Separation

Separation

Forty years my acquisition

Of books have numbered

In the hundreds. A new condition

Now tasks me; I’m encumbered.

All or some?

Which shall I pack?

This or that one?

It’s a huge stack!

It’s not the amount

Of books to flee

Into boxes that’s tantamount.

It’s their departure from me.

But, no. The change in my reality

Is actually my own departure, my leaving.

Not to depart is my plea.

Packing, the gateway, began my grieving.

I must now stop

And catch my breath.

On the holy hill atop

I should not fear death.

Endings, for sure,

Come closer every hour.

Many deaths I endure

Like the life cycle of a flower.

Where went time,

The gift coupled with space?

They, our temporal clime,

I live within that divine grace.

Time and space,

Chronological.

Life lifted from that place,

Eschatological.

Dare I say

“Woe is me.”

No pity in play.

Grace is free.

Two Prescient Books by French Writers

Considering both immigration and toleration by the secular left, these two books have much to behold for unchecked challenges to Western civilization.

The Camp of the Saints by Jean Raspail projects what types of immigration are possible, including unexpected and rapid confrontation by the unprepared and unsuspecting.

The Camp of the Saints

The book Submission by Michel Houellebecq, is a more recent publication. This novel expresses the transformation of a nation (in this case, France) by ideological/political Islam.

Submission

Submission

Submission

The secular has no clue.

Nominal Christians are nice.

Both see what Submission will do,

But are scared to fight.

Read the Prophet’s book

Just once,

And you will forever not look

And talk like a dunce.

It’s not a fight

With Submission’s so-called “Radical.”

That “Radical” is actually its pure light,

The Prophet’s binding manacle.

The real radicals of the “pure light”

Are misnamed as moderates.

If they speak up they might

Have their heads removed in their habitats.

Vast numbers of followers

Of the Prophet are not fanatics,

Neither total swallowers

Of sura dogmatics.

However, those followers are weak

And frightened by their throat-slicing minority.

Hideouts are what they seek,

They have ceded their authority.

The West then must assume this fight

And call a spade a spade.

It must recover its true grounding,

Or submit to the blade.

Coming to Terms

Coming to Terms

What’s so radical

About misuse of a term?

Words classical,

Once healthy, now deadly germ.

Radical Islam is a misnomer.

Its practice, Koran pure.

So-called moderates, the sarcoma,

The real radical offers no cure.

Radical is not

Pure Islam.

Its principles, its thought,

No peace, no balm.

Pure Islam is

Commitment, conviction.

On infidels quiz

Belief, impose affliction.

+++

The secular west

Did its best

To rid its root

Of Christian fruit.

First in Europe

Began to stir up

Old convictions

Creating frictions.

No need for tradition

With the Enlightenment mission

Of thinking the rational,

Being one, killing the national.

Fluid thinking,

No principles linking

To past truths.

 The secular requires no proof.

+++

Pure Islam and the secular

In strange alliance

Make spectacular

A frightful compliance.

The secular so blind

With no principles at all

Must resign

With submission, withal.

+++

"Radical," you see

Really are the "Moderate."

The rational and secular plea

Have succumbed to the pure threat.

Is it too late

To come to terms?

How long will the secular wait

Before western culture burns?

Common Curia

Common Curia

It was the last day

In February

Of the year 2013

Which gave us worry.

Why depart

From Office before death?

It was not physical loss

But political breath.

In the 2005 election

Joseph always led.

Jorge always second.

Ballot 4 made Joseph head.

The Curia incensed,

Plotted to change course.

Aided by red hats

Moved with no remorse.

The losers finally won

When Joseph stepped down

Unable to calm insurrection,

Relinguished the papal crown.

The Iago-like process

Took 8 years to complete.

An un-godly subterfuge

The legitimate one they unseat.

+++

It was the

Eighth day in November

Of the Year 2016,

An election to remember.

The legitimate process

Rendered no win popular vote.

It was a college

The Constitution wrote.

Similar to the Roman,

The D.C. Curia incensed

At the unfit candidate

Plotted against.

The agitation seemed organized,

At least that was the rumor.

Certainly the attacks were politicized,

Perhaps by Senator Schumer.

But no!

Chuck’s activity too obvious.

The real source

Is silent and devious.

Who then rakes Executive-45?

Perhaps someone next door.

Someone who never left town.

Yes! Iago-44.

+++

It has been said

Common to Benedict

And Executive-45,

The same to undercut and interdict.

The one who wants to

Close the world’s door

To true liberalism and freedom,

Is the same Iago-44.

If it smells like a rose …

If it smells like a rose …

It probably is

If it smells so.

Probably not

When you so know.

How so

With an institution?

Something as basic

As the American Constitution.

When a certain Article

Legitimates the manner

Of election,

Only one wins the banner.

An Amendment, First,

Announced freedoms

Institutionally allocated,

Created necessary legislative tediums.

When dissatisfied with

The banner bearer,

And institutional respect

Identifies no error,

Unhappy, some press

For executive removal and

Joined by legislative losers left,

Wax reproval.

Those left out

Lost.

Only left now with fire,

We teeter on chaos.

With ne’er a scintilla

Of deep inspection,

A thousand baseless fits

Form insurrection.

What then smells

Like a rose?

The Constitution

We chose!

Too Many Notes

Too Many Notes

Remember the line

By the emperor

In Amadeus? A whine

From an uneducated lecturer.

The king had no credentials

In the specialty of music.

His knowing only tangential

 He misused it.

“Too Many Notes,”

How did he know?

As emperor he outvotes

Those in positions below.

So, let’s take Bill Nye,

The all-knowing

Science guy,

Whose umbrage is showing.

This mere mortal

Who calculates the future for us all

Believes himself the portal

Of understanding, to him only befall.

It is not umbrage necessarily

That certifies his arrogance,

It is hatred of God, primarily

HIS ongoing creation. Nye is incensed.

“I can be God,

Science backs me up.

My purview is broad

With an overflowing of my cup.”

“The Church is destroyed.

It was science and I

Our method now enjoyed.

‘Lo, the hour of freedom nigh.’”

No, not so fast

You feeble one!

Your method cannot last,

Your work is actually finished, done.

Too many people on earth?

You’ve made a calculated threat

To God Who gives birth.

Your life, too, owed, debt.

Nye, you have no compassion,

Abortion is just another right.

Euthanasia is a process to cash in

Body parts of the dead,  a fury ignite.

You, of all scientists,

Should know science’s premise.

The Church gave you Enlightenment

Now time for your penance.

You cannot create the world,

You can only kill it.

Is that what your science will unfurl?

Can you undo what God writ?

Think it over.

You have a brain.

Give up your hostile takeover

And let the earth remain.