Monday, June 28, 2010

Whom Love Stays True

Wyrd wall willed up between
our paths, Thisbe, but I shall not
the sword fall on, but whisper
these silent hymns of praise
for that wonder other side
wall of for beauty, the sound
of your voice once breath
upon my earlobes, tongue's
tales woven crafter-strong and shared
I honor, sharing my own song and shall
paint murals this side the fresco,
portraits of that poetess
whose enchantment I do adore,
and be not despaired, no matter
the lioness walks, for she
carries invisible the heart's
holy queen to test
o'er walls whom love stays true.

Saturday, June 26, 2010

Still Finding Freedom

I think we're just beginning to relearn freedom. It's something that's going to take many generations, and a lot of work. We go to the wild country to relearn what it's like, to soak it into our breath and bones and blood, in hopes that when we go back to the zone of civilization, we carry with us a little taste of what it is like to truly be free.

There are two strands in American law, one coming out of the British feudal experience, which expressed itself through Coke's parliamentary absolutism, whereby the all and whole of life becomes taxed, regulated, ordinanced, to a degree of minutiae and interference with free action that is insulting to any notion of real freedom. Whether enacted by a king or a legislature, whether that legislature is distant or local, this is not freedom. This is legalism strangling out authentic life. It partakes of the nature of Jormungand, the great serpent who gradually as time goes on squeezes more and more of our beloved Mother Earth, and full of as much venom.

But there is another strand that was in stubborn defiance and retreat, a strand that still held on to the Magna Charta and all the ancient rights of Englishmen, that was so surrounded by strangles of feudal law and minutiae, arbitrary powers of unnoblemen (the proper name for nidings who long ago forgot their obligation to serve the folkrights and the Gods) and unkings, and the brute force of modernism and commercialization, that it did not still know freedom in its bones, but it remembered an inkling, and it held on to that with dear life. This current then came to America, and in America, a people holding on to its last remnants of the tribal rights guaranteed by the Magna Charta discovered peoples and tribes who actually still knew freedom, and actually still held on to their ancient rights, and this, along with the wide open spaces of forest and meadow, in whose loving, brambled embrace the frontiersman might escape out beyond the pale of the law of strangulation, inspired the essence coagulated into the ambered sap of Magna Charta to come alive again within the folk. The book Indian Givers gives a good introduction to the notion that it was living Native American societies that allowed English folk (English, Irish, Scottish, as well as Dutch, German, French, etc.) to begin to rewild. It was this reawakening of the spirit of Magna Charta that made for our revolution, for the guarantees of the Bill of Rights within the Constitution, and for the strong clinging to rights and freedom that are written all over our history.

But this liberatory invocation of freedom often remains rhetoric in the face of the other strand with which it, in contradiction, co-exists : the plenary power of legislation (according to Coke, and according to actual municipial practice in the United States) to touch everything within its grasp as it so chooses, and this banal totalitarianism sometimes masks itself as a form of "democracy". Ancient folk may have had more sense and simply called it "meddling", an attempt to regulate everything in life externally, in advance, outside the good sense, wisdom, prudence, and spontaneity of the free actors involved in a situation.

This feudal, Cokeian totalitarianism of banality is pervasive and expresses itself in endless ordinances, codes, and libraries of statutes. Such baroque legalism is certain to produce contempt for law (which it is not, although it is power) in the hearts of those who are truly free. Much of the rhetoric of freedom remains unrealized promise, untapped potential, the mere echo of a promissory note that hints at unheard-of vaults of freedom.

Freedom is something we are still learning. This is what the land told me when I went out to it today. I went up into the hills, hills which always preserve the older, wilder forms of life, and in that broad splay of color and vegetation, grounded, gnarled chaparral, and million-years-old sandstone geology, I saw, with my eyes of heart and eyes of contemplation, that Loki's serpent has managed to wrap its tendrils skillfully and pervasively around much of life, strangling it out, and therefore, we are still learning freedom.

