming slowly
yet dangerously
in the early morning light.
We're not done yet
chasing truth,
scribbling,
and wickedly
promoting
disturbance
in the blog-o-sphere.
“We shall see”
he said
grimly
a hint of madness
illuminating,
stubbornly
the one
half seeing eye.
Return to Index? (CosmicDrifter.COM)?
Last edited by Francis Meyrick on November 15, 2019, 3:42 pm
by whadmin
Sabbath Morning
September 22, 2019 in Auto-biographical (spiritual quest)
Sabbath Morning
Early morning.
Very early. Very quiet.
When there is not much more than a trace of light in the East. A promise.
But from my front porch, I can already make out low, slate grey clouds, rushing rapidly overhead. The wind has ruffled them up, and now they charge.
Down here on the ground, it's calm. Not a breath of air. The American flag, honored, at the front of my house hangs limp. The insomniac slowly takes it all in.
The small world around him, calm.
His spirit. Wondering. Seeking. Wandering. Distant skies. Old haunts. Mountain tops.
Half-forgotten, once loved melodies.
Dimly sensing something. Far, far greater.
A distant rustling. A strange noise. Something unseen, yet powerful, is approaching me through the trees. Straight at me. I can barely hear it at first. Then it gets louder. Leaves are aware. The flag flutters. Louder still. It comes purposefully towards me. What is it that I have done? Or not done, maybe. I strain to see.
The unseen Entity is disturbing the forest. Branches swaying. Coyotes howl. A bird screeches.
A crow, I think. Answered by a sister. Another.
It… is here now. Loud. The trees sway. I wait. No voice comes. No burning bush. No silent, glowing figure.
The unseen Entity pauses, and moves on. Through the trees. The sound slowly dies away. Peace returns. The coyotes are silent once more. Lurking.
A strange breath. That came, hovered, and left.
And took measure?
Behind my house, deer leave their cover to come and graze. At their head, a large buck. Two humming birds appear, fighting viciously & needlessly over the feeder. Although there is plenty, and a second feeder awaits, not ten yards away.
I ponder the breath of wind, that rushed through, disturbing briefly, then heard no more.
I think of poor Macbeth.
Life is but a walking shadow,
a poor player
that struts and frets his hour upon the stage
and then is heard no more.
It is a tale, told by an idiot
Full of sound and fury
signifying nothing.
It is a warning, and one I often heed. Much has kept me stubbornly alive, despite some negative odds. Hitting the perfect vertical biplane roll, the abrupt hammerhead, and that inverted pass down the runway.
The landing on the small offshore helideck, barely big enough, under low and ominous clouds, and the rain lashed winds gusting to the limits.
But good pilots know their limits too. They know too well the danger of the noisy stage. They know that lights and cameras, fuss and attention, warp the cool eye. Disturb the wise hand.
A wise pilot hears The Voice. The kind, but wise, firm voice.
That whispers in his mind:
“Not too low, my friend. Not too low. Not too hard in the snap, beware that inverted recovery. Don't push too hard! Wires… you see any wires? Ah, look at that radar dome. Will my tail rotor clear?”
I threw my expensive TV out, years ago. It disturbed my peace. The endless truly gormless advertisements, the brain washing, the transparently fake, plastic, contrived narratives. I gave it away to a bemused handyman, who thanked me by later stealing a bunch of my tools.
I got tired of watching the same smug career politicians. Strutting and fretting their hour upon the stage. Thirty years in Congress. Vast wealth accumulated, that in no way computed to their salaries. So full of their own noise & static. Shallow. Conceited.
I think of Time. Eons. Tens of thousands of years. The stage and the pomp, long since faded. The lights and the glare, silly. The noise and the fury, futile.
I know, my Sensenich propeller tips would go supersonic in a dive. Much noise. Much drama.
I know, my rotors beat loud and sharp, and the bad guys knew their luck had run out.
I know, my finger squeezed off SO gently, and, in the scope, I saw his head jerk back.
I know, I talked and strutted a lot. Upon the stage. Too much. I should have listened more.
I am guilty, as charged.
Early morning.
Very early. Very quiet.
When there is not much more than a trace of light in the East. A promise.
But from my front porch, I can already make out low, slate grey clouds, rushing rapidly overhead. The wind has ruffled them up, and now they charge.
Down here on the ground, it's calm. Not a breath of air. The American flag, honored, at the front of my house hangs limp. The insomniac slowly takes it all in.
The small world around him, calm.
His spirit. Wondering. Seeking. Wandering. Distant skies. Old haunts. Mountain tops.
Half forgotten, once loved melodies.
Dimly sensing something.
Far, far greater.
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Last edited by Francis Meyrick on November 15, 2019, 3:43 pm