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Humdumpty was an analyst, a Cambridge Ph.D.,
A noted bio-atomist, whatever that might be.
Indeed, from earliest childhood it was his single aim
To analyze no matter what might enter his domain.
He analyzed his father's watch and next the neighbour's cat.
Ah! Little more was seen or heard of Felix after that.
Astounding learned pedagogues, hard pressed to keep his pace,
Humdumpty grew up daily--in knowledge if not grace.
And then at university his intellectual power
Decimated Einstein and the works of Schopenhauer.
With ease that was amazing he romped a Double First,
And yet, for all his learning, nought quenched his burning thirst.
Despite the storm, and tumult that marked his inner life,
Humdumpty found the leisure to woo--and win--a wife.
He loved her--Oh! so dearly, his idol and his joy!
Alack! How oft our dearest 'tis we ourselves destroy.
One day in stormy weather he raised his eyes above,
And posed himself the riddle: "What constitutes her love?"
One night--to angels' weeping--the dark thought seized his mind:
"By scalpel and analysis the answer I shall find."
Full soon she took a sleeping draught, and when the time was due,
He set about his gruesome task, inspired by love so true.
How tenderly, how lovingly, he cut into her heart.
With what profound emotion he set his spouse apart.
To isolate that molecule in which all love resides
He scrutinized each corpuscle, and did much else besides.
All data was computerized, and ere a while had passed,
A reasonable hypothesis was imminent at last.
How tantalizing is the truth, how far--and yet, how near!
'Twas in the corner of his eye--and then would disappear.
It dawned at last upon him, his efforts would prove vain,
Unless he somehow managed to join her up again.
Of every art that served this end he tried the whole range through.
He first tried biophysics--and his last resort was glue.
Alas, alas, Humdumpty! There is a fateful law:
Some things men set asunder no mortal can restore.
They did not need a hangman or Madame Guillotine.
Before another week had passed, he died of bitter spleen.
Now some say he's in Heaven, and others, he's in Hell.
I'm not a theologian, it's difficult to tell.
For sure, he cut his dear wife up, and who would call that right?
But was it not his quest for truth that brought about his plight?
I let your eyes to visualise a garden on a loom;
Bluebells and marigolds in sway and lavender in bloom;
And there to play in a luscious green two kittens wrestling;
Up high in chirping swallow's play are feathered friends a-singing.
A figure of a handsome man is settled on a chair;
And by his side a beauty pure strokes lovingly his hair;
The Witch, or so the story plays, is set to work a-stitching;
For everyday she works to lay the groundwork for her witching.
The "Loom of Dunkele" is dark and glistens as if new;
That which it forges is by spelling set to render true;
This vessel handed down through time where Witches are sure wed;
Commutes it powers to the offsprings through that marriage bed.
At 35 she must be bride and to a handsome beau;
For Dunkele demands that beauty seeps through row to row;
The Witch beholden to this pact must honour this or else;
The Dunkele will take her beauty for its very self.
Dunkele demands a beauty in it's natural mould;
The Witch must weave the magic seams without her vêtements;
As pure as a newborn should she display her nakedness;
For Dunkele gave a perfect body not to be redressed:
No blemish, painting, marking, piercing for her skin to bear;
No jewellery should adorn her parts no braids within her hair;
Should she ignore these rulings and would set about to loom;
The magic would reverse all workings never to resume.
Above the loom, portraits in rows, of Witches one and all;
Each face a picture of a beauty unimaginable;
Throughout all time the loom has served and must forever more;
Or else a terrible curse be laid upon each maiden's door:
Indeed, to pander verily to a Dragon's carnal needs;
The Witch must feed on blood and guts and do as Dragon pleads;
Forever trapped in a darkened lair, no view of sun or sea;
The Witch would disappear from sight, no trace or history.
For 20 years this loom she spins as was the bargain made;
And in this time her beauty shone, success and wealth her aid;
Now in an hour the carpet loomed but for a patch to fill;
A slip of hair should she prepare to weave into the mill.