There was/is a movement, variously called the "patriot" or "common law" movement that has generated a fascinating literature. These are folks who largely, I think, sense the discrepancy between these two strands of law, one a strong defense of freedom, the other that which strangles freedom, and have created an expressive literature around these contradictions that has too often degenerated into a crippling literalism. Finding themselves surrounded by endless mesh of legal barbed wire, and looking to the spirit invoked in '76, they said, this cannot apply to a freeman. This cannot apply to someone grounded in Magna Charta. This intuition is correct! There is a fundamental contradiction. But they then began to imagine a kind of legal prestidigitation, a kind of juggling of legal process, where, with the right passwords and the invocation of appropriate legal jargon, they could reinvoke their ancient rights, and bypass the statutory chains that increasingly surround a dungeon they once felt was called "America". Such ungrounded hocus-pocus has largely proven a fool's errand that has ended a lot of people up in jail, to which many have responded, "Oh, well, they didn't have the right hocus-pocus," and go forward to brew up more legal incantations. Meanwhile, they distribute unchecked fakelore that cites some cases accurately, selectively quotes out of context from other court cases, and in some cases constitutes almost complete fabrication. I call it "fakelore" because it distributes itself like folklore, is often as unchecked, but lacks the authenticity, groundedness, or proven experience of folklore that has had time to mature. I might more kindly call it fakelore reaching after folklore, perhaps, with some greater practical intelligence and savvy, on its way to becoming folklore. The citation of fake court cases and out-of-context court cases is deplorable, and the publishing of such material used to be considered, quite rightfully in my mind, contempt of court, because it constitutes a danger to report a court case declaring one thing when in fact it declares another. This is not an impingement upon freedom of speech or press, because one maintains the right to disagree with a court case, and even to hold widely differing interpretations of the ruling, but it must be grounded upon an authentic reporting and citation of the ruling itself. Why is this important? If you distribute literature that purports that certain rights may be recognized in court, but this is not true, and then people, trusting that literature, go out and act upon that purported confirmation of right, they may end themselves up in a lot of legal trouble. It's fraudulent and unbrotherly.

But this does not mean that the common law movement is all nonsense. Its fetish for arcane legal incantation may put many off, and the unfortunate fact that many of its early strands did indeed seem to stem out of racist Christian Identity groups really ought to make one genealogically suspicious, but it is, I think, an error to dismiss in toto, because there is an element here of folk education in common law, and a reinvocation of ancient rights which really are ancient rights! They are so ancient that many of them predate Christianity! One of the errors these folks make is assuming that people in power must follow the rules. This is an incredibly naive stance. People in power follow power, and consult their lawyers when it seems like someone might call them on it, and then they utilize technicalities to engineer what they wanted to do anyway. The idea that people in power can be constrained with the mere invocation of a legal formula is sophomoric idealism : adorable, in a way, but dangerous. When power is actually checked through popular scrutiny, power tends to approximate rules, and then let the lawyers do the clean-up.

I suspect that a lot of people in power dislike the common law movement not primarily because of the racism of some of its genealogical strands, but because it carries the threat of ordinary people calling on the law, and interpreting it according to their strong, ethical sense of freedom. It threatens to take law out of the hands of elite professionals, who serve the strangling serpent, and regenerate authentic law, as decided by empowered juries. Here Lysander Spooner's important historical treatise on the ancient rights of juries gives actual grounding to popular movement. However, until such time as jurors all over the country know their actual rights and history, and are willing to invoke them in open court in defiance of magisterial, Cokeian judges, of what actual effect is such submerged knowledge? It remains that boiled-down essence, that coagulated sap, that the colonists carried with them that still requires full awakening. Until empowered juries begin nullifying statutory arrogance, on an unprecedented scale, in alignment with protest groups petitioning for redress of grievances in the streets, such that it really, authentically becomes the "second house" or "popular branch" of the judiciary, as some have put it, and thus begins to put popular checks on legislative mania, we will remain tangled in legal codes and statutory brambles largely dreamed up by the lobbyists of the rich, who certainly have little interest in non-wealthy classes retaining anything of authentic freedom.

