it is addressed thusly:

A vision.
it reads:
From the slaughter of the kings he came
With faithful friends, stood to receive
A blessing from the priest and king
A thanksgiving for all those who believe
That accursed valley where garbage lay
Rotted with bodies from that market-day
When men were sold there to receive
The reward given to those who slay
Was he yet without parents then
The one who broke the blessed bread
First among gods, last among men
Who with solemn honor bowed his head
And received their souls in heaven's net
With wine as blood to pay their debt?
But think more on just what I've said --
As of now it has not happened yet.




it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
Dark, black coal - a strange unburden
Of the earth's yet stranger heart
We know little of the sudden wording
Which when suddenly pulled apart
The dun and drab earth's grimy hull
The man, inadvertant, might so call
"black gold!" to the pitchdark smart
Through which his ax duly did fall;

The fuel of a man's dreams, what is it
To the Victorian, a world of steam
Of power that is brute, not exquisite
No more chained to beast or to stream
A mere rock! But full of bright fire
Or its response did justly inspire
A clockwork world of alien dream
Wheels within wheels of inhuman desire;

And in the now, man is made penitent
Retreating from his idols of yore
But not toward God is his rede sent
For was God made wroth over ore?
He turns from bright fire to the sod
But the snows don't consider it odd--
He worships sun and wind all the more
Not knowing -- an ape, not a god.


Comet Catcher

it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
It danced on the edge of the heady foam
Of the sea of dark stirring from whence we came
It went not with any, for it went alone
Philae! But carrying its unknown name
Ahab had not speared his deathly whale
That in that tenyear in deep heaven sail
Land with a bounce on a comet's cold flame
Who else but us would dare tell the tale?
a postscript is here written:
a pass-word:
philae comet landing



it is addressed thusly:
A thought.
it reads:
His hands were lined with labor
What work was left for him
Any spare thing kept to savor
A profit left too slim
Taken by every hungry bird
That flies the heavens searching
Their impassioned minds still lurching
With law they feed on every word
But he who still does sacrifice
To scatter abroad does not think twice
Though his death, untimely, occurred
Has not yet received his reward
Perhaps God will grant him paradise.
a postscript is here written:
This poem is about a couple of different individuals. 
http://www.avoiceformen.com/feminism/government-tyranny/a-father-burns-himself-to-death/ but can also apply to Robin Williams as well. We cannot assume a person who committed suicide would be well received, but on the other hand, we can always ask that they will be. To do otherwise is either to ignore all tradition on the subject (and validate murder) or to lack mercy ourselves.



it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
Democracy in an age of Icarus
A soaring bright skyward child
Full of everyone's animus
And negative sum profiled
Beware - shake him but lightly
And feathers fall, though brightly
He went blazing sunward-styled
But he will always fall, unsightly.


Pitch-black, Blood-red, Drab-grey


it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
Though it once divided the highway
And bent the unyielding rail
This falling down factory still may
Not yet crumble before they fail
Songs of glass houses and stones
In neglect even solid brick groans
Its iron bars rust, its timbers grow stale
It is not what anyone admittedly owns
It is opaque and cuts the earth deep
But fear of the breath of frost
With agitation they must yet keep
Stones away at every cost
I have seen more than one posted bill
Declaring in letters, for good or for ill
That its cause is done, its wars are lost
I have now certainly read my fill
What is it then - a metal detailing plant
An old cathedral, a moldering clubroom
A system grown old of ritual and cant
A riot of stones may too soon presume
But the revolutions already had their day
Like demons drive them at last away
All is retrofitted, we forget too soon --
Pitch-black, blood-red, drab-grey.


The Sage Considers the Plain Things

it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
As common things go, we may yet find
That some beauty was added that we did not know
For we weren't at all looking here below
Governeur Morris, time out of mind
Made fancy things of those sundry and known
Clothes and furniture and others shown
Meanwhile no streetlamp had given him pause
To think of what it might signify
- do we suppose such things are all a lie?
It might seem that it was one of his laws
While Anderson had writ in his fairy-book
The tale of a street lamp whose fortunes took
A turn or two - but did anyone notice
Or think of the ugliness that did invade
As somehow something not man-made
And their ignorance then thus confess
Of the germane amid modernity's pox -
The simple elegance of the cardboard box?

a postscript is here written:
a pass-word:
Chesterton Twelve Types