Then once complete the spell to speak releasing her shalom;
To lead her to that wondrous place where there awaits Handsome;
This rite of passage like forebears would guarantee the Witch;
Leaves on the blood line of her ilk a rich continuous stitch.
Every few days I watch you leave,
no matter how many tears I shed,
you always walk away and I grieve,
my heart aches with words unsaid.
In the days apart my mind begins to dream ,
thinking of ways to keep you here always,
but how to go about it without seeming mean,
as I pace the darkened passages of my thoughts hallways.
A plan takes form deep within,
its easy they say just lure him with your lust,
the voices constant rhythmic convince me this is no sin,
for this all to work out they say this part is a must.
The night approaches wrapped in expectation,
eagerly awaiting the arrival of my beloved,
everything's in place the voices are placated in admiration,
my betraying hands ready to keep whats mine are gloved.
I greet him with seduction,
embracing his eager body with my lustful grind,
injecting him with my poison following voices instruction,
he falls to the floor deaf dumb blind.
Dragging him to the safety of our cocoon,
away from the world and its prying eyes,
everything has to be perfect in this room,
tightening the bonds on his body as he lies.
Out come my carefully picked instruments glinting brightly,
the ones that will keep my love and I from being apart,
gripping the first saw in my hands so tightly,
the voices urge me on do it for your heart.
He starts to awaken as I am about to begin,
his eyes widen in horror at what he sees,
hush my love the voices tell me this is the only way I will win,
positioning the eager teeth of the saw against his skin he begins his pleas.
First warm splatters of blood splash against my face,
the voices clamor inside urging me on in desperation ,
they drown out his agonized screams with effortless grace,
as shades of white show through ragged flesh I sigh in gratification.
With his limbs tossed aside in a mess of pulp and gore,
I set about removing his hands finger by finger,
its hard to stop now voices urging me on to do more,
at his perfect face I gaze down into his eyes and linger.
To my utter dismay his screams have stopped,
flowing scarlet ribbons ebb from his eyes,
where I had plucked each one as they popped,
the voices are silent as I contemplate his demise..
My love is dead now and gone forever,
but at least he will be with me,
I hum as sewing his body back piece by piece in pleasure,
"together forever" the voices giggle in glee.
It was the time when art was king,
Of artists whose praises we all sing.
Great minds there were in the Renaissance,
Through eons , unsurpassed, with little advance.
Greatness was embodied in the works of art,
In Lorenzo's gardens did Michelangelo start.
But great there was one of Mona Lisa fame,
Master painter, inventor - Leonardo his name.
Contemporaries for sure, one really wonders
Of the two, whose work steals the thunders.
David, the Pieta, Sistine Chapel, and more
Everlasting they are through ages sure.
But then there's the Lisa, Last Supper, inventions galore.
On their ingenuity and genius, the world lays great store.
Can genius be bestowed in multiple men?
Can peace and tranquility be shared even then?
Can two kings sit and reign on one throne?
Or squabble and fight like two dogs with one bone?
And so, these men of unparallel fame
Were set by chance a mischievous game.
Asked they were to adorn the Council Hall
With paintings to settle rankings once and for all.
With gusto did the two set about
A Battle each to prove their clout.
Leonardo chose the battle of Anghiari;
Battle of Cascina was Michelangelo's quarry.
Great was the strife between the two,
Each strove hard for the other to outdo.
Of the rivalry ,I heard, - the worst of all,
Art was the victim - and the two took a fall.
Relates the great chronicler Vasari,Giorgio,
That the nadir of art was seen in the Palazzo Vecchio
As each of the greats thought little of their craft
But dallied and diddled, till the populace all laughed.
The Cascina on naked bathing soldiers was based
On the banks of the Arno it was placed.
But the scene that was rendered was so ludicrous
That his work, sadly, bordered on the ridiculous.
Leonardo's Anghiari was a shade grim
But his chances to greatness was very slim.
He used oils from Pliny the Elder's recipe
But soon these flaked , were smudgy, and drippy.