Learning how to become free men on the land is of utmost importance. It is a project that I suspect will take some time. And it will require some grounding in indigeneity that racists (conscious or no) who simply assume the legitimacy of "Manifest Destiny", never investigating actual original title issues in this country, will probably not find. The question of the true holders of odal rights in a country is of some extreme importance in determining your law and your foothold on any land, for if you come in with the conqueror, and only on the basis of that conquest, there is some reason to believe that one is walking in under color of feudal law, with fealty to the sovereign/conqueror, rather than any legitimate rooting in the land itself. This is an extremely complex issue that is barely ever talked about in the United States, except, of course, by Native American tribes. It is worthy of note that treaties, under the Constitution, are above all statutory law, and within a heathen context, represent sacred oaths that, as Voluspa indicates, anger Thor to a pitch of rage when parties unilaterally break them. Considering the countless treaties that have been broken by Washington, it might be a bit humbling for a heathen to realize that the term grið-níðingr, or "truce/treaty-breaker", is one of the strongest forms of legal abuse or disapprobriation that existed amongst ancient heathens.

What is your law? What is your land? These are fundamental questions, questions the answers to which most have no clue.

The literature of the common law movement makes for a fascinating read that is not entirely unprofitable, so long as one's critical mind is alert to its errors and naivetes, for there is to be found therein a legitimate reaching after the ancient rights, which can both educate heathens, as well as be more greatly informed by knowledge of heathen culture. This is not to say that I endorse the literature ; only to note it as an important curiosity that might inspire an authentic populism, if it were more grounded in a shrewd study of history. Moreover, many of its tenets, while not literally able to banish the statutory chains that bind us, would make for meaningful popular legal debate, and such debate about the fundamentals of law could be incredibly fructifying.

Here a critical note may be of some value. The lack of attention given in the heathen community to the study and restoration of heathen law is both baffling and deplorable. Magna Charta itself is little known and studied, with the pre-Conquest Anglo-Saxon law which Magna Charta was largely fortifying, being a no-man's land ; deeper still, the Gragas and Frostathing laws remain largely untranslated, let alone available or studied, not to mention the very important Saxonspiegel, the Code of Jutland, the Frisian laws, and all the laws of the Germanic tribes as written down in Latin. Why should such be a priority for heathens? With law the land shall be inhabited, begins the Code of Jutland, and when heathens complained to Christian kings about their usurpations, they referred to their religion as their law. The two were inseparable, because the Gods protected those who lived freely within the law. The law-assemblies, after all, were places of sacred invocation of the Gods, where the Gods watched very closely the decisions come to by men. "What you bind on earth shall be bound in heaven", adjusted for idiom, is not just a Christian sentiment, but an authentically heathen one. Where we have authentic law-assemblies and they hand down discovered and authentic heathen law, we shall be held accountable. Where we do not have and have not reconstituted authentic law-assemblies, we shall also be held accountable.

Law and freedom should not be in contradiction ; the one should protect the other. We are still relearning freedom. The greatest tasks in reconstituting the culture and spirituality of our ancestors remain ahead. Who will speak up as pioneer? Who will take hold of the ancient embers and carry the torch forward?

These are not dry, abstract matters, the dust of musty archives, the split-hairs of scriveners. These are matters of the heart, that emerge more prominently the greater you bring your soul into relation with the land and its many spirit-guardians (collectively, the "heath"). Authentic law bubbles up from the deepest layers of Wyrd. Such a torah is indeed written on the heart, and not to be found in the arbitrary enactments of meddlers, whose love of freedom is overshadowed and buried by their compulsion to control. Real law controls the wolves and grinds down monsters, releasing the free ; law turned on its head and made into unlaw controls the free and grinds down the folk, releasing the monsters. Look around and decide which strand has greater power, and then make your choice as to which side you will lend your weight. Follow your heart.

