Us old dogs...

remember the rise and fall of the Soviet Union... The same thing is now happening in the US. The predators are running amok, murdering the truth-tellers for their elitist masters... whom no one dare criticize for fear of vicious reprisals... The thugs are running wild in the streets, burning and looting and shooting cops, as the "useful idiots" praise them for their courage... It is like watching a very bad movie all over again. Only this time, it ain't a movie. It is/was America!!

Recent events...

...are beyond belief! ALL of them! I scent chaos and destruction about to be unleashed upon my beloved America by Satan's minions! Their eternal berths in hell are guaranteed!

I am...

...78 FUCKING years old, am disabled to the extent that I cannot shoulder a rifle,can barely breathe because of advanced COPD, injured back, neck and both shoulders.!! EVIL! PURE FUCKING EVIL! I have dozens of friends on three continents who KNOW THAT I WOULD NEVER TAKE AN INNOCENT LIFE UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES! GOT IT?!?

And...

... some shitstain(s) have been spreading rumors all over Arizona City that I am a terrorist!!

Terrorist??

ME, who has never taken a human life when legally armed, confronted with the imminent danger of death or great bodily harm!?!? And backed by Florida's stand-your-ground laws?!? Twice?!? ME? Whom hundreds, if not thousands worldwide know to be a lifelong, expert rifleman and hunter since boyhood? ME? A FUCKING TERRORIST?? Some fucksticks are on ACID!! FOUL!!

Definition...

Helicopter: A collection of moving parts, traveling in the same direction, bent on self destruction. Blow a tail rotor drive shaft or tail rotor gear box and your ass is dog meat! Right NOW!!

A long-dead friend...

...was fond of saying, "Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they're not out to get you..."