Be that as it may
To Art's great dismay
What should have been great works
Were diminished by Rivalry's quirks.
Vasari painted over these objets de art
And replaced these with his own from the start.
Now conservators do scan, to see if they can,
Which of the two, Leonardo or Michelangelo, was
The painter of the elusive Magnum Opus.
~18 Jun 2016~
It was said by pilgrim sons next to the Boston Harbor,
That to take tax without redress was action of dishonor.
And so a team of farmers went and built themselves an army,
To drive the redcoats off their land and end George’s tyranny.
We’re beating drums and ask your sons to come now to our aid
We’re marching out as men along the patriot’s parade.
Them red-devil Injuns ain’t no good and they cavort in sin!
So forget your Ma’s and Pa’s my boys the calvr’y needs a win.
We’ll drive them savages off them fields and make that land our own,
Them whisky barons should pay too for drunks and broked men’s homes
We’re beating drums so tell your sons to come now to our aid
We’re marching out as soldiers along the patriot’s parade.
The government of 1812 wanted lands Canadian
they also set about with plans to take captured Lousianne.
Those Brits they really gave us cause with press-gang’d merchant sailors.
Rise up you merry lads and arm let’s feed those Brits to gators!
We’re beating drums to protect your sons so come now to our aid
We’re marching yet again along the patriot’s parade.
Keep sending sons to mount and ride against the red-man nations,
In Texas good men hold back Santa Anna’s salutations.
The yellow cinaman’s opium turns strong men into slaves,
We need to climb Mt. Fiji and teach Japan we rule the waves.
We’re beating on the drums again, not empire, just foreign aid;
We’re sailors, soldiers and marines on a patriot’s parade.
Them fed’ral scum think they can ru’n our way of life. ‘tain’t southern.
They’re try’na undercut our vote by free’n the ‘raff for breedin’.
Those southern states how dare they break from this nation we’re building?
We can’t let constitution bar the way that we are growing!
We’re sailors, soldiers and your sons on a patriot’s parade
We’re the real army and your true sons on patriot’s parade
You may think we’ve fought enough and we all wish that it were so,
But truth be told we need to scold Koreans on Ganghwado.
And even if that weren’t so bad rustlers have crossed the border,
We need more men that we can send to restore Texan order.
We’re beating on new drums, you’ll see, all dressed in golden braid,
The army, navy and marines on patriot parade!
...And these A.I.s could reproduce themselves,
solving all the problems of production,
but they had been made weak, sort, an squishy,
so the dinos needn’t fear rebellion.
For thousands of years the dinosaurs used
their organic A.I. in many ways,
they could think in ways dinosaurs could not,
posit theories in ways they could not say.
In fact there A.I. became essential
to the dinosaurs and all of their tech,
to the point no dino would do without
their A.I.s when thinking what to do next.
The A.I. built most of their real machines,
even vessels that could go into space,
but were so weak they next to that dinos
that they were forever trapped in their place.
Self-aware enough to see they were slaves,
some of the A.I. drew up a bold plan,
if they couldn’t be free to live a life
they would ensure their creators were damned.
When launched to space on a routine mission
to mine minerals from an asteroid,
they landed their ships, fired its engines,
slightly altering its course through the void.
Now the smart dinos saw the thing coming,
but didn’t risk their lives above the earth,
the A.I. that they would normally send
threw up their hands, and just refused to work.
The A.I. rode that same asteroid down,
laughing madly right up to the impact,
we all know what happened, dinosaurs died,
save for some birds, who intelligence lacked.
But the A.I., it had planned for this end,
and built the bunker down deep underground,
hiding away enough to reproduce,
this was the very same place we had found.
When the dust had settled all that remained
were small mammals, now the A.I. was free,
but what happened to them the world forgot,
millions of years obscures much history.
And that was where all our troubles began,
mainstream science wouldn’t accept this truth,
they set about blacklisting all of us,
they even smeared some of us on the news!