Avaritia the Cruel

Avaritia, the Cruel
Matron of Lupus
immolatio thrice
arise ever smoke
draw cheat from hearts
of men towards other men
in on and on circle
of evil, breed war,
fraternatio crumble,
amicitia divide,
unanimitas sunder,
so most men spoiled
through her lycanthropia:
homo homini lupus,
where Heimdall would have
homo sacra res homini.
Let liberi be taught
how ever she lurks
in crystalli-cold hearts
that no ill spell negligo,
married to decipio,
calvor, fraudo, father
of God-swallowing Wolf.
Avaritia est unquam maleficia,
incantatio stolen
from holy Amor,
and given to mere lucrum.
To chase forth
the angel who speaks
Gods' whispers
from one's home is nefas.
Nefas! Heed not Avaritia.
She whispers usura,
invasio, usurpo, despolio;
aegrotatio, toxicum,
corrumptella. Seek
aequitatis, audentis,
prudentia, sanctitatis,
pietas. Through these walls
well-held she cannot enter.

Tuesday, June 22, 2010

May You Hold Dominion Over All the Hearts of Men, O Love

Tell them, Mistress, the fair sway of the shimmering paths ; tell them, Lady, allure of enchantment beyond dreaming's reach ; tell them, Marvelous One, of deep draughts of trance we once shared, tasted once which, sours the world of dust and trauma, hassle and chore. Speak, O Muse of Lip's Kiss's Song, of exile, of drear once driven out from those elfin ways to walk the ways of men again, how many fade and wither, wastreled and wretched, their eyes afar and seeking bliss once tasted. Speak truths of your poisons, O Lustrous Queen, one drop thereof a toxin torment with fields of endless flowers, running, soaring, flying beyond the cage of static. You choose ecstatic those to taste these brews that once begone would leave the mind a'spinning ever after. And yet if loyal we must linger, speak in song those virile visions, that these lands at last elysian fields might find in friendship formed, thy kingdom come, O cougar-carried, petals peeled upon the pavements, for thy footsteps fertilize our lives and lands when you wouldst come. Yet honest we must earn with honor welcome for thy wondrous ways, and too few try, I tearful ponder, to pave the paths that please you so. May this standstill stumble, tumble the towers that treasono's obscure thy blessed bosom. May you hold dominion over the all the hearts of men, O Love, for you hold pieces of that chessgame golden, grass played O so long ago, each pendant strung, in sovereign power, upon that celebrated necklace silver-strung yet gleaming golden.

The line of kings has fallen, Queen ; no noble folk to court thy magic elfin handmaids. No bold souls brave to buy a kingdom for thy crafts with courage now. Earthlands lie barren, monsters hold key, land is locked out from love's great sway. Masterful Mistress, meet our prayer, bid us boon, teach us words that willful spoken ward away that sorceress whose angst and greed lie heft on humans. Free us, Freya, or help us free ourselves so we may meet thee kindly, welcome thee to walk our ways, as we would willing walk in yours. I speak true words and bidding.

Monday, June 21, 2010

Each Day By Dawn Or Dread Night Long

Each day by dawn or dread night long,
love, I lingered in lyrical praise or prayer
towards thee and thine and all thy charms,
or woe, wishing away all of thy tears
wept, that well my woman might be,
even though I was exiled far from thee.
Washed in waves of the whelming sea,
I drifted, half-drowned, in the dreary waters,
which grief, that grew from the grave of my child,
drew out my dreadnought, which drenched in tide,
sunk, sunk down with my son and crew.
The cutting of cold waves kind has not
been to the bold soul whose bower you shared ;
lost, upon the lone sea, looking forlorn,
I have wandered, wayless, without hope.
In madness mired upon the mere's grey waves,
love, I have lingered in love's echo,
kept quick the quickened spark,
for I, your Odr, am ever true.

Asmund, Odr's son by Freya, had set out in his great ship Gnod leading the fleet against Dietrich, and the father, seeing the son in danger, came to his aid, but Asmund was killed by Dietrich. Odr in his rage killed hordes, but the ship Gnod sunk there with all hands lost, while Odr, lost at sea, became wrapped in the hide of a strange sea-beast, and thus exiled, wandered the waters waiting for Freya, who at first thought him lost.

