The Gone Age

I was remembering the hounds I loved forty years back while looking at the hounds I love today and realizing the spirit in those of forty years back and the spirit of those today is the same thing. That thing is unadulterated honesty of being. Entirely unlike the human beings I have known, who have mostly been adulterated entirely and absolutely in their honesty all along, and yet, evolving, or devolving, regressing, ever further through the years. Every new age learns how to lie in new and different and worse ways. Each succeeding age, become more professional at the lie. Every age further corrupts the definitions of terms until now, most all the noble, great terms, though meaning, by themselves, exactly what they meant when they were coined, when set against those things people now use them for, well... Terms do not often these days define truthfully and properly the things people use them to define these things, these people.

I think a basic element and proof of the corruption of an age is to notice terms, and their use, and consider if the terms are being used to define the thing properly. If so, the age is not corrupt. If not, the age is corrupt. To read history at all shows that the corruption of nations has a long history to it. But I believe it could be said that this particular age in this particular nation is creme of the crop, top (or bottom) of the heap, regarding absolute, irretrievable corruption.

It is the Gone Age.

Forty years of Good Government Work....

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The Nexus....

We never know when the age dies, we just wake up one day and realize-- it's over with-- and it's never coming back. Ever.

The Death of Spring

Life, and how it is.... June 12, 2011

On Bullies and Hate Speech

WHO IS it 

Letter to a Star...

Letter to a Star...

a letter to a star, the poet wrote

as it peeked at the poet

from around the moon

a letter to a star, the poet wrote

as the lass gave him an eye

from the woodsman's fire

a letter to a star, the poet wrote

as the fire turned to embers

and the flames died down

and the earth, it glowed

and resembled the star,

of which the poet wrote...

Dear Star, (wrote the poet)

Why so far? I am here on earth, and I have no flying car, that can take me to the moon, and from there catch a lunar bus, to where me and you can become an 'Us'. Why so high, Bright star? My eye can barely see, but a prick o' light in my eye, and a dream in my heart, that poets and stars can meet in the ether, and fly just as fast as stars so far. To play around our moon and the moons of other places, to visit other galaxies and view other faces, the poet and the star were not made for a single planet. Yes, a poet and his star, and all the love they can make, those love-makers, love-creators; those star-born, star-like creatures. And now I must go, there is a knocking at the door I believe it is the star, she has come from afar, and I think she brought a snickers bar, and we shall go a roaming, where no farmer ever could, and no earthling ever should. A trip to the moon, and from there, who knows- maybe wherever the solar wind blows. A poet and a pen, a star and her poet, make rhyme in the night, and the constellations show it.

The poet,

November 24th, 2010

11:25pm

Thoughts While Tired of other thoughts that are borrowed

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