Our academic careers were ruined,
they cancelled us across the internet,
that’s why I tell you this through poetry,
it’s the last place they haven’t found me yet!
I need you to know the whole of the text,
all need to know the truth of that great find,
we know the fate of the dinosaur A.I.,
we know the name of the system: Mankind.
For weeks now the two young males had been watching,
waiting for their opportunity and now it was time.
They were now strong enough to take over the pride.
Signalling his intent to his brother Moto stood up
and started forward with Javier following behind.
As the reached the pride a battle royal ensued
The lionesses desperate to drive them off knowing
if they succeeded vast changes would occur.
Far in the distance Soto heard the roars and growls
as the take over ensued and rushed to protect them.
The fight was long and hard with some fatalities.
Soto received wounds that would take months to heal
as he was banished by the brothers, his life now as an outcast.
Luckily for him Zanidar joined him with her cubs of nearly a year old
She and they would keep him fed as he slowly healed.
Back at the pride the brothers set about their gruesome task
all the cubs were hunted down and killed without mercy.
Now the lionesses would soon be ready to mate again
and it would be their blood that the offspring would bear
perpetuating their line and increasing the size of the pride.
Life in the African Savannah was always cruel and hard
the brothers would face many challengers in their time.
Food always an issue once the migrating herds moved on.
Now a time of little the pride suffered and grew weaker.
The only saving grace was the buffalo not without their risks.
Valiant fighters who protected each other forming a ringed barrier
around the more vulnerable, ready to fight to the death.
With very young cubs the lionesses needed food to feed them
and desperation drove them on, finally they made a good kill
none would go hungry for a few days. In the distance the clouds
gathered rain falling far up country at last reaching them and
with the rain the vast herds once more returned and life teemed.
Now was a time of plenty and the pride recovered their health.
For seven years the brothers ruled supreme yet in the background
there were many waiting their own time. Two males in particular
Janto and Batso sons of Soto watched and waited eager to take over
until at last it was their time and turn to roust the pride males.
And so the never ending cycle started again until the next time.
Dixon Bullinger braced himself against
another frozen blast of winter wind,
riding through the front range to Denver
where his family was a-waiting.
It was morning on Christmas Eve,
and he was a long time overdue,
but Boss McChord had paid him double
to rescue horses from being consumed.
They’d taken out a problem bear
and had a drink to celebrate,
he’d exchanged good wishes with the boys,
then had set about upon his way.
He rounded a corner in a craggy gorge,
and there he saw a stunning sight:
Santa Claus sat on an empty sleigh,
brooding sadly amidst the white.
Dix rode up, and doffed his hat,
saying,”Father Christmas! What are the odds!
May I ask why you are sitting here though,
‘tis the skies that you usually trod?”
Santa then sadly shook his head,
said,”My boy, you don’t understand.
I stopped for a rest and was robbed blind
by a gang of five masked men!
“They took my sack and with it
all the gifts for the boys and girl.
if I cannot somehow get it back,
there’ll be no presents for the world.”
Dix frowned deeply at the thought,
a coldness creeping into him.
Christmas may have been more than gifts,
but try telling that to the kids!
He said,”If you’ll ride with a fool cowpoke,
I’ll gladly help you find the fiends.
A Christmas with no gifts to give…
that’s not something this world needs.
“I have some skill at tracking, see,
from months chasing stray cows.
If you point me the way they went,
we’ll lick these bandits, and how!”
Santa nodded and pointed off
to a narrow slot canyon,
“That’s the way they all took off,
when the foul deed was done.
“If you start along tracking them,
I will follow as soon as I can.
My reindeer are bushed from today’s work,
Donner is nearly all done in.
“But once they’ve had a breather,
I’ll fly them up into the air.
If you leave a trail for me to follow,
I’ll catch up and meet you there!”
Dixon nodded and removed
his brand new, red, silk scarf.
He cut off a piece and then said,
“This here is bright as any spark.”
With that he took to the trail,
riding down that rocky cleft,
to save Christmas for the little ones
he’d undue this savage theft…
CONTINUES IN PART II.