Sunday, June 13, 2010

Don't Miss Out On the Meal For the Food

There's something wonderful about having a chief God whose wisdom crackles with practicality. Odin advises us to eat a little before we go to a social gathering lest we lose out on the conviviality for our own ravenousness.

Havamal 33 : Árliga verðar skyli maðr opt fá nema til kynnis komi sitr ok snópir lætr sem solginn sé ok kann fregna at fá,"Early should a person take a meal, unless he comes amongst his kin, (for he) sits and mopes, acting like a hungry glutton, and can ask little."

Boy, is that true! I never really gave this stanza much thought. Then, today, I went to a vegan gathering after not having eaten all day. All I cared about was gulping down my food! I felt rude, because the point of the gathering was to interact, which I did a little, but mainly, I wolfed down my food!

Meals are meant to be social occasions, full of conviviality and the opportunity to learn. They are not just about eating. Eating together facilitates something larger. If all you can think about is your stomach, you lose out on the magic.

Thursday, June 10, 2010

Old Crone of the Bretton Woods

Ghosts! the eyeless African corpses haunt!
Halt the endless array of assembly-line morgue-craft
Darfur-drifting on the savannah floors of our
Beloved Mother Earth's Grand Dame Matron,
Africa! She has disir in every land.

Old crone of the barren Bretton Woods breeds
battle-carrion's cravers sent to austere fleece
the false folk-kings' minions thralled
in her long line of golden glitter'd venom-bait.
The robber-barons bought, break frith,
split tribes, forge feud, bear tax-sack back
to that world's frigid bank blanked swamp in the East ;
and when peasants prove unable mouth
so large and toothed to fill with flesh,
let meat of their bones starve humbled in hovels,
no shield-king to shield them. Thus the myths repeat,
with loss.

Her grey-clad kinfolk, lined serpent
neck to belly, know squeeze,
and stalk low in the winding grass
seek 'sinuate the weave and warp
of world to strangle, and choke
with tribute the rights' parchments praised.

And you shall know them
by the serpents round their necks ;
are they the ones you call your fathers?
Forefathers ripened fruit on that ancient yew
catcall righteous gripe and slander down
the ancient halls on false fathers
serpent-slaved to gold-greed's harvest.
They are unafraid to proclaim blaspheme
where the sons have fallen fast
from bright track's forest throughways.
Now your choose 'tween grandfathers
mighty and minions of Heid make choice.
If you pay the kinscild, you earn your way
into those mighty masters' homes,
and there the strong mirth knows no halt.
Choose your cheer.

The world has entered into me

The world has entered into me
its bitter dust and taste, corrode,
of history's unwailed cemetaries.
The banished moots, where justice,
exiled, wept, and gnashed broken teeth.
The world is frozen at Runnymede,
let robes and wigs be thrown on flames
the false tongue fans with crooked proclamation.
What barons bring folks' hopes hither
with arms to ring Niccolo's prince
that he might with blood sign back
the broken rights on parchment made of yew?

Hew the laughter and celebration of princes,
the wolves' feast is the lambs' slaughter,
and Gods' tears are venom dripping on eyes
hazed over with lies that they might see,
just see for one moment what mischief
has been wrought with mayhem's dalliance.

O, history passes prosaic,
but leaves its stain poetic ;
and prophets ponder the storming verse
ink-billowed in oil plumes of brine
blooming poison and nightmare
in the far reaches of impossibility
taking root in the unseen but felt banal.
They hardly believe the plot.
We are dreamed by shocked eternity.

We do not sing of Deganawidah
but the white billows' brine-wind whipped
sails of Santa Maria. There is testimony
in the songs unsung ; law shimmers
in the sun above the Western waves
evaporate' the voice of Chungichngish.
A drum still beats pulse
in the heart of the land beneath feet.
Open up the ancient suits, and hear cause:
straight the crook, call witness, let jury
hear plea. Blood runs wergild in the sand,
you have at last a chance to stand.

You are but a shadow on a general's back
carried over cluster-bomb cleats
deep-teeth bite bayonet on the crushed
rights' gravel and rubble. Never
on real ground stood, your soil
is leviathan's flesh etin-tower
terrible over the real land, invisible.
Now take up feet and walk on rights,
if you would have them.