Do not go gentle into that good night Dylan Thomas - 1914-1953 Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night. Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night. Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light. From The Poems of Dylan Thomas, published by New Directions. Copyright © 1952, 1953 Dylan Thomas. Copyright © 1937, 1945, 1955, 1962, 1966, 1967 the Trustees for the Copyrights of Dylan Thomas. Copyright © 1938, 1939, 1943, 1946, 1971 New Directions Publishing Corp. Used with permission. Dylan Thomas Dylan Marlais Thomas, born October 27, 1914, in South Wales, was the archetypal Romantic poet of the popular American imagination More Dylan Thomas > sign up for poem-a-day Receive a new poem in your inbox daily Email Address More by Dylan Thomas My hero bares his nerves My hero bares his nerves along my wrist That rules from wrist to shoulder, Unpacks the head that, like a sleepy ghost, Leans on my mortal ruler, The proud spine spurning turn and twist. And these poor nerves so wired to the skull Ache on the lovelorn paper I hug to love with my unruly scrawl That utters all love hunger And tells the page the empty ill. My hero bares my side and sees his heart Tread, like a naked Venus, The beach of flesh, and wind her bloodred plait; Stripping my loin of promise, He promises a secret heat. He holds the wire from the box of nerves Praising the mortal error Of birth and death, the two sad knaves of thieves, And the hunger's emperor; He pulls the chain, the cistern moves. Dylan Thomas 2003 I see the boys of summer I I see the boys of summer in their ruin Lay the gold tithings barren, Setting no store by harvest, freeze the soils; There in their heat the winter floods Of frozen loves they fetch their girls, And drown the cargoed apples in their tides. These boys of light are curdlers in their folly, Sour the boiling honey; The jacks of frost they finger in the hives; There in the sun the frigid threads Of doubt and dark they feed their nerves; The signal moon is zero in their voids. I see the summer children in their mothers Split up the brawned womb's weathers, Divide the night and day with fairy thumbs; There in the deep with quartered shades Of sun and moon they paint their dams As sunlight paints the shelling of their heads. I see that from these boys shall men of nothing Stature by seedy shifting, Or lame the air with leaping from its heats; There from their hearts the dogdayed pulse Of love and light bursts in their throats. O see the pulse of summer in the ice. II But seasons must be challenged or they totter Into a chiming quarter Where, punctual as death, we ring the stars; There, in his night, the black-tongued bells The sleepy man of winter pulls, Nor blows back moon-and-midnight as she blows. We are the dark derniers let us summon Death from a summer woman, A muscling life from lovers in their cramp From the fair dead who flush the sea The bright-eyed worm on Davy's lamp And from the planted womb the man of straw. We summer boys in this four-winded spinning, Green of the seaweeds' iron, Hold up the noisy sea and drop her birds, Pick the world's ball of wave and froth To choke the deserts with her tides, And comb the county gardens for a wreath. In spring we cross our foreheads with the holly, Heigh ho the blood and berry, And nail the merry squires to the trees; Here love's damp muscle dries and dies Here break a kiss in no love's quarry, O see the poles of promise in the boys. III I see you boys of summer in your ruin. Man in his maggot's barren. And boys are full and foreign to the pouch. I am the man your father was. We are the sons of flint and pitch. O see the poles are kissing as they cross. Dylan Thomas 1939 Our eunuch dreams I Our eunuch dreams, all seedless in the light, Of light and love the tempers of the heart, Whack their boys' limbs, And, winding-footed in their shawl and sheet, Groom the dark brides, the widows of the night Fold in their arms. The shades of girls, all flavoured from their shrouds, When sunlight goes are sundered from the worm, The bones of men, the broken in their beds, By midnight pulleys that unhouse the tomb. II In this our age the gunman and his moll Two one-dimensional ghosts, love on a reel, Strange to our solid eye, And speak their midnight nothings as they swell; When cameras shut they hurry to their hole down in the yard of day. They dance between their arclamps and our skull, Impose their shots, showing the nights away; We watch the show of shadows kiss or kill Flavoured of celluloid give love the lie. III Which is the world? Of our two sleepings, which Shall fall awake when cures and their itch Raise up this red-eyed earth? Pack off the shapes of daylight and their starch, The sunny gentlemen, the Welshing rich, Or drive the night-geared forth. The photograph is married to the eye, Grafts on its bride one-sided skins of truth; The dream has sucked the sleeper of his faith That shrouded men might marrow as they fly. IV This is the world; the lying likeness of Our strips of stuff that tatter as we move Loving and being loth; The dream that kicks the buried from their sack And lets their trash be honoured as the quick. This is the world. Have faith. For we shall be a shouter like the cock, Blowing the old dead back; our shots shall smack The image from the plates; And we shall be fit fellows for a life, And who remains shall flower as they love, Praise to our faring hearts. Dylan Thomas 1953 Related Poems One Art The art of losing isn't hard to master; so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster. Lose something every day. Accept the fluster of lost door keys, the hour badly spent. The art of losing isn't hard to master. Then practice losing farther, losing faster: places, and names, and where it was you meant to travel. None of these will bring disaster. I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or next-to-last, of three loved houses went. The art of losing isn't hard to master. I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster, some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent. I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster. —Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident the art of losing's not too hard to master though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster. Elizabeth Bishop 1979 Because I could not stop for Death (479) Because I could not stop for Death – He kindly stopped for me – The Carriage held but just Ourselves – And Immortality. We slowly drove – He knew no haste And I had put away My labor and my leisure too, For His Civility – We passed the School, where Children strove At Recess – in the Ring – We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain – We passed the Setting Sun – Or rather – He passed us – The Dews drew quivering and chill – For only Gossamer, my Gown – My Tippet – only Tulle – We paused before a House that seemed A Swelling of the Ground – The Roof was scarcely visible – The Cornice – in the Ground – Since then – 'tis Centuries – and yet Feels shorter than the Day I first surmised the Horses' Heads Were toward Eternity – Emily Dickinson 1951 The Wreck of the Hesperus It was the schooner Hesperus, That sailed the wintery sea; And the skipper had taken his little daughtér, To bear him company. Blue were her eyes as the fairy flax, Her cheeks like the dawn of day, And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds, That ope in the month of May. The Skipper he stood beside the helm, His pipe was in his mouth, And he watched how the veering flaw did blow The smoke now West, now South. Then up and spake an old Sailór, Had sailed the Spanish Main, “I pray thee, put into yonder port, for I fear a hurricane. “Last night the moon had a golden ring, And to-night no moon we see!” The skipper, he blew whiff from his pipe, And a scornful laugh laughed he. Colder and louder blew the wind, A gale from the Northeast, The snow fell hissing in the brine, And the billows frothed like yeast. Down came the storm, and smote amain The vessel in its strength; She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed, Then leaped her cable’s length. “Come hither! come hither! my little daughtér, And do not tremble so; For I can weather the roughest gale That ever wind did blow.” He wrapped her warm in his seaman’s coat Against the stinging blast; He cut a rope from a broken spar, And bound her to the mast. “O father! I hear the church bells ring, O, say, what may it be?” “ ’Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!” — And he steered for the open sea. “O father! I hear the sound of guns; O, say, what may it be?” “Some ship in distress, that cannot live In such an angry sea!” “O father! I see a gleaming light. O say, what may it be?” But the father answered never a word, A frozen corpse was he. Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, With his face turned to the skies, The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow On his fixed and glassy eyes. Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed That savéd she might be; And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave, On the Lake of Galilee. And fast through the midnight dark and drear, Through the whistling sleet and snow, Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept Tow’rds the reef of Norman’s Woe. And ever the fitful gusts between A sound came from the land; It was the sound of the trampling surf, On the rocks and hard sea-sand. The breakers were right beneath her bows, She drifted a dreary wreck, And a whooping billow swept the crew Like icicles from her deck. She struck where the white and fleecy waves Looked soft as carded wool, But the cruel rocks, they gored her side Like the horns of an angry bull. Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, With the masts went by the board; Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank, Ho! ho! the breakers roared! At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, A fisherman stood aghast, To see the form of a maiden fair, Lashed close to a drifting mast. The salt sea was frozen on her breast, The salt tears in her eyes; And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed, On the billows fall and rise. Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, In the midnight and the snow! Christ save us all from a death like this, On the reef of Norman’s Woe! Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Newsletter Sign Up Academy of American Poets Newsletter Academy of American Poets Educator Newsletter Teach This Poem Poem-a-Day Support Us Become a Member Donate Now Get Involved Make a Bequest Advertise with Us Poets Shop Follow Us poets.org Find Poems Find Poets Poetry Near You Jobs for Poets Read Stanza Privacy Policy Press Center Advertise academy of american poets About Us Programs Prizes The Walt Whitman Award James Laughlin Award Ambroggio Prize Chancellors Staff national poetry month Poetry & the Creative Mind Dear Poet Project Poster 30 Ways to Celebrate Sponsorship american poets Books Noted Essays Advertise © Academy of American Poets, 75 Maiden Lane, Suite 901, New York, NY 10038 poets.org

The coup continues unabated...

..as my beloved, once great America writhes in her death throes... "No country can survive treason from within." Roman Emperor Cicero... Nothing has changed in 2000 years. IMHO, a fluency in Mandarin will be a definite asset in the coming era...

And...

...someone might tell "Tim" to make the world a better place and to eat one of those pop guns he's so proud of... Real men shoot .458's...