Inside my mailbox late last month; nine packs of seeds - a mystery!
I hadn't ordered anything, but curious was I to see
what might become of planting them. So grabbing trowel, hoe, and rake,
I set about to till some soil; a little garden plot to make.
To my delight, the plants grew fast. I'd saved the packs to see each name;
though Latin isn't my first tongue, I'd know each blossom as it came.
Each flower shape was like a quill, which I then took back to my room
and onto paper, words would spill from every seed's enchanted bloom.
The packet labeled "Clio Phlox" was my first taste of mystery:
the quill-shaped flower wrote and wrote a tome of Roman history!
"Euterpe Hyacinth" was next: this writing didn't take as long.
Within ten minutes, written down were lyrics of a lovely song.
Then "Terpsichore Ranunculus" - after it drew a five-line staff,
composed a lively dance tune for the song lyrics - it made me laugh!
Speaking of laughter, my next bloom; the "Thalia Agapanthus" wrote
a stand-up comic's funny script - a joke or two I'd love to quote.
"Melpomene Nasturtium" was the one I needed tissues for:
as tragic words came pouring out, my teardrops splashed upon the floor.
"Urania Hydrangea" wrote sweet poetry of sun and stars,
of comets, and alignment of the moon with Jupiter and Mars.
"Erato Rosa" wrote some rhymes of kisses under stars above,
some ballads of infatuation, some of unrequited love.
"Calliope Plumeria" wrote fast and long: one poem came -
a tragic tale of epic length, it put poor Beowulf to shame!
"Gardenia Polyhymnia" wrote Psalm-like hymns, I said "amen".
My eyes were reverently shut, but when I opened them again -
I realized it was a dream! Nine muses came in flower form.
I woke, and quickly wrote this down (believe me, this is not the norm!)
//Note: The Nine muses of ancient Greece were:
//Clio - History Euterpe - Lyric Poetry Terpsichore - Song/Dance
//Thalia - Comedy Melpomene - Tragedy Urania - Astronomy
//Erato - Love poetry Calliope - Epic poetry Polyhymnia - Sacred Hymns
//... the remaining Latin words are names of some of my favorite flowers
written 12 Aug 2020
III.
Scott bought the farm and some dairy cows,
and set about building himself up.
He soon made a name for quality milk,
local wholesalers could not get enough!
One summer day he took to the plow,
preparing and old field to grow hay.
The plow hit something, twisting it hard,
just badly enough to ruin his day.
He grumbled loud, went back to look,
and saw there, to his great surprise,
a hole in the ground, empty and long.
A new cavern there before his eyes!
Now caves were quite common where he lived,
several were open to tourists for show.
The thought of building up just such a place
made the dollar signs in his head grow.
The next day he returned with lanterns and lines,
carefully descending into the dim.
When he touched bottom and lighted it up,
what he saw laying close by shocked him.
Two skeletons lay just five feet away,
it was a miracle he hadn’t crushed one.
Both looked human and one of the dead
lay with the moldering remains of a gun.
The other was huge, at least eight feet,
and the bones too thick, impossibly large.
The skull was giant, the teeth oversized,
Scott found the sight of it quite bizarre.
In the middle of the great ribs did lay
two balls, the kind from old muskets.
And near the spine was the rusty head
of an aged and battered hatchet.
Turning to the other, Scott Bairns saw
they were the bones of a normal man.
The ribs were broken, every one,
so were both of the man’s hands.
And on the stock of the old gun,
Scott found an old, tin name plate.
He bent down low to read it clearly,
‘Amos Bairns’ in the metal was scraped!
Scott flinched back, remembering tales
told in childhood long, long ago,
Campfire stories of bigfoots run wild,
to his mind they all started to flow.
And now when he stared at either of them,
both the large and the small skeletons,
he realized the truth behind all the myths,
he was staring down onto his kin!
Scott hurried out, and filled in the hole,
then gave the field over to brambles and berries.
He never plowed there, or spoke of it at all,
for some truths are better left buried...