Ode to Eve's Irish Father Fallen

Western sails, the sleek skiff
sets out sunset upon waves
Manannan's maids cast cool :
and the Irishman meets
his mothers and fathers'
summerland country, with cups
of quickened mead smooth
to soul, he goes loved to lands
where fairies hold sway, seeks
songs, and finds them.

My good friend Eve Ghost lost her father this week, and sends him shortly upon his way to the Western halls of the forefathers. To bring her strength, and honor her, I dedicate this poem. May the precious sup of life's green fluids running sap-ferment from Yggdrasil's evergreen boughs restore the strength of kin, and seal the sore to wholeness, let it be so, I say upon this day and bid it done by Gods who bless.

After the Great Naval Battle

Exiled, her green pastures parted
o'er the blue billows of wave,
I leave the lovely land of my mistress
unwilling, sold thrall by the cold storm
rage, a ship tossed, wretched,
grasping foam-thrashed splinters
in the deep. Lost, my loins' patrimoan,
that thousand-three man galleon glory,
gone, bitter billows taste of brave fade full,
and fold into the foreign mold's skin,
where frenzy's force brain-fog sunk
into the beastly howls of brown-whisker'd face,
I quiver, now gliding grace majestic
in the glass-green fold of wet, awaiting
that woman's fair and free face, if
these barks bounce echo on the banks
of her amber-beaming grain-laiden shores.

If you studied, you would know the allusions herein.

Friday, June 04, 2010

Admiration for Loki the Operatic Figure

I like Loki. As a character. He's a fabulous, salaciously sly figure, fun in a dramatic sense. Similarly, I love Heid. As a character. She is dastardly, and one you just love to hate. Both of these are wonderfully rich, tragic figures, brim with potential and even haughtiness, whose brilliance, unguided by wisdom and compassion, brings about their downfall (a downfall in which they wish to pull the whole world!). One has to admire characters as rich as these.

That's because these are exquisite characters crafted by masters of Divine Opera, which is what the Northern myths are, brilliantly entertaining, theatrically engaging, and dramatically profound operas portraying the nature of the Gods and their interpenetration into the lives of human beings, as it happened in the beginning of time, and set the stage for the world as we know it, with all its agonies and ecstasies.

But appreciation of an operatic figure as a character is a very different thing than imputing any worth to the spiritual force behind the operatic figure. Discernment is needed here. I'd be one of the first to audition for the part of Loki in a play, because it'd be a terribly fun part to play, and Lopt, though he is now bound and suffering, certainly has lessons to teach to those wise enough to not get taken in by his contemptuous love of gullibility, and he is genuinely appreciative of portrayals of the old days when he was once young and still full of potential and spark. He's particularly proud of his pranks, and even his diabolically precise plans of sabotage. Someone has to admire them. And in a dramatic sense, it's fine to speak up in appreciation.

But this is a completely different thing than honoring the spiritual force that is one of the most widely worshipped of divinities --- in the actual deeds of human beings. And if you look around, that worship of folly, treachery, cheating, adultery, and lying has made the world a much less fun, exciting, and engaging place to live in.

So admire the character, but reserve your judgement for spiritual forces worthy of worship.

Wednesday, June 02, 2010

Is Loki Worthy of Emulation?

You befriend someone who's a little sly, but full of potential. He provided company in a difficult time, so you return the favor. You invite him into your house to stay with your family. One of the first things he does is offer to negotiate a contract to have a big, nice fence built around your house. Sounds good. Except he negotiated that ruining your house and giving away your daughter to the enemy would be the price. Some deal, eh? Then, behind your back, he delivers your most precious resources into your sworn enemy's hands, resources without which you will eventually dwindle and die, and only brings them back under threat of bodily harm. He turns two of your allies against each other, completely alienating them so they wish to deal neither with you nor each other anymore, and all the aid and support they were lending you dries up. He raises a ferocious son, a predator destined to kill you, raises another son who does nothing but spit venom, and engenders a daughter who seems to bring sickness wherever she goes. He leads one of your sons into an ambush, and brings about the death of another one of your sons.

Now let's say that your family is somewhat important. You're in charge of watching over the weal of a number of surrounding districts and counties, who are depending on you to keep things in order. Your guest, it turns out, has no problem making deals with your enemies whose activities directly negatively impact the economic productivity of all the people you're entrusted to protect.

Finally, when you are assembled in a truce-hall, under cease-fire conditions, he shows up, kills one of the servants of the resident ambassador (with whose people you are in an uneasy truce), endangering the position of everyone in the hall, and then slanders every member of your family publicly, in front of those with whom a shaky cease-fire have been negotiated, and confesses openly to the murder of your son.

Some questions :

Would you ever welcome this person back into your house again?
Would you feel justified in calling for this person's execution or permanent exile?
Would you ever want to have anything to do with anyone who knowingly associated with this person?
Would you ever want anyone you love or protect utilizing this person as some kind of example or model?
Would you ever buy any argument that suggested that overall this person's actions represented a net gain to you and your family?
Have any of your answers been motivated in any way by Christian theology, or by your own gut feelings and common sense, and do you think that most sane people, regardless of their religious or philosophical conditions, would probably tend to draw the same conclusions?

Does more need to be said about Loki?

Another Perspective on Memorial Day

Great post over at Austro-Athenian Empire on Memorial Day.

Choice quote :

"“Thank a veteran for the fact that you have the freedom to take a day off.” (Right, because if Vietnam had conquered the u.s. like it was all set to, they wouldn’t have given us any public holidays.)"

Vietnam, or Korea, or Grenada, or Iraq, or Afghanistan. All these countries that had already crossed our borders intent on invasion. We could add so many others to the list, including Spain.

Guess what sovereign still-existing nation is the only modern nation-state to have actually invaded the United States and threatened our freedom?

Great Britain.

So on Veteran's Day I make it a point to thank the fallen veterans of the Revolutionary War and the War of 1812, because they were heroes who actually defended our soil from invaders.

Also read this.

Tuesday, June 01, 2010

For She Who Makes The Magic Grow

For She who makes the magic grow
For She whose touch has brought me high and brought me low
when absent, I pursue her flowing cloak of luminescent stars
where they flee 'cross the heavens, animated by her powers,
I too fly, and with great speed, and joy
O She who makes me feel a little boy,
and bright, yet strong, a man indeed,
Her Love I make my fervent creed,
a task, a faith, across a lifetime,
a promise made when life was sunshine
fogged in fog across the bay
whence Sol shined down on every day
upon that red-gold gleaming gate
within whose burg participate
an in-between time when love was gestate
a fairy moment whom the years' giants would frustrate :
yet I, touched by the lavender fields of her knotted hair
and far-away eyes that out-looked the window, as if without care,
have been transformed, as if coals, cold embers, set aflame,
a spark of some secret star that shines in the darkness with no shame,
alive to the magic, alive to awe's ability to descend,
in the midst of mundane, and to mend
the deadly cold of boredom's ice
shaking up the long-too-settled dice
to gamble once more, and so I await
that time when time may bring my mate,
those soft lips, and wise-beyond-years witch's gaze,
the one so long pursued who ever earns my praise.
For I have seen her glances furtive peek
in the eyes or breath of those I seek
to share love's great moments of warmth and glow,
that in the cold night oft are only hopes I know.
Each lover a letter in that long epistle
she writes ; each one a holy day in her missal
of feasts and frolics, and springtime lusts,
whose fresh air blows in aromatic gusts.
But one there was through whom you shone
most clear, and glistening, as white bone
of moon whose ship sails cross the skies,
or gems, who gleam 'neath cavern's darkened guise ;
her echo traces you most clearly,
and so, as relic held most dearly,
her memory keeps my magic sane,
alive, though dormant in the grain,
and Lady, Love, someday you'll sprout
that corn, and let the love flow out
so full my world will be renewed,
so strong will fade the wounds of feud,
and my heart's home I'll know again,
gladdened, Goddess, you are my friend.